The Confession - Charles Todd [57]
“Is it possible Wyatt Russell killed his mother? That her disappearance was his doing?”
“Oh, my God,” she said, sitting down as if her limbs refused to support her. “No.” She regarded him. “Even for a policeman you have an extraordinarily nasty mind.”
He smiled grimly. “As a policeman, I have seen more than one’s imagination could invent.”
“Yes. I suppose you have.”
“I’m surprised, given your years there, that you care so much for River’s Edge.”
“I loved the house. I’d have married Wyatt just to be mistress of it. But the thought of living with him happily ever after was too much. Even as a price for River’s Edge.”
“Could money have been involved?” he asked bluntly. “Was that why Russell was so intent on marrying you? And if you spurned him, perhaps he needed his inheritance sooner rather than later.”
Frowning, she said, “I was left with a comfortable income. But the Russells didn’t need my money. Besides, my inheritance was in trust until I was five and twenty—to protect me from fortune hunters, or so I was told. By five and twenty, I would no doubt be sensible enough not to run off with the dancing master.”
He smiled. “And how many dancing masters did you know?”
“Not one. I thought I might do better by going to London. It was said to be awash with dancing masters.”
“What became of Justin Fowler, after the war?”
“You’re the inspector from Scotland Yard,” she retorted, suddenly tired of him or his questions. “I’m sure you will find him without my help.” She walked to the door and held it open. “After all, you found me.”
He stood as well.
“You know your way. Good day, Inspector.”
Leaving the house, he wasn’t sure what to make of Cynthia Farraday. She reminded him of quicksilver. Just when one thought one had it within one’s grasp, it was gone, elusive and tantalizing.
“And deadly?” Hamish reminded him.
Chapter 11
It was after six o’clock when he reached the little village of St. Margaret’s, in Oxfordshire.
The church tower rose above the surrounding houses and shops, a sharp tower, as if to remind people of their duty to God. The clinic, he discovered by stopping at the tiny post office, was on the far side of town. It had once been a graceful country house, with a Dower House across from the main gates. Easily found, the postmistress had assured him.
And it was.
The Dower House was a mellow pink brick, and the late afternoon sun gilded the windows. Faced with white stone, it was set back from the road in a stand of trees, gardens following the short drive up to the door.
Across the road, the contrast was pointed. The gates to the main house were open, and he drove through what had once been a well-landscaped park. Now the rhododendrons were overgrown and dead boughs showed through the leathery leaves like the gray ghosts of other summers. The house too had seen better days, the gardens no longer luxuriant, the window shades uneven, giving the impression that no one had noticed how snaggletoothed this might appear to a visitor.
On the lawns were stone benches scattered here and there, some in the sun, others well shaded. None of them was occupied at present.
He left the motorcar to one side of the door and saw that it, like the gates, stood open.
Hamish said, “They’re no’ afraid that anyone will escape.”
A table stood just inside, in what had been the hall, and a middle-aged woman in a nurse’s uniform sat there, sorting charts and patient folders.
She looked up as he came in, and smiled. “Good afternoon. Have you come to visit any particular patient?”
“I’d like to speak to Matron, if I may. Ian Rutledge.”
“She’s just gone into her office.