The Confession - Charles Todd [37]
He stood, half concealed by the curtains, and through the open window he could just hear what was being said, even though whoever it was spoke in a low voice.
“Did they tell you? The old man is gone.”
“Yes. Molly stopped in on her way home.”
There was silence for a moment, and then the first voice said, “How is she?”
“Well enough. Considering. She’s still grieving for young Joseph.”
“It will be hard on her, losing his dad. Molly and Ned were close.”
“Whose motorcar is that I see on the street in front of the inn?”
“Belongs to a fellow by the name of Rutledge.”
“Yes, I thought I recognized it. What brings him back so soon?”
“He came for the funeral. He says.”
“Damn. How did he know? It just happened.”
“I told him there was no room to be had. But he insisted.”
“How long does he expect to stay?”
“He didn’t tell me.”
There was a longer silence. “Hell. We can deal with him if we have to.”
“Not in my inn.”
“No.”
And then it appeared that the man in the shadows outside the kitchen must have left, because the squares of light vanished and the garden was quiet enough that Rutledge could hear the crickets.
He was nearly sure the man outside the kitchen door was Barber, from The Rowing Boat.
Hamish said, startling him, “I wouldna’ go wandering in the dark. No’ here.”
But sleep wouldn’t come, and Hamish was fretful in the back of his mind as well. In the end, Rutledge dressed, went quietly down the stairs and out into the night.
The stars were bright in the blackness of the sky, and across the road he could hear the unseen river moving toward the sea. Turning toward his left, he walked to the edge of Furnham and out into the countryside. Ahead he could just see the silhouetted barns that marked the three farms.
He was fairly certain that the airfield hadn’t been built at the middle farm, where Nancy Brothers and her husband lived. And if he were choosing, the land nearest the estuary would offer greater clearance for night fighters taking off in a hurry or crippled aircraft looking for an easy landing. It would also afford a better view of Zeppelins moving toward the mouths of the rivers that would point them directly into the heart of London. France was not so very far away, after all, and there would be no problem with navigation over a short stretch of open sea.
Looking over the low fence designed to keep cattle from roaming, he could see the massive black bulk against the stars that would be the house and barn. Far enough away, he thought, that he could do a little exploring without awakening the owner.
The fence was rusted and broken in places, although grasses and vines had mended the wire in their own fashion, running up the posts and making a heavier barrier than the original one. Finding a short gap some twenty feet farther on, he stepped through the tangle of briars and vines and into the field beyond. He kept walking, minding where he went, and soon enough he could see where the airfield had been laid out, including the rough foundations of the buildings that had been put up in haste. Where the actual flying field had been, the texture of the grass and weeds was different. Moving back to explore the ruins again, he tripped over a low-lying pile of stones and swore as he fought for his balance. In the distance a dog began to bark, and he stood still.
But it wasn’t chained by the farmhouse, as he’d expected. He could hear the barking growing louder as the animal raced toward him.
Rutledge stayed where he was, and when the dog was fifty feet away, he whistled softly and held out one hand palm down. The dog, large and dark, slowed, legs stiff, tail straight, and the ruff on the back of his neck standing up. Rutledge dropped to his haunches and called, “Come on, there’s a good dog,” speaking quietly until it approached. All at once its tail dropped and began to wag, and stretching out its muzzle, the animal sniffed Rutledge’s fingers.
It had been a good two years since the airfield had been shut down, but clearly the dog