The Confession - Charles Todd [78]
“What things?”
Nelson said uneasily, “It was just talk. A boy’s talk. And he’d been up to River’s Edge a time or two. He’d seen a different way of life.”
“The smuggling,” Hamish said. “Yon uncle was afraid the lad would tell someone.”
But was it only that? Had Furnham corrupted its only officer of the law just to protect a few bottles of brandy, a little tobacco, and whatever other small luxuries these men had brought in on their backs? The entire village seemed to be involved in the secret, not just a handful of rogue fishermen.
Constable Nelson was preparing to mount his bicycle again. “Someone told me last year that Ned Willet had written a book and it was published in France. I doubt Ned could put two words together on a page, much less a book. But I didn’t believe that. Not for a minute.”
“Why not?” Rutledge asked, curious.
“I never knew anyone who wrote a book. And I’m not likely to. Not anyone from Furnham.”
And he was gone, pedaling along the road, seemingly the model of a village constable. Sober and responsible until the next bottle of French brandy was left outside his door. It was easy to see where his loyalties might lie.
France.
Rutledge was letting out the clutch, preparing to drive on, when the single word stopped him.
Ned Willet.
What was Ben Willet’s full name?
Was it possible that on one of the runs to France, someone had asked Jessup if the old man had written a book? Jessup would have found that as amusing as the constable had. And on his next run, had the Frenchman produced such a book, to have the last laugh?
He reversed and turned into the road leading to the Rectory. How much did the rector know about what was happening in his own parish? Or was he as much Jessup’s creature as Constable Nelson was?
Mr. Morrison was sitting in his study-cum-parlor when Rutledge stopped in the short drive. He got up and met his visitor at the door before he could knock.
“Come in, Inspector. I’m sick of my own company.”
The parlor was simply furnished, but a lovely old desk took pride of place, and Morrison saw Rutledge looking at it.
“My father’s,” he said. “The only thing of his that I possess, actually. I was trying to think of a suitable subject for my next sermon.” He gestured to a shelf behind the desk. Rutledge could see that there were at least twenty collections of sermons there, bound in leather. He wondered if these were a relic of Morrison’s father as well. “One would think,” he went on, “that every possible permutation of religious topics had been covered already. But one soldiers on, searching for inspiration.”
Rutledge smiled. “In point of fact, it’s a book that’s brought me here.”
“Sermons?” Morrison asked blankly, staring from the shelf to Rutledge’s face.
“Actually, no. Do you have the old christening records for the church?”
“St. Edward’s? As a matter of fact, we do, going back to the early 1800s. I can search for whatever you need to know. But it will take time. In some cases the ink is faded or the writing is illegible. My predecessors were not always thinking about posterity when they made their notations.”
“What I’m after isn’t that old. I’d like to know Ben Willet’s full name. Abigail Barber hasn’t been told yet that he’s dead. And I don’t care to distress her at this stage.”
“Ben’s name? I can answer your question without consulting the records. Edward Benjamin Stephen Willet. He was named for his father, his grandfather, and an uncle. He was called Ben to prevent any confusion.” Morrison smiled ruefully. “I was entering Ned’s death, and looked up Ben while I was about it. He’d have been twenty-eight in September.”
“Edward Willet. Yes, he’d have used that name.