The Confession - Charles Todd [58]
And she led him down the passage. At one time the spacious rooms had been divided into wards, but the thin partitions had been removed. Only the pale lines on the scratched and scuffed parquet floors marked where they had been.
Matron’s office had been a morning room at one time. Now it was filled with filing cabinets while books crowded one another on a shelf. The desk was utilitarian and well used. An older woman with graying hair was seated behind it, and she looked up as he was shown in, then rose as the nursing sister gave his name.
“Mr. Rutledge,” she said, pleasantly. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you here before.”
“I’ve come to visit a patient of yours, one Wyatt Russell. But before I go in to him, I was hoping you could tell me something about his condition.”
“Are you a relative, Mr. Rutledge?”
He could see that she was reluctant to divulge any information.
“I’m from Scotland Yard, Matron.” He took out his identification and passed it across the desk to her.
“Do sit down, Mr. Rutledge.” She sat as well, then examined his identification before handing it back to him. “I should like to hear why you are calling on Major Russell. Have you come to ask for his assistance? Or is he accused of something?”
“I don’t know how to answer you, Matron. The inquiry is in its early stages. There was a man found dead in the Thames.” He gave her the date when Ben Willet had been pulled from the river. He knew, from the twitch of a muscle at the corner of her eyes, that he had touched a nerve. “The problem was, earlier on, this man had given Scotland Yard his name in another matter—but it was false. The name he gave was Wyatt Russell.”
“I see. But why should he do that? Had he ever met Major Russell, do you know?”
“I can’t tell you how well they knew each other. Slightly, at a guess. But they both lived in Essex, within a few miles of each other. They most certainly were aware of each other’s existence.”
He remembered suddenly something that he should have spoken to Miss Farraday about. “As it happens, this man was one of the search party trying to find Mrs. Russell, the Major’s mother, when she disappeared in 1914.”
“Ah. I see.” She set the file she had been working on as he entered to one side of her desk and folded her hands. “Major Russell,” she began, seeming to choose her words with care, “has a problem with his memory. It is—to put it bluntly—imperfect.”
“Shell shock?” he asked, hearing Hamish loud in his mind.
Please, dear God, he prayed. Let it not be that.
And his prayer was heard.
“Not shell shock, no. He was severely wounded. And while he can function in so many ways that we consider normal—button his clothes, tie his shoelaces, comb his hair, count his money, carry on a seemingly intelligent conversation—he has difficulty with the past. He recalls it in very irregular and sometimes inaccurate ways. For instance, he told me two days ago that he was being called up again, that his train was to leave in a quarter of an hour, and he couldn’t find his uniform. He was quite upset, as you can imagine. And he wouldn’t believe us that the war had ended two years earlier. Another example of his confusion—he was allowed a leave, actually a test of his ability to cope in strange surroundings. This was two months ago, you understand. We sent someone with him to oversee his care. A valet, if you will, or a batman. Actually, this person was a trained orderly, and it was his duty to keep an eye on the Major for us.” She picked up a pen, looked at it, then put it down on the desktop again. “For the first week, he was a model patient. We were greatly encouraged. And then he came home late from a walk in such a state that we brought him back.”
“And he hasn’t been away from the clinic since that time?”
She reached for the pen again, her eyes hidden from him. “We have not sent him out to live on his own since then. No.”
But the door to the clinic stood open, and the gates as well. Would Matron call in the local police if Major Russell—or one of her other patients for that matter—went missing?