The Confession - Charles Todd [56]
It was a sepia-tone scene in Paris, a street café with carriages passing and several people sitting at the tiny tables set out on the pavement. He turned it over and read the brief message.
I want to see my father, and then I’m going back to Paris, to finish the last book. It began there. Let it end there. I shan’t write to you again, but I’ll see to it that you are sent a copy when it’s published. Thank you for believing.
And it was signed, simply, Willet.
The stamp and the postmark were not French. The card had been posted in London, not three days before the man was killed. And he had never reached Furnham.
“Did you go to River’s Edge to look for him? You’ve been playing God with his life for years. Did you think he might have gone back home to die? That it was a lie about Paris?”
“Don’t be rude. I went to River’s Edge for reasons of my own.”
“Did you take the launch to where you once used to tie up to the reeds with your books?”
“What if I did? I was nostalgic for another life. But not for him.”
“Did you know that some weeks ago, when he was still in London, he called at the Yard? He wanted to report a murder, he said.”
“Murder? What are you talking about?” she demanded. “Who else was murdered?”
“He told me his name was Wyatt Russell, and that he was dying of cancer. He wanted to clear his conscience by confessing to a murder. I asked him who had been killed, and he told me it was Justin Fowler.”
She had not returned to her chair after handing him the postal card, standing by the window instead. Putting a hand to her forehead, she began to pace, clearly agitated.
“Why would he do that? He hardly knew who Justin was. And why pretend he was Wyatt? No, you must be mistaken—or lying.”
“It has been suggested that the morphine he’d been given for his pain might have caused hallucinations.”
“No. I still refuse to believe you.”
“I wasn’t sure what to make of his confession, myself. And so I asked him to join me for lunch. We dined at The Marlborough. And I was never shown any reason to doubt that he was Wyatt Russell. He carried off the masquerade to perfection. Now I ask myself why it should be necessary.”
“Even if it was true—and I don’t for a moment believe that it could be—how did Ben even know that murder had been done? I don’t think he ever went back to Essex. He couldn’t have been a witness to something. If he had, surely he’d have confided in me. It makes no sense at all.”
“You said yourself that you hadn’t bothered to correspond with him during the war. Your duty done. Why should he feel compelled to tell you about Russell? Why would he wish to upset you?”
She took a deep breath, making an effort to steady herself and think clearly. “He must have been out of his mind. I knew he was ill, but not that ill. You don’t understand. When I first met him, Ben smelled of fish, and there was no future for him but going out in the boats. Wyatt would have seen nothing in him that required more than a polite nod, if that. But I did. And I did something about it too.”
“If what he confessed to isn’t true, then where is Justin Fowler? If he’s alive and well, we can put an end to that part of the inquiry.”
She was silent for a time, then said softly, “I wish I knew.”
“Did they quarrel? Fowler and Russell?”
“If they were going to quarrel, it would have been before the war.”
“Hard feelings don’t always go away.”
“Well,” she said tartly, “the cause of any quarrel went away.”
“You were free to go only because Mrs. Russell disappeared.”
She shivered. “When I came to live at River’s Edge, I was frightened by the marshes. I didn’t like the whispering when the wind rustled the dry heads of the grasses. I wouldn’t sleep with my window open, for fear that one day I’d be able to hear the whispers clearly, and I’d know they were talking about me. After a few weeks I grew accustomed to the sound and thought no more about it. But when Aunt Elizabeth disappeared, I