The Confession - Charles Todd [26]
The man could barely move, but he signaled with his eyes that he understood.
Still holding the club, Rutledge released him, and the man nearly sank to his knees. Catching himself with one arm across the bar, he stood there for a moment, fighting for breath, and then he moved to the nearest chair, sinking into it.
He glared at Rutledge, but the fight had gone out of him.
Rutledge said, “What was worth an attack on me? This photograph? What’s your name? And don’t tell me you can’t remember.”
“Barber. Sandy Barber.”
“Who is this man in the photograph?”
He waited, and after a moment the barkeep said hoarsely, “It’s Willet’s son. The old man’s youngest boy.”
“Who is Willet?”
“Ned Willet. He’s a fisherman. It will kill him, seeing his boy dead.”
“And who is his boy, when he’s at home?”
“That’s it, he hasn’t been home since before the end of the war. He’s in service in Thetford—Ben never wanted to be a fisherman, you see. Abigail sent for him as soon as Ned took a bad turn. But Ben never answered. Well—now we know why, don’t we? Look, he’s not got long to live, Ned hasn’t. Let him think his boy can’t leave his post.”
“Why doesn’t Willet have long to live?” Rutledge asked, thinking about Ben Willet’s stomach cancer.
“He got hurt bringing his boat back in a storm. Gear shifted and pinned his foot. It turned septic. They wanted to take his foot off and he wouldn’t hear of it. Stubborn old fool. Now there’s gangrene, and it’s only a matter of time before it takes him. You should see his leg—nearly black it’s that purple, and so swollen it doesn’t look like part of his body.” Gesturing with his chin toward the envelope Rutledge had dropped on the bar, he added, “What happened to Ben, then? You said he came out of the river.”
“Someone shot him in the back of the head. Before putting him in the river.”
There was consternation in the room. The other men, listening, stirred restlessly.
The barkeep shook his head. “Well. They’ll meet on the other side, won’t they?” he said after a moment.
“What’s Willet to you, that you would have stopped me any way you could?”
“My wife Abigail is his only daughter. Who’d want to kill Ben? We never heard of him making enemies. He could put on airs with the best of them, but no one minded.”
“Fishing is a hard way to make a living. Furnham didn’t hold it against Ben Willet that he’d escaped to a different life? Possibly a better one?”
“Ned wasn’t happy.” Barber frowned. “If anyone else felt strongly, I never heard of it.”
The older man who had been sitting alone, eating, spoke from the far end of the room. “When he came back on his last leave before sailing to France, showing off his uniform, everyone was glad to see him. I remember. My daughter fancied him. But nothing came of it.”
“You said he could put on airs. What did you mean by that?”
“He’d hobnobbed with his betters, hadn’t he? He could pass himself off as a duke, he said, if he’d half a mind to do it. He had Abigail in tears one night, she laughed so hard, describing the family he worked for, taking all the parts. It was better than a stage play.” As if realizing he was speaking of the dead, Barber added, “Aye, that was Ben.”
Rutledge recalled the man who had come to his office, passing himself off as another person, a gentleman. He had done it so well that he’d even fooled an inspector at Scotland Yard. But then he, Rutledge, had had no reason to doubt him. It was unlikely that such a man would come forward to confess to a murder he hadn’t committed.
Or had he?
Pulling out the photograph again, Rutledge said, “And you are absolutely certain that this man is Ben Willet?”
“Ask them,” the barkeep said, gesturing to the other men in the bar.
And so he did, showing the photograph to each of the three men in turn. He met hard eyes staring up at him, but in them Rutledge read recognition and certainty.
Walking back to the center of the room, Rutledge said, “And what