The Confession - Charles Todd [17]
Rutledge did. Bowles was pleased to take over the inquiry, bring it to a swift and certain end, and put his opposite number’s nose out of joint.
An hour later, Rutledge was on his way to Essex.
This time he didn’t have Frances to keep him company. This time it was Hamish. Although the sun was shining and the day was fair, the journey seemed to drag, and he would have sworn that Furnham was twice as far as it had been earlier.
He’d decided that perhaps the place to begin his inquiries was with the clergyman in charge of the isolated church that he and Frances had seen. It was roughly halfway between the deserted house at River’s Edge and the village of Furnham. If anyone knew something about Russell’s background, it would likely be the man who had ministered to his family.
As he passed the gates to the estate, he wondered again why Russell had deserted it. Because of his wife’s death? Or because he had committed murder there and got away with it? Until someone had found him out and come for him.
An eye for an eye.
Ahead he could just see the peaked roof of the church, standing out like a sentinel in the long reaches of the marshes. The grasses had more color today, varied in texture as well as shade, and the river beyond was intensely blue as it mirrored the sky. And yet the warm late summer’s day was chilled by the whispers of the wind through the grasses, setting them to move and rustle, as if hidden among them were crowds of people talking together.
Frances had noted it as well, but alone now, he realized that it was defining this place in a way that he hadn’t expected.
As if I’m being watched, Frances had said.
It would tend, he thought, to make a man with a guilty conscience nervous. Was that why the house stood empty? The whispers that a man’s mind turned to accusation?
He drew up before the church. He had no idea where to look for the Rectory, although there must be one. But with luck, he might find someone inside who could direct him.
The sign announcing that this was the Church of St. Edward the Confessor had a new message today on the hoarding below: Seek and ye shall find. He will welcome all who come to Him.
Rutledge hoped that a welcome would prove to be true. It had not in Furnham.
He opened the door, listening to the squeal of rusty hinges as he stepped into the plain, Victorian interior.
“Ye willna’ have to seek anyone. Yon caterwauling will bring them running.”
And Hamish was right. A door at the rear of the sanctuary opened and a man stepped through.
He was wearing a clerical collar and an anxious expression on his square, sun-browned face. It was difficult to judge his age. He was one of those men who would appear boyish well into their forties. Rutledge found himself thinking that this must be a drawback for a clergyman trying to project an image of experience and wisdom.
He didn’t come forward. He merely stopped where he was, seeing a stranger, and asked in a strong voice that belied his anxiety, “Are you lost?”
“Mr. Morrison? I’m from London. Scotland Yard. I’d like to speak to you about one of your parishioners.”
“Indeed?” It was a question, not a statement. “We have the usual number of reprobates here, but I can’t recall that any of them has lately come to the attention of Scotland Yard.”
“Is there somewhere we could talk?” Rutledge asked.
The man gestured to the pews that filled the sanctuary. “There are seats aplenty here. Shall we take one of them?”
Rutledge walked forward, and the other man didn’t move until he had come to the last row but one. “Will this do?”
“Yes. Thank you.” The man stepped forward and finally held out his hand. “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me.”
“Inspector Rutledge.”
“Ah. Well, Mr. Rutledge, I must confess that I’m not in the confidence of many of my flock, but I’ll do what I can to help.”
They sat down on the hard wood of the pew, facing each other.