The Confession - Charles Todd [14]
“He admitted that he didn’t have long to live.”
“You know him then. Does he have a name?”
“As a matter of fact, he does. Wyatt Russell, Furnham Road, Essex. It’s the name he gave when he came to the Yard recently to report a crime. At this stage we haven’t found any evidence to indicate that his information is true. But we also can’t prove that it isn’t. The question is, does his murder nearly a fortnight later have any bearing on what he told us? What did he intentionally—or unintentionally—stir up? Who else is involved in this?”
Hamish spoke, his voice jarring in the small office. “Ye ken, ye asked yoursel’ that same question, when the man wouldna’ gie ye any details about the murder.”
Rutledge nearly lost track of Adams’s reply. He had to repeat himself.
“What sort of crime was he reporting?”
“A murder.”
“Well, there you are. Someone will have taken exception to that.”
“Except that my visitor claimed he was the killer.”
“Did he, by God!” Adams pushed his glasses back to the top of his head. He sat there for a moment, then asked, “Have you considered the extent of his cancer? He must have been in almost intolerable pain and taking a fair amount of drugs. You have to wonder if he was in his right mind. He could have felt responsible for a man’s death and finally convinced himself that he’d actually killed him. Guilt can take many forms.”
Rutledge was all too aware of that.
“We’d have to ask a medical man. Russell himself had made some remark about the morphine speaking.”
“I’m glad it’s your case and not mine. Will you want the body? No one so far has claimed it. Potter’s field seems an ignominious end. He must have a family somewhere.” He opened his desk drawer and fished out a small packet. “This was around his neck. Whoever killed him missed it when going through his pockets.”
He tossed the packet to Rutledge, who caught it deftly and unwrapped the brown paper.
Inside was an oval gold locket on a gold chain. An ornately scrolled E graced the front. The locket itself was either old or worn, possibly both. Rutledge found the clasp and opened it. Inside were two small spaces for photographs. The right-hand oval was empty, but on the left there was a woman’s face. Despite the water stains, he could see that she was pretty, young, the just visible collar of her dress fashionable, her hair drawn softly back into a knot behind her head. It was impossible to judge her coloring, but he rather thought her hair was a light brown.
“I wondered if this was hers, and she was dead. That would explain why he’s wearing a woman’s necklace,” Adams said. “A sentimental gesture.”
“Russell lost his wife in childbirth a little less than a year after they were married. Neither her Christian name nor her maiden name began with an E.”
“So much for sentiment,” Adams said dryly.
Still considering the face in the locket, Rutledge said, “He knew he was dying. That means he’d seen a doctor. Possibly in London. We’ll need to find him and speak to him.”
“I thought you told me he lived on the Furnham Road in Essex. That’s on the Hawking, isn’t it?”
“The house there is closed. When I met him, he was staying in The Marlborough Hotel. Someone there should be able to tell us more.” Rutledge frowned. “Are we absolutely certain that Russell didn’t fire that bullet into his own brain? To avoid a worse death?”
“Impossible, according to the doctor. Unless the man was a contortionist. Would you like to see the remains?”
Rutledge accompanied Adams to the hospital where the body had been taken. Down in the bowels of the building they walked through a series of passages to where a small morgue had been set up. The other three bodies had died in the hospital, Adams explained, and were awaiting the undertaker. In the far corner lay their murder victim.
When Rutledge pulled back the covering over the body,