The Confession - Charles Todd [6]
Finally settling on Justin Arthur Ambrose Fowler, who was only two years older than Russell appeared to be, he discovered that there was no date of death registered. And no marriage.
Wyatt Russell was easier to find, again with no date of death. But he had been married to a Louisa Mary Harmon, who had died barely a year later in childbirth.
There appeared to be a connection between Fowler and Russell—their grandmothers shared the same maiden name—Sudbury. And from what Rutledge could determine, going back through records, the women were cousins. Fowler’s parents died in the same year and within two days of each other, when Fowler was eleven.
Russell had been born at River’s Edge in Essex, Fowler in Colchester.
He spent another half hour looking at various branches of the family but found nothing else that seemed to connect the two men in any way.
Thanking the clerk for his assistance, Rutledge went back to the Yard to find a map of Essex.
River’s Edge was not shown, which very likely meant it was the name of a house, just as Russell had indicated, and not a village. But he did find Furnham at the mouth of the River Hawking, set on a hook of land that curled out into the water. Like the Thames, the Blackwater, and the Crouch, Zeppelin navigators used the Hawking to find their way to London for raids. But unlike the Thames, the Blackwater, and the Crouch, the Hawking had never become popular with yachtsmen or possessed a Coastguard station at its mouth. Until the airfield had been built, it had probably remained little changed for hundreds of years.
So far, it appeared, the story Russell had told seemed to hold up.
Where was Justin Fowler? Alive and well in Colchester, or even Cornwall, for that matter? Or was he dead, his body as yet undiscovered?
Rutledge considered the upcoming weekend. He’d promised his sister Frances to take her to a concert on Friday evening—she was an accomplished pianist in her own right, like their mother, and the program included Liszt, one of her favorite composers.
But once that duty was done, the rest of the weekend was his.
It turned out not to be as simple as he’d expected.
Frances enjoyed the concert immensely, as well as the light supper he’d arranged when it was over. Finishing her wine, she said, “Ian, do you think we could drive into Kent tomorrow to call on Melinda?”
Melinda Crawford was the elderly woman who had been a friend of Rutledge’s parents. Rutledge had known her since he was a small boy fascinated by the treasures in her house. For she had lived in India until her husband’s death and traveled widely thereafter, collecting whatever struck her fancy, from jewels to swords to ivory figures of Chinese Immortals.
He had avoided Melinda since the war, although he had been thrust into her company from time to time by unexpected events. She knew him too well. And he feared that she would read in his face more than he cared for her to know about his war. As a child she had survived the Great Indian Mutiny, and having seen death at first hand, she was not as easily put off by his assurances that he was whole. If anyone could have understood about Hamish MacLeod, it was undoubtedly Melinda Crawford. And yet Rutledge couldn’t bring himself to confide in her. He still carried the shame of Hamish’s death, and that was something he could not confess to anyone, much less the widow of an officer twice decorated for gallantry.
“I was thinking of driving into Essex instead,” he said lightly.
His sister put down her glass and turned to face him. “Essex?” she said, and he could almost read the list of names passing through her mind as she considered their acquaintances. Failing to come up with a possible connection, she added, “Where in Essex?” And in her eyes he could see speculation that her unmarried brother had met someone of interest.
He laughed. “The marshes. Out along the River Hawking.”
“Then it’s related to Yard business.