The Confession - Charles Todd [76]
“Ye canna’ tell. You do na’ know the coves and inlets. Ye’d require field glasses to be sure.”
Rutledge turned to study the margins of the lawns, that line where the cultivated grass ended and the marsh began. How much draining had it taken to rip this estate out of the marsh’s grip? Or had this been a naturally higher stretch of land? He could see for himself that there were half a dozen places that might be the beginning of a track through the reeds, but striking out into one of them would be foolish at best, unless one knew what he was about. And how often did the tracks shift? Would Russell have been able to find his way after all this time? Rutledge was reminded, in fact, of a maze, with its artificial twists and turns intentionally leading the unwary down blind alleys.
There was the river, of course, to help keep one’s bearings, but as the ground rose in hummocky patches and dipped into small wet pockets, even that guide could disappear.
He was beginning to understand how Mrs. Russell could vanish so easily. But was she alive—or dead—when she did?
Turning to climb the steps to the terrace, he debated whether or not to go inside. If Russell was there, walking in uninvited could be considered trespass. And laying siege, in the hope to see him come out of his own accord, was wasting time.
What was the man’s state now? He’d left the house in Chelsea after slapping Cynthia. Not hard, but enough to shock both of them. His body was battered from the motorcycle accident, and he knew he was being hunted. Did he see himself as a man with a damaged mind who had burned his bridges?
There was a good chance that Russell had never intended to stay here, and every intention of dying here by his own hand.
Rutledge crossed to the door and tried it. It was still unlocked, just as he’d left it. But when he swung it wide, the morning sun fell across a muddy footprint on the floorboards just inside.
He hadn’t risked turning on his torch, and there was no way of knowing if it had been there last night before he’d seen the man out by the landing, or not. Squatting beside it, he touched the rim of mud. It was hard, dry. And the shape didn’t match his own boots; it was longer and wider. He cast about for any indication that the wearer of the shoe had gone out again.
Two or three crumbles of mud were caught in the threads of the carpet a stride away, but after that he could find nothing.
Straightening, he called, “Russell? Major Russell, are you here?”
The words seemed to echo through the house, loud enough to be heard by anyone inside, but even though he called again, no one answered.
Hamish was reminding him that he was here, where the Yard couldn’t reach him if new developments occurred in London. Or, for that matter, if something happened to him out here on the Hawking.
But he took his chances and walked into the garden room, taking care not to destroy the footprint or add his own.
He went directly to the study, to look at the gun case. If Russell was here and armed, he wanted to know it before encountering the man.
He opened the glass door. The shotguns were just what he’d expected, used for hunting. Below were the revolvers. And he would have sworn last night that there were only two in the case.
Now there were three.
Chapter 16
He stood there for a moment, thinking. Remembering how the cold metal had felt as he touched the handguns in the dark.
Yes, just the two last night, he was sure of it. He couldn’t be mistaken. Not with weapons.
The third was a service revolver, and it was the same caliber as the one that had been used to kill Ben Willet. It appeared to have been cleaned recently, no way of knowing when it had last been fired. The science that could tell him was in its infancy, and not always trustworthy.
Taking out his handkerchief, he examined the other revolver. Fired, but not cleaned since then.
He set it back where he’d found it.
More to the point, how had this third handgun magically appeared in less