The Confession - Charles Todd [90]
“You didn’t like her driver?” He was surprised. Nancy Brothers had left the impression that Finley was dependable and helpful. Indeed, he’d been left in charge of River’s Edge until he himself had been called up.
“He was a servant, wasn’t he? No better than Ben was. But you’d have thought he was the Lord High Somebody. Standing stiff as a poker by that motorcar and not a word to say to anyone.”
“I don’t believe Miss Farraday was responsible for your brother’s decision,” he said, thinking of the copybooks he’d seen in Thetford. Still, she’d made it financially possible for him to return to France. “He was trying to establish himself as a writer.”
“He never showed any interest in such a thing when he was growing up.”
“Nevertheless, he was actively trying to write while he was a footman. I don’t know what he did during the war, but it must have shown him a different sort of life, and he decided to stay in Paris and work.”
“He’s still there? In Paris? Is that what Sandy wanted you to tell me? I’ve been so worried, thinking something must have happened to him. I’m glad my father never knew. He wouldn’t have cared for that. He never liked the French very much. Boastful people, he said, and thinking they know more than anyone else.”
“Ben wrote two books that were published in France. They were quite well written, by the way. He used the name Edward Willet. His father’s name as well as his own. And then this spring he came back to England to see a doctor. He was diagnosed with stomach cancer. There was not much the doctors could do.”
She said slowly, as if she found it difficult to hear what must be coming, “He was dying of it?”
“I’m sorry. Yes.”
“But why doesn’t he come home then, and let us take care of him?”
“We don’t know the answer to that, Mrs. Barber. It’s one of the questions we’re still asking.”
“Where is he? I’ll ask Sandy to take me to him. In hospital?”
“I’m afraid he’s dead.”
She stared at him, and then her face crumpled. “And nobody was there with him? None of his family around him?”
Rutledge took a deep breath. This was the part of his duty that he found the most difficult. “He was found in the Thames, Mrs. Barber. Someone had shot him.”
“He—did he kill himself ? Because of the cancer?
“No. He couldn’t have taken his own life.”
Nodding, she said, “Then you’re saying that this was murder?”
“Yes. If it’s any consolation, he was intending to come home to see his family before returning to France to die. But he was killed before he could.” There was nothing else he could say. A silence fell, and he gave her time to recover from the blow.
Finally she said, “I want to see him. Will you take me to see him?”
“I—don’t believe it would be wise, Mrs. Barber. I don’t know that he would wish you to see him like this.”
“I’m his sister. There’s no one else. I want to see my brother.”
He considered offering to show her the photograph and then thought better of it. “Will you let your husband take you? I’ll see to the arrangements.”
“Not Sandy. I don’t want to go with him. But I’ll go with you, if you’ll be so kind.”
“Now?”
“Yes, please. I’ll just fetch my shawl.” And she rose, leaving him there in the room. Five minutes later she was back. He thought she’d splashed cool water on her face, for it seemed less flushed. But her jaw was tightly clenched, and he could tell that she was trying to steel herself for the ordeal to come.
“Is there anyone you’d care to take with you? Another woman, perhaps? Molly?”
“No. I’ll go alone. He’d have wanted it that way.”
And so he led her out to the motorcar,