The Confession - Charles Todd [96]
And Rutledge himself saw the danger he stood in. “Don’t they always? Swords, muskets, shotguns. It doesn’t matter. Men in that line of work know the risks.”
The tension in Barber’s face eased. “True enough. You don’t always know what you’ll be dealing with at either end. Back to Ben Willet. If I knew who had killed him, I’d tell you. But I don’t.” And with that he walked off.
Rutledge watched him go as Hamish said, “D’ye believe him?”
I don’t know, Rutledge responded silently. I haven’t forgot the club.
“Aye, and it’s no’ wise to forget.”
Anxious now that Barber had also been unable to raise the rector, Rutledge considered his next step. Russell hadn’t come to River’s Edge last night. And Nancy Brothers had looked in vain for him in the church rubble. Morrison, in spite of his vows, had been uneasy about giving the man houseroom. Where was he now? More to the point, what had become of the rector?
The question was, how well had Nancy Brothers looked in the ruins?
They were on his way, and it would take no more than ten minutes to be sure. He drove there, got out, and made his way through the tumble of stones in the thick grass, a snare for unwary feet. He had to keep his mind on what he was doing, but he reached a slight depression where two of the larger stones formed a sort of wedge. He hadn’t come this far in his earlier exploration, and it was a place he would have chosen if sleeping rough. Well protected without being a trap. The nights were warm enough, and the weather had been dry. Russell had been lucky on that score. Squatting, he looked at the flattened stems. And watched an ant busily dragging away a tiny crumb of bread. Just outside he saw the pit of a plum, where it had been cast aside.
Satisfied, he rose and scanned the terrain. Then he walked back the way he’d come, to the road.
He found Jessup leaning against the wing of his motorcar, arms crossed.
“What’s so interesting about yon ruin?” he asked, his voice neutral.
“A habit of mine, looking at ruins,” Rutledge said easily. “My godfather happens to be an architect.”
“Is he, now?” Jessup asked, insolently measuring Rutledge with his eyes.
“When did the church burn?”
“When it was struck by lightning.”
“How old was it?”
“Old enough for the timbers to be dry.”
And that, Rutledge thought, must be true.
He walked past Jessup and bent down to turn the crank.
“On your way back to London, are you?”
“Not until I find the man who killed Ben Willet and tossed his body into the Thames.” He straightened and went around to open the driver’s door.
“He was killed in London. Not here. You should be looking there.”
Rutledge corrected him. “He was put into the river in London. But is that where he was killed?”
“Ben hasn’t been in Furnham since the war. You can ask his sister.”
“Perhaps he tried to come and was waylaid. When was the last time you were in London?”
Jessup’s eyes narrowed. “None of your business.”
“I can make it my business,” Rutledge told him, his voice harsh now. “And before you make a decision to take me on, speak to Sandy Barber. He’ll tell you it isn’t worth your while.”
He got into the motorcar, and Jessup put his hand on the other door, then thought better of it. He stepped away, and Rutledge drove on.
“A dangerous man,” Hamish said, echoing Morrison. “He likes playing the bully.”
“Because no one ever had the courage to face him down.”
At the Rectory, Rutledge stopped and pounded on the door. There was no answer. The door was unlocked and he looked inside, but there was no sign of a struggle, and the remains of breakfast for one still sat on a table in the corner facing the back garden.
Where, then, was the rector? Called to a sickbed? And what had become of Russell? Frowning, he stood outside for a moment. It would be hard to explain another disappearance in Furnham. Whatever the police had concluded in 1914.
Hamish said, “Were ye’ o’er hasty last night? Did he come later than expected?”
It was possible. Possible too that after his own breakfast, Morrison had taken one to the