The Confession - Charles Todd [36]
It had been a rhetorical question, but on the other hand, if Ben Willet had felt safe in impersonating the man, it could well mean that Russell too was dead.
“Miss Farraday didna’ appear to think he was deid.”
Rutledge left his office and went in search of Sergeant Gibson. “If anyone wants me, I’m going back to Essex. I expect to return tomorrow afternoon.”
“Where will you be staying, if I should need to reach you?” Gibson asked.
“I doubt there’s a telephone within thirty miles of Furnham,” Rutledge said.
Hamish said something that he missed as Gibson asked, “Would it be best, then, to speak to the Chief Superintendent before you leave?”
“I think not,” Rutledge replied, and walked on.
On the stairs he realized what it was that Hamish had tried to interject.
If there was no way the Yard could reach him while he was in Furnham, then it would be equally impossible for him to reach the Yard in the event there was trouble.
Rutledge went home, packed a small valise, and set out for Essex once more. The sun was low on the horizon now, and ahead lay the dark lavender clouds of the North Sea, where evening had already begun to encroach on the day. And it was fully dark and very late when he pulled into yard of The Dragonfly Inn. He had intended to call on Mr. Morrison before he drove on to Furnham, but there had been no lights in the church and looking for the Rectory would have taken more time than he could afford, if he wanted a room for the night.
When he strode into the tiny Reception, there was no one behind the desk, but a bell stood to one side of the register, and he pushed it. It sounded rusty with damp, a grinding noise rather than a ring.
After a moment a man in his shirtsleeves appeared from the rear of the inn, frowning as he realized that here was custom he didn’t wish to serve.
“Looking for a room, are you?” he said, his manner surly. “Sorry to say, they’re all taken.”
“Indeed?” Rutledge answered. Before the man could stop him, he reached out and turned the register around, opening it to where the black ribbon marked the current page. “The last guest appears to have signed this page some ten weeks ago. Are you telling me he’s still here?”
“There’s no room available. A problem with the roof.”
“I’m here to call on Ned Willet.”
“Then you’re too late. He died not half an hour ago.”
Surprised, Rutledge said, “Then I’m here for the funeral.”
After a moment the man said grudgingly, “Very well. The room at the top of the stairs. You won’t be needing a key.”
“On the contrary. I insist on a key.”
As Rutledge signed the register the man fished in a drawer, eventually coming up with a key. He passed it across the desk, and Rutledge pocketed it.
“Good night,” he said as he turned and took the stairs two at a time. They curved slightly as they climbed, and the first room was in fact just at the top. On either side of his were two more rooms, and across the passage were three others, these overlooking the High Street. At the ends of the passage there were windows, the shades already drawn for the night.
Rutledge opened his door and fumbled for the lamp that must be near it. Finding it, he struck a match and lit the wick. As the flame strengthened, he took in his surroundings. The room wasn’t very large, but neither was it small enough to aggravate his claustrophobia. There were two narrow beds, a desk under the window, and a small wardrobe with two doors. Turning the key in the lock, he left it there and set his valise down between the beds. The coverlets were faded, a deep green that was now nearly the color of moss in the shade of a tree. There was a medallion in the center of each, with what appeared to be entwined initials, but they were spotlessly clean and the room smelled faintly of lavender and Pears’ Soap.
It had been a long day. Walking to the open window and looking out, he realized that his room was over the kitchen, and just beyond, the kitchen gardens. A lighted window cast a golden glow over the rows of vegetables, and as he