The Confession - Charles Todd [22]
“What happened to Mrs. Russell? Did the police find her? Or failing that, her body?”
“That was the odd thing. They never found any trace of her. Her son saw her walking toward the landing stage at two o’clock, but no one knew she was missing until I went up to help her dress for dinner.” She turned to set a bowl that had been draining in the sink up on a shelf. “They questioned all of us, the police did. Was she anxious about anything? Was she worried? Was she frightened? Did anyone harbor hard feelings toward her? She could be a trial, sometimes, to tell you the truth, but she was getting older, and crotchety. At least it seemed so to me at the time, young as I was. Sometimes she fussed over her hair until I was fit to be tied, wanting it to be thick and pretty as it was when she was eighteen. Or the ashes hadn’t been swept out proper, when I could see they had. But you don’t do someone a harm for that, do you?”
“Was this same photograph in the locket when Mrs. Russell wore it last?”
“No, it wasn’t. It was her and her late husband. On their wedding day.”
“Then how can you be sure this is the same locket?”
“I must have touched it a thousand times. Settling it around her throat, under her hair. Making sure it was hanging proper. She took it off each evening and put it on each morning. Even if she was wearing other jewelry, this was still around her throat.” She reached for the kettle and filled it with cold water. “Can you tell me how you came to have it? Does this mean you’ve found her body? And who put that other photograph in it?”
“We haven’t found Mrs. Russell. Someone else was wearing the locket.”
“How did she come by it?”
“Before I answer your question, will you give me the name of this woman?”
She was measuring tea for the pot, but she lifted the spoon and pointed with it. “That’s Cynthia Farraday. She came to live with Mrs. Russell when her own parents died.”
“What became of her?”
“She went to live in London after Mrs. Russell disappeared. She said it wasn’t fitting to live in the house without a chaperone. Mr. Russell proposed marriage, but she didn’t want that. She wanted to be free, she said, to live her own life.”
“Who else was in the house—besides the staff ?”
“Mr. Justin, of course. He was another cousin come to live at River’s Edge. After Miss Cynthia came. They weren’t related, those two. She was connected through the Russell side, while Mr. Justin’s grandmother and Mrs. Russell’s were cousins. I heard it said that Mr. Justin’s mother had died of the consumption. Her lungs was bad. I never heard anything about his father.”
“What became of Mr. Fowler?”
“He went off to war and as far as I know never come back.”
“I see.” As the kettle began to whistle, Mrs. Brothers turned to fill the teapot. Watching her, Rutledge said, “And Mr. Russell, himself ?”
She stirred the leaves in the pot, peering at them as she spoke. “All I know is, he survived the war. But I don’t know that he ever came back to the house. A shame, that was. It was a lovely house. I wish you could have seen it when I was in service there. They had money, the Russells did. I often wondered how it was the family built that house out here, in the marshes. It could have been set down anywhere.”
While the tea steeped, Rutledge said, “I have a photograph to show you. It isn’t a pleasant photograph, but perhaps you will be able to identify the man in it.” He took out the envelope from Gravesend, opened the flap, and passed it to her.
She reached inside tentatively and pulled out the photograph. He saw her grimace as she looked down at it.
“He’s dead, isn’t he? This man.”
“Yes. He was found in the river.”
“The Hawking?” She glanced from the photograph to Rutledge’s face. “My husband never said anything to me about a body being found.”
“It was the Thames. Do you know him?”
“He’s changed so much I hardly recognized him at first. He was just a lad when last I saw him, all arms and legs, and polite