The Confession - Charles Todd [59]
Not, he thought, unless they were on a regimen of medicines and their health was put at risk. Or they posed a danger to themselves or to society.
He thanked her for seeing him, and asked again if he could interview Major Russell.
She told him that he could, and rang a little bell on her desk. There was a tap at the door, and a young nursing sister asked, “Yes, Matron?”
“Take Mr. Rutledge to visit Major Russell, if you please.”
And then he was in the passage following the young sister.
They entered a room that had once, he thought, been the billiard room. But there were chairs and small tables set about it now, and men were engaged in board games or cards. A few simply stared into space, their hands dangling over the arms of their chairs, their minds disengaged from the present.
Hamish said, “Ye see yoursel’ still in their faces.”
He did. And the clinic where he’d been kept until his sister had intervened and had him transferred to the care of Dr. Fleming. In that first clinic men who were shell-shocked screamed at night and sat staring at nothing all through the long day. Dr. Fleming had taken a different approach, dragging out of unwilling patients the reasons for their withdrawal from themselves and the world. Rutledge had had to be pulled off the doctor after he had confessed to the death of Corporal Hamish MacLeod, ready to kill the man who had made him face his demons.
In spite of the warmth of the summer day that filled this familiar setting, he felt cold.
The sister went across to one man, broad-shouldered, fair-haired, in every way seemingly normal, and touched him lightly on the arm. “Major Russell? You have a visitor, sir.” He raised empty eyes to her face. She turned and smiled at Rutledge. “If he becomes tired or anxious, you’ll let one of the staff know?”
“Yes, of course. Thank you, Sister.” He pulled an empty chair nearer to where Russell was sitting. “Good afternoon, Major. My name is Rutledge.”
Chapter 12
Russell turned a little, to see him better. It was then that Rutledge realized that one side of the man’s head was slightly misshapen, as if the skull had been damaged. His hair nearly concealed the difference.
“Do I know you?” he asked, frowning as he studied Rutledge’s face. With a nod, the sister walked away.
“I don’t believe we’ve met. I was on the Somme.” He gave his rank and regiment.
“Were you? Patient here, are you?”
“No. I’m presently an Inspector at Scotland Yard. Someone came to my office not long ago, and I believe he knew you. Ben Willet, lately of Furnham, Essex.”
“Cynthia’s pet. What did he want?”
“He was concerned about Justin Fowler. In fact, he rather thought that Fowler was dead.”
“He is. Died during the war as I remember. What about it?”
“Do you have any recollection of where he died?”
“I’m not in my dotage,” Russell snapped irritably. “In 1915 or thereabouts.”
“In France?”
“How do I know? I was busy as hell trying to keep myself alive, and my men.”
“There was some mention of the fact that he might have been murdered.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. He was a self-centered bastard. Probably shot in the back by one of his own men. I never cared for him, you know.”
“I understand you were married just before you went to France.”
“I was. She died in childbirth. My son with her.” He shook his head. “Do you know, I can hardly remember her face. I try sometimes. There’s a photograph in my room, but I don’t know if it’s my wife or someone else.”
Rutledge reached into his pocket and drew out the locket. “I believe this may have belonged to your mother?”
Major Russell put out his hand and touched the locket dangling from its gold chain. But he didn’t take it or open it. “Never saw it before. Are you sure?”
“The maid, Nancy, appears to think so.”
“Nancy. The quiet one. I can’t quite bring back her face either.”
“How recently were you in London?”
“Last week? No, it must have been earlier than that.” He tried to think, his brow furrowed. “I’m sorry. I’m sometimes confused about dates.”
“Do you remember walking along the Thames?”
“No, I don’t. But that doesn’t mean