The Confession - Charles Todd [80]
“You present a very reasonable case. I wish I could believe in it. When you’ve been a policeman as long as I have, there’s a sixth sense about murder. The locket around Ben Willet’s throat connects him to River’s Edge, if nothing else does.”
“Ah yes, the locket. But that too has a reasonable explanation, doesn’t it? I’m afraid Miss Farraday has left a trail of broken hearts behind her. I shouldn’t be surprised if Ben was one of them. She was kind to him, after all.”
“It explains the photograph. Not the locket itself.”
“Are you so certain that it isn’t the only one of its kind?”
“With Mrs. Russell’s initial engraved on the face?
“There must be thousands of Englishwomen named Elizabeth, Emily, Eleanor, Eugenia—have you considered that?”
“I don’t like coincidence.”
Morrison smiled. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there. My business is to save souls, not to hunt killers.”
As Rutledge rose to take his leave, Morrison added, “If you find that Willet’s book exists, I should like to know about it. In fact, I’d like to read it myself.”
“I’ll be sure to tell you.”
They had walked as far as the door when Rutledge said, “This man Jessup. Is he dangerous, do you think?”
“Timothy? He’s a hard man to know. And he doesn’t care to be thwarted. By Ben going into service instead of to sea, or by an airfield being built in this parish. He nearly killed a man, coming to blows with him, after he discovered he’d come here to weigh the possibility of Furnham becoming a seaside town. I shouldn’t like to cross him.”
An unwitting echo of Constable Nelson’s words. And Morrison’s comment explained why he and Frances had been challenged by the man.
After leaving the Rectory, Rutledge spent three-quarters of an hour looking for any sign of a runaway horse. There was always the chance that Russell had taken it to speed him on his way to Furnham. But he had no more luck that Constable Nelson had. Someone had been along the road with horse and cart, that was clear enough, but a single horse—no.
He continued to London, his mind occupied with the problem of the three victims. While Morrison might believe there was no connection, he had a feeling there must be. It was one of the reasons he’d come looking for Russell.
He expected, when he reached Cynthia Farraday’s house, that she would refuse to receive him. But the maid, Mary, admitted him and led him to the small sitting room, where Miss Farraday was writing a letter.
“If you’ve come to see if I’m well, you’ve wasted a trip,” she said as he walked through the door. “I’m angry now. At Wyatt and at myself for being frightened of him.”
“I’m happy to see you fully recovered,” he countered, then asked, “Do you by chance still have a copy of the book Ben Willet is said to have written?”
“Said?” she asked. “I told you he’d had two volumes published. He was working on a third. I don’t suppose he finished that before he was killed. But there it is.” Rising from the desk, she went to the bookshelf under the window and retrieved two books. “Here. See for yourself.”
He thanked her and took the books. He looked at the name on the cover—Edward Willet. As he’d expected. Then he opened the first of the two books at random, reading a page here and there.
It was a war memoir as she had told him earlier. The title was A Long Road Home.
Beginning when Willet went to enlist, it was filled with stories of the men he’d trained with and then fought with. They were well realized and very human. And it brought the war back all too vividly.
“Have you read this?” he asked, looking up.
“The earlier part. I found the rest too disturbing. How awful it must have been to have these men come into one’s life, to get to know them, and watch as they are shot or blown up or grievously wounded by shrapnel. There was another Corporal he came to know very well, another young man in service in Thetford, and a month before the Armistice, the man was shot and died in his arms.” She shook her head, as if