“So did I,” Rutledge answered grimly. “But it appears the man is actually one Ben Willet.”
“But he said-”
“I’m aware of what he said. The question now is, where is the real Mr. Russell? And was Willet even telling the truth about a murder in 1915?”
“It could explain why this man Willet was killed. He’d come to the Yard with what he knew. Even if it was muddled, like.”
But from what Rutledge had been able to discover in Furnham, it wasn’t clear whether the two men’s paths had ever crossed during the war. Then how had Willet learned about what Russell had done? More to the point, why should it matter to him? And why the charade?
“Find Russell, and we could have a few answers.”
He thanked Gibson and walked on down the passage to his own office. The Duty Sergeant had already informed him that Chief Superintendent Bowles was not on the premises, “his being called to a murder scene in Camdentown.”
It was a reprieve of sorts, offering Rutledge an opportunity to think through the problem before having to present it to his superior. Bowles was not noted either for patience or for understanding. He demanded answers without a thought given to the difficulty involved in finding them. And Rutledge had already had a taste of the man’s hasty interpretation of information brought to him.
He sat down at his desk and turned his chair so that he could look out the window, his view blocked by trees in leaf. They cast cool shadows across the pavement as the sun settled in the west.
River’s Edge was isolated and had stood empty for upwards of five years. A perfect site for a quiet murder. Perhaps it had already seen one. Mrs. Russell.
He thought again that it would have made more sense if Willet had come to the Yard to confess to murdering her.
The question was, had Ben Willet been killed because of the past-or for something else completely unrelated to his visit to Scotland Yard? He wouldn’t have been the first-nor the last-man to have a finger in too many pies.
Hamish said, “D’ye believe the woman, that she wished to purchase yon estate?”
“It was a sound enough reason to explain her trespassing. I’d have said yes, it was the truth-until she played that game in Belvedere Place. If she had nothing on her conscience, she wouldn’t have cared whether I discovered where she lived or not. But what does she have to do with a footman from Thetford who washed up in Gravesend?”
He set himself the task of finishing the paperwork waiting on his desk, but his mind kept coming back to the riddle of Ben Willet.
Mrs. Brothers had recognized his face but couldn’t put a name to it. That would say that Willet could have come home to Furnham from time to time, but not often enough for Nancy Brothers to know who he was. And the men in The Rowing Boat had been reluctant to identify Willet in the photograph. True, Barber’s father-in-law was dying, and the family had no wish to upset him with the news of his son’s death. But was that another convenient lie? One that the man from Scotland Yard could investigate for himself, and then accept at face value? If so, the people in that village held a poor view of the police.
The barkeep at The Rowing Boat had been ready to kill to keep the truth from coming out. But what truth? That Willet was dead? Or that someone in Furnham recognized him?
Hamish said, “Ye ken, verra’ likely it’s no’ the fact that Willet was dead but why he died.”
They had come full circle.
Signing the last of the papers in front of him, Rutledge rose and carried them down the passage to hand them over to Constable Benning.
Back in his office once more, he asked aloud, “Where is Wyatt Russell?”
It had been a rhetorical question, but on the other hand, if Ben Willet had felt safe in impersonating the man, it could well mean that Russell too was dead.
“Miss Farraday didna’ appear to think he was deid.”
Rutledge left his office and went in search of Sergeant Gibson. “If anyone wants me, I’m going back to Essex. I expect to return tomorrow afternoon.”
“Where will you be staying, if I should need to reach you?” Gibson asked.
“I doubt there’s a telephone within thirty miles of Furnham,” Rutledge said.
Hamish said something that he missed as Gibson asked, “Would it be best, then, to speak to the Chief Superintendent before you leave?”
“I think not,” Rutledge replied, and walked on.
On the stairs he realized what it was that Hamish had tried to interject.
If there was no way the Yard could reach him while he was in Furnham, then it would be equally impossible for him to reach the Yard in the event there was trouble.
R utledge went home, packed a small valise, and set out for Essex once more. The sun was low on the horizon now, and ahead lay the dark lavender clouds of the North Sea, where evening had already begun to encroach on the day. And it was fully dark and very late when he pulled into yard of The Dragonfly Inn. He had intended to call on Mr. Morrison before he drove on to Furnham, but there had been no lights in the church and looking for the Rectory would have taken more time than he could afford, if he wanted a room for the night.
When he strode into the tiny Reception, there was no one behind the desk, but a bell stood to one side of the register, and he pushed it. It sounded rusty with damp, a grinding noise rather than a ring.
After a moment a man in his shirtsleeves appeared from the rear of the inn, frowning as he realized that here was custom he didn’t wish to serve.
“Looking for a room, are you?” he said, his manner surly. “Sorry to say, they’re all taken.”
“Indeed?” Rutledge answered. Before the man could stop him, he reached out and turned the register around, opening it to where the black ribbon marked the current page. “The last guest appears to have signed this page some ten weeks ago. Are you telling me he’s still here?”
“There’s no room available. A problem with the roof.”
“I’m here to call on Ned Willet.”
“Then you’re too late. He died not half an hour ago.”
Surprised, Rutledge said, “Then I’m here for the funeral.”
After a moment the man said grudgingly, “Very well. The room at the top of the stairs. You won’t be needing a key.”
“On the contrary. I insist on a key.”
As Rutledge signed the register the man fished in a drawer, eventually coming up with a key. He passed it across the desk, and Rutledge pocketed it.
“Good night,” he said as he turned and took the stairs two at a time. They curved slightly as they climbed, and the first room was in fact just at the top. On either side of his were two more rooms, and across the passage were three others, these overlooking the High Street. At the ends of the passage there were windows, the shades already drawn for the night.
Rutledge opened his door and fumbled for the lamp that must be near it. Finding it, he struck a match and lit the wick. As the flame strengthened, he took in his surroundings. The room wasn’t very large, but neither was it small enough to aggravate his claustrophobia. There were two narrow beds, a desk under the window, and a small wardrobe with two doors. Turning the key in the lock, he left it there and set his valise down between the beds. The coverlets were faded, a deep green that was now nearly the color of moss in the shade of a tree. There was a medallion in the center of each, with what appeared to be entwined initials, but they were spotlessly clean and the room smelled faintly of lavender and Pears’ Soap.
It had been a long day. Walking to the open window and looking out, he realized that his room was over the kitchen, and just beyond, the kitchen gardens. A lighted window cast a golden glow over the rows of vegetables, and as he watched, someone walked past the beds and came up to the rear door of the inn.
He stood, half concealed by the curtains, and through the open window he could just hear what was being said, even though whoever it was spoke in a low voice.
“Did they tell you? The old man is gone.”
“Yes. Molly stopped in on her way home.”
