lying to herself or to him.
“How troubled?”
Nancy Brothers took a deep breath. “It’s not my place to gossip about my betters.”
“I understand. That’s commendable, in fact,” he told her gently. “But it’s not a matter of gossip, you see. In a police inquiry, it’s your duty to help the authorities in any way you can. If you know something, you must let us decide if it’s important or not.”
“Mrs. Russell was wearing this locket the day she disappeared. I know, I helped her put it on, and I saw it at noon that day, when she came in for lunch. She was still wearing it.”
“What happened to Mrs. Russell? Did the police find her? Or failing that, her body?”
“That was the odd thing. They never found any trace of her. Her son saw her walking toward the landing stage at two o’clock, but no one knew she was missing until I went up to help her dress for dinner.” She turned to set a bowl that had been draining in the sink up on a shelf. “They questioned all of us, the police did. Was she anxious about anything? Was she worried? Was she frightened? Did anyone harbor hard feelings toward her? She could be a trial, sometimes, to tell you the truth, but she was getting older, and crotchety. At least it seemed so to me at the time, young as I was. Sometimes she fussed over her hair until I was fit to be tied, wanting it to be thick and pretty as it was when she was eighteen. Or the ashes hadn’t been swept out proper, when I could see they had. But you don’t do someone a harm for that, do you?”
“Was this same photograph in the locket when Mrs. Russell wore it last?”
“No, it wasn’t. It was her and her late husband. On their wedding day.”
“Then how can you be sure this is the same locket?”
“I must have touched it a thousand times. Settling it around her throat, under her hair. Making sure it was hanging proper. She took it off each evening and put it on each morning. Even if she was wearing other jewelry, this was still around her throat.” She reached for the kettle and filled it with cold water. “Can you tell me how you came to have it? Does this mean you’ve found her body? And who put that other photograph in it?”
“We haven’t found Mrs. Russell. Someone else was wearing the locket.”
“How did she come by it?”
“Before I answer your question, will you give me the name of this woman?”
She was measuring tea for the pot, but she lifted the spoon and pointed with it. “That’s Cynthia Farraday. She came to live with Mrs. Russell when her own parents died.”
“What became of her?”
“She went to live in London after Mrs. Russell disappeared. She said it wasn’t fitting to live in the house without a chaperone. Mr. Russell proposed marriage, but she didn’t want that. She wanted to be free, she said, to live her own life.”
“Who else was in the house-besides the staff?”
“Mr. Justin, of course. He was another cousin come to live at River’s Edge. After Miss Cynthia came. They weren’t related, those two. She was connected through the Russell side, while Mr. Justin’s grandmother and Mrs. Russell’s were cousins. I heard it said that Mr. Justin’s mother had died of the consumption. Her lungs was bad. I never heard anything about his father.”
“What became of Mr. Fowler?”
“He went off to war and as far as I know never come back.”
“I see.” As the kettle began to whistle, Mrs. Brothers turned to fill the teapot. Watching her, Rutledge said, “And Mr. Russell, himself?”
She stirred the leaves in the pot, peering at them as she spoke. “All I know is, he survived the war. But I don’t know that he ever came back to the house. A shame, that was. It was a lovely house. I wish you could have seen it when I was in service there. They had money, the Russells did. I often wondered how it was the family built that house out here, in the marshes. It could have been set down anywhere.”
While the tea steeped, Rutledge said, “I have a photograph to show you. It isn’t a pleasant photograph, but perhaps you will be able to identify the man in it.” He took out the envelope from Gravesend, opened the flap, and passed it to her.
She reached inside tentatively and pulled out the photograph. He saw her grimace as she looked down at it.
“He’s dead, isn’t he? This man.”
“Yes. He was found in the river.”
“The Hawking?” She glanced from the photograph to Rutledge’s face. “My husband never said anything to me about a body being found.”
“It was the Thames. Do you know him?”
“He’s changed so much I hardly recognized him at first. He was just a lad when last I saw him, all arms and legs, and polite enough,” she said slowly. “I didn’t go into Furnham that often, but he came to River’s Edge a time or two. From the village. As I remember, his father was a fisherman. I’m sorry I can’t put a name to him after all this time.” She turned away from the photograph, and Rutledge put it back in the envelope.
“Do you remember anything else about him?” When she hesitated, he added, “Was he a troublemaker? Was there gossip about him?”
“If there was, I don’t remember it now,” she answered. “But of course we didn’t mix all that much with the villagers. The staff at River’s Edge.” She smiled wryly. “We thought ourselves above them. And here I wound up marrying one of them. You never know, do you? But at the time, Mrs. Russell encouraged us not to go into Furnham. On our days off, every other week, she’d let us go into Tilbury for the day. Let us have the use of the cart, even, as long as Harold Finley drove it. And she cautioned us to stay well away from the docks.”
“You are sure this man isn’t Major Russell?”
“Oh, no, I’d know Mr. Russell anywhere. Even after all this time. I was a maid in that house for fifteen years, until Mr. Brothers come along. Yes, I’d recognize him even today, for certain.”
Throughout the questioning, Hamish had been silent. Now he interjected a comment, catching Rutledge off guard as he was setting the envelope down by the leg of his chair, out of sight. Mrs. Brothers was bringing the teapot to the table, and he glanced up quickly, certain she must have heard the voice as well. But she had turned away to pick up two cups and saucers.
“Ye ken, yon dead man knew the people at River’s Edge well enough to accuse the one of killing the ither.”
It was an excellent point.
“What was the relationship between Fowler and Russell? Did they get on?”
“They did, well enough, except where Miss Cynthia was concerned. Then it wasn’t so friendly, was it? And some of it was her doing, flirting with first one and then the other. It wasn’t serious, I’ll say that for her. Mind you, I know the difference. She didn’t fancy either of them, but she was the sort to like their attentions.”
“You didn’t care for her?”
“Not to say didn’t care for her,” Mrs. Brothers replied. “That’s too harsh a word, isn’t it? But I was not taken in by her ways. She even flirted with Harold Finley. Not in quite the same fashion, but enough to turn his head. That wasn’t fair, was it? To lead him on? But he was a fine figure of a man, tall and strong and clever as well. She couldn’t resist proving he was under her spell too.”
Harold Finley. The driver-cum-butler, when the need arose.
“How did she flirt with him?”
“She’d invent little errands where he was to drive her here and everywhere. To Tilbury to return a book to the lending library in the bookshop. To Furnham, to find a ribbon that matched her hat. Once to London to see a friend. But Mrs. Russell put a stop to London visits. A young girl like that. It wasn’t wise, was it?”
London, the den of iniquity? “No, it must not have been,” he answered.
“I don’t suppose you know how that man came by Mrs. Russell’s locket or had Miss Cynthia’s photograph in it?”
“No. But when I find Miss Farraday, perhaps she can tell me.”
“Yes, and she’ll lead you up the garden path, if I know her, unless she’s changed.” As if she’d said more than she intended, Mrs. Brothers added, “But to be fair, she wasn’t wicked, just lively and sometimes trying.”
“Did you by any chance keep in touch with her after she left River’s Edge?”
“There I can’t help you, and I’m that sorry. I never knew just where it was she went to in London. But she
