Furnham, he’ll take my word for what I’ve seen.”
“It’s all a lie. You wouldn’t dare-”
“Try me,” Rutledge said, his voice cold. And he turned toward the door, ignoring the barkeep, who was shouting abuse after him.
Rutledge had almost reached the door, his back to the bar, when Hamish said, “ ’Ware!”
He turned in time to see the man coming toward him, the heavy wooden club usually kept behind the bar raised in one hand. Rutledge had expected no less.
“Put that down, you fool. Killing me won’t stop the Yard, and you know it.”
The barkeep hesitated, a flash of uncertainty in his eyes. And then it was gone, and his intent was clear-he would finish what he’d begun.
In the next instant he was bent back over the bar, the club across his throat, and Rutledge was saying through clenched teeth as he put pressure on the length of wood, “If anyone else in this room moves, I’ll break his damned neck.”
There was a scraping of chair legs against the floor as the other patrons hastily sat down.
“Now,” Rutledge said to the red-faced barkeep struggling to breathe, “I will step back, and you will sit down in the nearest chair and conduct yourself with decorum. Do you understand me?”
The man could barely move, but he signaled with his eyes that he understood.
Still holding the club, Rutledge released him, and the man nearly sank to his knees. Catching himself with one arm across the bar, he stood there for a moment, fighting for breath, and then he moved to the nearest chair, sinking into it.
He glared at Rutledge, but the fight had gone out of him.
Rutledge said, “What was worth an attack on me? This photograph? What’s your name? And don’t tell me you can’t remember.”
“Barber. Sandy Barber.”
“Who is this man in the photograph?”
He waited, and after a moment the barkeep said hoarsely, “It’s Willet’s son. The old man’s youngest boy.”
“Who is Willet?”
“Ned Willet. He’s a fisherman. It will kill him, seeing his boy dead.”
“And who is his boy, when he’s at home?”
“That’s it, he hasn’t been home since before the end of the war. He’s in service in Thetford-Ben never wanted to be a fisherman, you see. Abigail sent for him as soon as Ned took a bad turn. But Ben never answered. Well-now we know why, don’t we? Look, he’s not got long to live, Ned hasn’t. Let him think his boy can’t leave his post.”
“Why doesn’t Willet have long to live?” Rutledge asked, thinking about Ben Willet’s stomach cancer.
“He got hurt bringing his boat back in a storm. Gear shifted and pinned his foot. It turned septic. They wanted to take his foot off and he wouldn’t hear of it. Stubborn old fool. Now there’s gangrene, and it’s only a matter of time before it takes him. You should see his leg-nearly black it’s that purple, and so swollen it doesn’t look like part of his body.” Gesturing with his chin toward the envelope Rutledge had dropped on the bar, he added, “What happened to Ben, then? You said he came out of the river.”
“Someone shot him in the back of the head. Before putting him in the river.”
There was consternation in the room. The other men, listening, stirred restlessly.
The barkeep shook his head. “Well. They’ll meet on the other side, won’t they?” he said after a moment.
“What’s Willet to you, that you would have stopped me any way you could?”
“My wife Abigail is his only daughter. Who’d want to kill Ben? We never heard of him making enemies. He could put on airs with the best of them, but no one minded.”
“Fishing is a hard way to make a living. Furnham didn’t hold it against Ben Willet that he’d escaped to a different life? Possibly a better one?”
“Ned wasn’t happy.” Barber frowned. “If anyone else felt strongly, I never heard of it.”
The older man who had been sitting alone, eating, spoke from the far end of the room. “When he came back on his last leave before sailing to France, showing off his uniform, everyone was glad to see him. I remember. My daughter fancied him. But nothing came of it.”
“You said he could put on airs. What did you mean by that?”
“He’d hobnobbed with his betters, hadn’t he? He could pass himself off as a duke, he said, if he’d half a mind to do it. He had Abigail in tears one night, she laughed so hard, describing the family he worked for, taking all the parts. It was better than a stage play.” As if realizing he was speaking of the dead, Barber added, “Aye, that was Ben.”
Rutledge recalled the man who had come to his office, passing himself off as another person, a gentleman. He had done it so well that he’d even fooled an inspector at Scotland Yard. But then he, Rutledge, had had no reason to doubt him. It was unlikely that such a man would come forward to confess to a murder he hadn’t committed.
Or had he?
Pulling out the photograph again, Rutledge said, “And you are absolutely certain that this man is Ben Willet?”
“Ask them,” the barkeep said, gesturing to the other men in the bar.
And so he did, showing the photograph to each of the three men in turn. He met hard eyes staring up at him, but in them Rutledge read recognition and certainty.
Walking back to the center of the room, Rutledge said, “And what about Wyatt Russell? How many of you know him?”
There was a silence. One of the players finally answered, “Not to say know him. He lived at River’s Edge before the war.”
“How well did Ben Willet know him?”
“I doubt they ever spoke to each other more than a time or two,” Barber said. “The Russells wanted no part of us here in Furnham. The family never has.” He appeared to be on the point of adding more, then thought better of it.
“I was told the men of Furnham helped the family search for Mrs. Russell when she went missing.”
“That was the police set us to scouring the marsh,” one of the older men answered. “It wasn’t the Russells.”
“Justin Fowler, then.”
One of the older men stirred in his chair, but when Rutledge turned his way, he said only, “I’ve heard the name. I doubt I could put a face to it.”
“He never had much to do with Furnham either,” Barber told Rutledge. “From River’s Edge it was easier to go west than turn east. There was nothing here the family needed or wanted.”
“Someone sold them fish from time to time,” Rutledge said, remembering what Nancy Brothers had told him.
“Ned would take part of his catch to the cook. Mrs. Broadley. And she was the one who paid for it. I doubt he saw Mrs. Russell five times over the years.”
“She did come once to thank him,” the lone diner put in. “I’ll say that for her.”
“Do any of you know what became of Wyatt Russell or Justin Fowler?”
After a moment Barber said, “They went off to fight in the war, didn’t they? No one opened the house again afterward. Which says they didn’t come home.”
But Rutledge wasn’t sure he was telling the truth. When he turned to look at the other men in the pub, they refused to meet his eyes, staring out at the river at their backs.
He said, “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Barber. She should know more about her brother’s years here in Furnham, before he went into service. Where will I find her?”
“Here! You aren’t showing that dead man’s face to my wife, and him her own brother!” Barber was on his feet. “And how is she to keep the news from her father? I ask you!”
“I’ll strike a bargain with you. Find a way for me to speak to Mrs. Barber and I will keep her brother’s death out of it. For now.”
The barkeep considered him. “I have your word?”
