The Confession - Charles Todd [79]
“You’re releasing the body? Is that why you’re interested? For the—er—forms?”
“Actually I was wondering what name Willet would have used if he’d published a book in France.”
“Willet? Good God, no, you’re mistaken on that score. I heard the story going round about Ned. I’m not sure who started it. Jessup, perhaps, or one of the others. I don’t often hear gossip, but there was talk in one of the shops one day. They were laughing, they had forgot I was there.”
“You don’t have a copy of the book they spoke of ?”
“Hardly. It doesn’t exist. Or at least I don’t believe it does.”
“Then how did such a tale start?” When Morrison looked away, as if trying to choose his words, Rutledge added, “You needn’t worry. I know about the smuggling. It’s not what brought me here, and if it has no bearing on murder, I intend to ignore it.”
“Very wise of you,” Morrison agreed. “I shut my eyes as well. One can’t help but notice that Constable Nelson drinks himself into a stupor on brandy one can’t purchase at The Rowing Boat. Poor man, he isn’t cut out to be a policeman. He came here just now, asking if I’d seen a lost horse. I never know whether these forays of his into duty are real or a way of salving his conscience. There was a band of Gypsies said to be camping out in the marshes, and before that a stolen bicycle. Um. Where was I?”
“Smuggling.”
“Yes, I was going to add that the veil Abigail wore at her wedding was French lace, handed down from her mother. And Ned, God rest his soul, Ned used to do the runs to France before the war. He took Ben with him once or twice when the boy was fifteen. While I sat with Ned after he injured his leg, he told me the story. How Ben was seasick when a storm blew up and they had to put into a different French port. He was so ill he was taken in by a French family, didn’t know a word they were saying to him, but he walked about in a daze for weeks afterward, enamored of the daughter of the house. He got over it, of course, at that age boys generally do.”
But had he?
Rutledge remembered the copybook in a box in the Laughtons’ attic, the description of the woman in CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. Was she based on the girl Ben believed he’d fallen in love with as a boy?
“Did the French ever produce the book they talked about? On another run, perhaps?”
“I shouldn’t think so. If they did, no one showed it to me. And Ned would have, he loved a good joke. Why is it so important?”
“Because it’s possible the book does exist. And that the author’s name was Edward Willet. But not the father, of course. The son.”
“I still don’t see why this matters. What could it have to do with young Willet’s death? For all we know it could be an entirely different branch of the family. Ned told me once that there are Willets in Derbyshire and Norfolk.”
“Nor do I see the connection. At the moment.”
Morrison shook his head. “How many books do you think the people of Furnham read in the course of a year? The Bible, perhaps. They’ve always lived hard lives, these villagers. They don’t have the luxury of reading, nor the time or the money to buy books. The children go to school until they’re old enough to help earn their keep. The war was particularly hard, with the sea cut off.”
“I understand.”
“Is there any other matter I can help you with? Other than Ben’s full name?”
Rutledge said, “I have a puzzle on my hands. Three deaths, with seemingly no link between them. Mrs. Russell in 1914, Justin Fowler in 1915, and now Ben Willet’s. You know these people better than I ever shall. Do you see a pattern that I have missed?”
Morrison frowned. “We don’t know what happened to Mrs. Russell, do we? She may well have been in great distress over the coming war, as her family suggested. If that’s true, I bear some of the blame for not seeing her need in time. As for Fowler, why should you think he’s dead? Simply because he has cut his ties with the people who used to be close to him? A troubled man sometimes prefers to turn to strangers, rather than risk the pity of those he cares