The Confession - Charles Todd [53]
There had been no way to reach Sergeant Gibson until now, and with any luck there would be answers to his questions concerning the whereabouts of Wyatt Russell and Cynthia Farraday.
By the time he’d reached the outskirts of London, the first pale rays of the sun were brightening the eastern sky. He was in need of petrol and found a garage a few miles farther along the road. Making his way through the early morning traffic into the city, where street cleaners were busy and men and women were on their way to open shops and offices, he was caught behind a milk van making deliveries, and it was another half an hour before he reached his flat.
Two hours of sleep, a shave and a change of clothes, and he was ready to go to the Yard.
He had to run Sergeant Gibson to earth. A body had been found in St. James’s Park, and the sergeant was trying to trace a member of the man’s family.
He looked up as Rutledge called to him on the stairs, and said, “The Chief Superintendent has been wanting you.”
“Did you tell him I was in Essex and out of reach?”
“Yes, sir. It didn’t seem to do much good. By the bye, I’ve found the information you asked for. It’s on my desk. Shall I bring it up when I’ve finished here?”
He knew better than to tell Gibson that he would find it for himself. They had always had a very uneasy relationship, ever since Rutledge had returned to the Yard. What drew the two men together was a distinct dislike of the Chief Superintendent, and Gibson as a rule would happily spite the man in any way he could. Helping Rutledge was one of the surest ways to do that. But he did so on his own terms.
Rutledge went on to his own office and shut the door. The long night’s drive had been tiring, and he stood for a moment, looking down at the street below, not really seeing the activity there as he considered what he’d learned about Ben Willet.
Small wonder he didn’t fit into the village where he was born. The position as footman had only been a beginning, a first step.
What had possessed him to decide to be a writer of books? He’d been a great reader, yes. But what had triggered that leap of imagination that said, I can do this too? Had it begun as boredom and quickly become an aspiration? Or like those afternoons off in Thetford, had writing been another means of escape from a life he’d thought he wanted and found was not to his liking?
Was Paris just another escape?
A large colony of writers and poets, musicians and painters, had converged on Paris after the war. Many of them were former soldiers, restless and in need of whatever they couldn’t find at home. Or were too lost to try. A good many drank away their dreams, and others sometimes found disillusionment. A few met with success. How had Willet fared?
There was a tap at the door, and Sergeant Gibson entered rather quickly, shutting it quietly behind him.
“Old Bowels is on the warpath,” he said. “The body in the park has Connections.”
Bowles was always one to sniff out opportunity. A man with no connections of his own, he had an eye for the main chance. And it just as often eluded him, souring his disposition for days afterward.
Gibson held out a sheet a paper. “This is all I could find, given the time I had to pursue the matter.”
Rutledge took it and scanned Gibson’s dark scrawl.
“Wyatt Russell is in a clinic? War injuries?”
“So I was told by MacDonald at the War Office.”
Of all the results that Rutledge had anticipated, this was not one.
He read on. “Ah, Cynthia Farraday. Well done, Gibson.” In his mind’s eye he could see the newspaper cutting of Miss Farraday at the flower show. A photographer’s delight, finding a pretty girl admiring a prizewinning blossom. And she had appeared to enjoy having her photograph taken. Had this been her one excursion into the city with Harold Finley? Finding her ward’s photograph in a newspaper would have given Mrs. Russell a very good reason for curtailing such visits.
“I’ve another task for you. See if you can find out which doctors