The Confession - Charles Todd [42]
“He didn’t. Not so far as I know.”
“Then why was he wearing a locket that had belonged to the late Mrs. Russell? With a photograph in it of Cynthia Farraday as a young girl?”
“Good God,” Sandy Barber said blankly, staggered by what he’d just been told.
Rutledge took the slender chain from his pocket and passed it to Barber. The man fumbled with the delicate clasp that closed the locket. Finally, when it lay open in his fingers, he stared at the photograph as if half afraid it would vanish before his eyes.
At last he said, “How do you know the locket belonged to Mrs. Russell?”
“I asked someone who knew her well enough to have seen her wear the necklace every day of her life. It was presumed that she was wearing it the day she disappeared.”
“But there must be dozens of lockets like this one. How can anyone be sure—not after what? Six years? It was the summer before the war began that she died, if I remember right?”
“So I’ve been told.”
“It makes no sense. How did Ben come by such a thing?”
“Who was in charge of the investigation into her death?”
“The family called in an inspector from Tilbury. None of us think much of Constable Nelson. He’s drunk half the time these days and stays in his cottage minding his own business.”
“Then why haven’t you asked for him to be replaced?”
“You know damned well why. Nelson turns a blind eye because he has a taste for French brandy.” There was contempt in his voice. “And better the devil you know . . .”
“Where can I find Constable Nelson?”
“He lives in a cottage half way down Martyr’s Lane.”
“Can you tell me the name of the family Willet worked for in Thetford?”
“Damned if I know.”
Rutledge couldn’t judge whether he was telling the truth or deliberately being obstructive.
“I’ll speak to Nelson then.”
As he turned to leave, he had the feeling that Barber was about to say something more, but the man thought better of it, and Rutledge let it go.
He’d said nothing about witnessing the smuggling run.
Making what appeared to be an educated guess about the resumption of the contraband trade, even on such a small scale, was one thing—having proof that it still went on was another.
Three short lanes ran north from the High Street, away from the river. Barber himself lived on the nearest of these. The last was Martyr’s Lane. About halfway down it stood a weathered cottage with a bedraggled front garden surrounded by a wrought iron fence sadly in need of paint.
Hamish said skeptically, “It’s no’ verra’ promising.”
Rutledge stopped before the gate for a moment, then reached over, lifted the rusted latch, and made his way up the overgrown path. He knocked several times and finally tried the door.
It wasn’t locked, and he opened it, calling, “Constable Nelson?” as he stepped inside.
The hall was dusty but presentable enough. In contrast, the front room of the cottage looked to Rutledge as if the constable had lived in it. Used dishes sat on every flat surface, a quilt had been thrown over one chair in front of the hearth, and the carpet looked as if it hadn’t been swept in months. A stained and creased shirt had been thrown on the floor, and a crumpled pair of stockings had been tossed into a corner. The desk, where the constable was expected to conduct official business, was littered with teacups, opened tins of fruit, and several pairs of boots in need of polish.
A thick fug—a combination of cigarette smoke, unwashed clothing, and brandy— made him cough.
The room appeared to be empty, and Rutledge was on the point of trying another when his shod foot collided with an empty bottle, sending it spinning under the nearest table. It was then he saw the constable on the floor behind the divan.
His first thought was that the man was dead.
He strode to the constable’s side and knelt to feel for a pulse. Just then Nelson snored raucously, and Rutledge realized that he’d passed out.
The constable lay where he must have fallen, his face turned to the wall, his collar undone, and his tunic unbuttoned. His shirt was stained with