The Confession - Charles Todd [43]
Rutledge rose, and touched the man with the toe of his boot, and none too gently.
“Constable Nelson?”
The man didn’t move.
“Constable Nelson!”
It was the voice of command this time, and Nelson’s body jerked; his lids fluttered and then revealed a pair of bloodshot eyes that could barely focus.
“Who are you?” he demanded in a hoarse croak.
“Scotland Yard. Get to your feet, man, you’re a disgrace to your uniform.”
Nelson tried to rise, fell back, and vomited profusely.
Disgusted, Rutledge said, “I’ll give you an hour. Clean yourself up and present yourself at The Dragonfly. I’ll be waiting.”
He turned and walked out, slamming the inner door and then the outer one, knowing full well the shock to Nelson’s ears.
But it was easy to see what had happened to the man. Shunted aside by the villagers, paid in contraband to eke out his meager resources and keep him too dulled to interfere, and without the strength to stand up for himself in these circumstances, he had accepted his lot. Someone must have seen to it that he was sober and presentable if or when the need arose, or the Chief Constable would have got wind of his condition and replaced him long since.
The question was, even fully sober, could Nelson still function?
Hamish said, “More to the point, he wouldna’ be trusted by the ithers.”
There was that as well.
Rather than return directly to the inn to wait, Rutledge made a detour to Barber’s house. He could see the black crepe that had been hung over the door, and several neighbors were just leaving, embracing Abigail Barber as they stepped outside. Behind them, the rector was preparing to leave also. As Rutledge approached, he heard Morrison asking a last question about the service for Ned Willet, and from the shadows of the front room someone answered. He could see the outline of a head and broad shoulder, but not the face. It wasn’t Barber. He was nearly certain it was the man he had seen twice before, once when he had come to Furnham with Frances, and once when he had tried to find someone willing to identify the photograph of Ben Willet. Whether he had been one of the smugglers coming up from the river in the middle of the night, Rutledge couldn’t be sure under oath, but he had a strong feeling he had been.
The rector offered a last word of comfort to a tearful, red-eyed Abigail Barber, touched her briefly on the arm, and with a nod to the man just behind her, walked away. As he reached the lane, he looked up and saw Rutledge waiting.
“Good morning,” Morrison said, surprised.
Rutledge said, “I thought you were not welcomed in Furnham.” They fell in step, walking to where Morrison had left his bicycle leaning against the nearest tree.
“I thought you had returned to London.”
“I still haven’t solved the riddle of a dead man.”
“I understand.” Morrison collected his bicycle and pushed it along with him as they continued toward the High Street. “Ned was one of my parishioners. He was always one to question, but he came to believe that he was safer in the church than out of it.”
Rutledge smiled. “A wise man, I think.”
“A careful one. Abigail liked to attend services with him, and Sandy tried to put his foot down, but Ned told him to worry about the state of his own soul.”
“Who was the man standing behind Mrs. Barber as you were leaving just now?”
Morrison had to think for a moment. “I expect it must have been Timothy Jessup. He’s Abigail’s uncle. Her mother’s brother. Not what you would call the friendliest of souls. The Jessups have always kept to themselves. But for all that, the rest of the village listens to them when they do voice an opinion. I’ve never quite worked out why, but there you are. Villages have their own hierarchy inherited down the generations, I should think.”
Rutledge waited until they had moved out of earshot of several women carrying dishes covered with linen cloths, on their way to the Willet house, then said, “When I left the church yesterday I decided to look in at River’s Edge.