The Confession - Charles Todd [44]
“Cynthia Farraday?” Morrison turned to stare at him. “I had no idea . . .” He left it there, busy coming to terms with this piece of news. “I had no idea,” he said again.
They came to the High Street, and Morrison pulled his bicycle around, preparing to mount it. “You said Miss Farraday,” he went on, concentrating on adjusting the band around his trouser legs. “That must mean she never married.”
“Apparently not.” But he had not asked her name, he had greeted her by it. And she had not contradicted him or used we in her subsequent conversation.
“I see.” With a nod to Rutledge he pedaled briskly out of Furnham.
Rutledge watched him go. He hadn’t told the rector the identity of the face in the photograph. It was up to Barber to find the right opportunity to break the news to his wife first.
Hamish commented. “Yon priest. He’s afraid to linger.”
And yet he’d ventured into the village to offer comfort to Abigail Barber, and would very likely conduct the service for her father.
Why had he stayed so long in a parish where hope was outpaced by the knowledge that he was not wanted here?
“Like yon constable, he hasna’ anywhere else to go.”
Chapter 9
Rutledge’s ultimatum to Constable Nelson was sixty minutes. It was closer to ninety when he finally walked through the door of the inn and found Rutledge standing in Reception, waiting impatiently.
But the constable had bathed, shaved, changed his shirt, and brushed his tunic and trousers until they were at least presentable. There was nothing he could do about his bloodshot eyes and a face gray from fighting down his nausea. His hands shook as well, and he seemed not to know what to do with them, pressing the palms against his trousers.
He was out of condition, and Rutledge could see that he was running to fat around his middle, for the last button on his tunic was straining across his belly. And yet he was a younger man than Rutledge had thought when he’d seen him lying in a stupor on the floor. Thirty-eight? Forty?
“Constable Nelson reporting, sir,” the man said, unable to keep the resentment out of his voice.
“Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard. Let’s walk, shall we?” They left the inn and turned toward the Hawking. “You were here before the war, were you?”
“Yes, sir, I’m going on my twelfth year in Furnham,” Nelson answered uneasily as he tried to see what it was that this man from London wanted of him.
“Good. I’m here to ask questions about one Ben Willet, and also about the former inhabitants of River’s Edge.”
“What’s he done, then, Ben Willet?”
“He was found in the Thames a few days ago. Murdered.”
Nelson’s eyebrows flew up. “Indeed, sir. Murdered? He was a quiet sort, not one you’d expect to be in trouble, much less murdered. Does Abigail Barber know? She’s his sister.”
“Barber is waiting for the proper time to tell her.”
“She’ll take it hard.” He paused. “Were you thinking it was someone from River’s Edge who killed him? I don’t see that being likely, sir.”
“Was Ben Willet here in Furnham when Mrs. Russell went missing?”
Nelson frowned. “In fact I believe he was, sir. Now you ask. His mother was taken ill of a sudden, and he got permission to come and see her. He was one of the searchers, as I remember.”
“What do you think happened to Mrs. Russell?”
“As to that, I don’t really know, sir. Tilbury handled the inquiry. I was asked to leave the matter to them.”
“Why?”
“Because there was hard feelings between the family and Furnham. I can’t tell you why, only that they wanted no part of me. They spoke to the Chief Constable. Of course he did what he had to do, and called in Tilbury.”
“Her body was never found? That’s difficult to believe. If she drowned, which seems to be likely, surely it would have washed up somewhere between River’s Edge and the sea.”
“The current’s tricky sometimes. Especially after a storm. There’s no telling whether