The Confession - Charles Todd [33]
“I’ll close up,” she said, her gaze once more on the river, as if she saw the past there.
“I should ask. What’s left in the house that’s worth stealing?”
This time the smile was amused. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Still—” He left it unfinished.
“Anything of value is gone. Pictures on the wall. Jewelry. Silver in the pantry. Stored somewhere in London, I expect. I wouldn’t make my fortune selling what’s left. But it’s lovely and familiar, and I’d want to keep what’s here if I could.”
“Whatever happened to the locket that Mrs. Russell wore every day of her life?”
She was very still, her eyes on his. “If they ever find her—or her body—it will be there. I don’t know that I ever saw her without it.”
He nodded and walked down the broad steps from the terrace to the lawns, making his way around the house to the drive without looking back.
He had let her believe he was a family solicitor. She hadn’t realized that he was a policeman. He was of half a mind to go back and correct that impression. But then he decided that this wasn’t the time to put her on her guard.
If she had nothing to hide, then no harm done.
Chapter 7
Hamish, who had only spoken once after Miss Farraday had stepped out onto the terrace, was busy now in the back of Rutledge’s mind as instead of taking the main road to London, he drove along the headwaters of the River Hawking, searching for any spot where a launch could be rented. There were only three tiny villages along this narrower section of the road, mainly inhabited by families who made their living from the water, and while there were any number of boats drawn up along the shoreline, they were mainly skiffs, rowing boats, and other small craft, hardly resembling a launch that someone like Cynthia Farraday could manage. He persisted, but everywhere he was met with a shake of the head.
Nothing to hire here.
He was ready to concede that she’d lied to him when he followed a rutted lane through high grass and saw his quarry actually stepping out of a sleek launch, greeting a tall man in a white shirt and trousers.
Realizing that this was a private landing stage used by sportsmen—the half-dozen boats here were a far cry from the rough craft he’d seen until now—he pulled up and waited.
It was clear that the man knew Miss Farraday well, for they were laughing about something as he helped her secure the launch and then gestured toward the newly built shed to the left of the landing stage. On the far side of that he could see the bonnets of two motorcars, the late afternoon sun reflecting off the gleaming paint.
He hadn’t been spotted, he was sure of that, and when the opportunity presented itself as Miss Farraday followed the man inside the shed, shutting the door, he reversed until he’d reached the main road, such as it was, and considered his situation.
He could hardly approach the man after Miss Farraday had gone, and ask who had borrowed the launch for the afternoon. Whoever he was, he would undoubtedly report Scotland Yard’s interest in her as soon as he saw her again.
But it was just possible that if one of the motorcars was hers, he could follow it back to the city through the evening traffic.
There had been a tumbledown barn some distance back the way he’d come, and Rutledge decided it would offer some semblance of shelter. He thought it likely that Miss Farraday hadn’t seen his motorcar outside the gates of River’s Edge because it wasn’t visible from the house. And he was fairly sure she hadn’t followed him as far as the gates to make certain he’d left. There was no reason then that she would immediately recognize it, even if he stayed behind her for miles.
He found the barn with no difficulty and was able to drag one of the doors open wide enough to back his motorcar inside, pulling it nearly shut in front of the bonnet. And he stood there in the narrow opening, keeping watch.
The rank smell behind him was a mixture of damp, rotted manure, musty hay, mildewed floorboards, and bird droppings. Smothering a sneeze, he listened to Hamish’s voice