“Then you knew Fowler too?”
“He was a connection of Mrs. Russell’s, although I don’t believe she had known his family very well. She told me before he came that she’d lost touch with his mother after she married Mr. Fowler. I had the feeling that Mrs. Russell didn’t approve of him. That’s to say, of the husband. This was just after the solicitor had come to ask her to take the boy in. She said that God in his wisdom had seen fit to give her only one child. But to make up for it, God had sent her the daughter she’d never have and now a second son. I wondered later if she was as happy as she’d expected to be. They weren’t that easy to mother. They weren’t hers, after all. Then she was gone, and the boys- they were young men by that time-left to join the Army. I don’t know if Justin Fowler survived or not. I drove him in Mrs. Russell’s motorcar to meet the train to London, and that was the last time I saw him. A quiet boy, kept to himself. I didn’t know him well. But he was afraid of something. I never knew what it was.”
“Then who is the man in this photograph?”
Morrison frowned as he considered the face again. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him before. But you said he’d come to call on you at the Yard? The man in this photograph? How did you come to believe he was Major Russell?”
“It was the name he gave me,” Rutledge said trenchantly.
“How very odd! And you tell me he was wearing the locket with Miss Farraday’s likeness in it when his body was pulled from the river?”
“According to those who found him.”
“Then I should think you ought to find her and ask her if she knows this man.”
“Before I do, what else can you tell me about the Russell household? Are there any of the staff still living in the vicinity? Perhaps in Furnham.”
“There was only a small staff. A housekeeper, of course, and several maids. A cook. An elderly groom. And I believe there was a man who acted as butler when there were guests, but generally drove Mrs. Russell when she went out. The household didn’t get on well with the local people and kept to themselves more often than not. The groom died soon after Mrs. Russell disappeared. And the cook went to live with a member of her family, when the house was closed. Mrs. Broadley. I remember how apt her name was. An excellent cook! I don’t know what became of the housekeeper, Mrs. Dunner. I was told she found employment in the Midlands. Harold-the chauffeur-stayed on as caretaker in the first few weeks of the war, then was called up. There was no one at River’s Edge after that.”
“The maids?”
“I’d nearly forgot. Nancy married a farmer’s son on the other side of Furnham. Samuel Brothers. The others went their ways.”
“Tell me how to find this farm?”
“You must drive through Furnham, and when the road curves to the left, just continue along it. The second farm you come to belongs to Brothers.”
Rutledge thanked him and took his leave. Morrison walked with him up the single aisle of the church and to the door, like a good host seeing a guest on his way.
He said as they reached the door, “I hope you can identify that poor man in the photograph. I shall pray for him.”
“Thank you, Rector.”
And then the door was closed behind him, and the rector’s footsteps seemed to echo in the emptiness of the sanctuary as he walked back down the aisle.
“He was in love with the lass. In yon locket,” Hamish said as Rutledge crossed the narrow strip of lawn to his motorcar.
“Morrison?”
“Aye, the priest.”
Rutledge remembered the sadness in the rector’s eyes as he said that Russell would have married Cynthia Farraday. Russell was more her equal than a country parson. It could explain why Morrison had found it difficult to discuss her.
He paused as he reached for the crank, and in the silence he could hear the whispers in the grass. It was easy to imagine people hidden among the reeds, some of them taller than a man. For that matter, it would be hard to find someone even twenty feet away from where one stood. It explained the difficulty in searching for Mrs. Russell.
He left the church, turning toward Furnham.
Who the hell was the man who had come into his office, claiming to be Wyatt Russell and swearing he’d murdered Justin Fowler? More to the point, who had killed that man not a fortnight later? And were the two events related? Or was there something else in the victim’s past that had led to his death?
Hamish said, “The lass in the locket will know.”
“Yes, very likely.” But finding her was going to be another matter.
Making a point to look for the turning Morrison had spoken of, he saw it to his left three-quarters of a mile from the church. He drove on, passing through Furnham and out the other side, turning away from the river’s mouth toward the farms and pasturage wrested from the marshes. The farms were not large, but they appeared to be prosperous enough. Dairy herds, mostly, he thought, judging from the cows grazing quietly. With only enough acreage for the corn and hay to feed them. He could just see the green tips of the corn in a field beyond, moving with the light sea breeze.
He found the Brothers farm and took the rutted turning that led to the house. Beyond it stood a weathered barn and several outbuildings.
No one answered his knock, and after a moment he walked round to the kitchen door at the rear. There he found a woman in a black dress that had seen happier days, inside a wire pen scattering feed for the chickens bunched and clucking around her ankles. She looked up as Rutledge came toward her, her eyes wary.
It was an expression he was growing accustomed to, here on the River Hawking.
She said, politely enough, “Can I help you, sir?”
“Good morning. My name is Rutledge. I’m looking for Mrs. Brothers.”
“And what would you be wanting with her, when you’ve found her?”
“I’m trying to locate anyone who knew the family at River’s Edge. The rector at St. Edward’s, Mr. Morrison, has told me Mrs. Brothers was once a housemaid there.”
Nodding, she emptied the bowl she was holding in the crook of her arm and walked out of the pen, latching the gate behind her. “Come into the kitchen, then.”
He followed her down the path and over the stepping-stones that led between the beds of herbs, flowers, and vegetables flanking the kitchen entrance. Someone, he noted, took pride in the gardens, for they were weeded and the soil between the rows had recently been hoed.
Inside the kitchen, he saw the same care. The cloth over the table was not only clean but also ironed, and both the sink and the cabinets below it were spotless, as was the floor.
“I’m Nancy Brothers,” she said, offering him a chair and going to stand in front of the broad dresser. “Why are you looking for anyone from the house?”
“I’m not precisely sure,” Rutledge answered her. “This locket has been found, and I’m trying to trace the woman shown inside.” He took it from his pocket and held it out to her by the gold chain. “I was told she might have lived at River’s Edge.”
Instead of reaching for the locket, Mrs. Brothers asked, “Are you a lawyer, then? Or a policeman?”
He told her the truth. “I’m from Scotland Yard. We don’t ordinarily search for the owner of lost property. But in this case, it could help us in another matter of some importance.”
Mrs. Brothers took the locket, found the clasp, and opened it. “Oh.”
“You recognize her?” Rutledge prompted as she stood there staring at the tiny photograph.
“The locket. It brings back memories,” she replied slowly. “I thought I’d put all that behind me.”
“What had you put behind you?”
She sighed, and turned her head to look out the window. “In the end it was a troubled house,” she said finally. “I’d have left if there had been anywhere to go. It’s not as if this was London or even Tilbury, where I could have found another position.”
Was she making excuses for staying on, despite her feelings about the house? He wondered whether she was
