my conscience before I go. I killed a man in 1915 and got away with it. I want to confess to that murder now. There won’t be time to try me and hang me, but at least you’ll be able to close the file and I’ll be able to sleep again.”
Rutledge considered him. People confessed for a good many reasons, not the least of which was to salve their conscience before facing a more lasting justice than that of the Crown. Sometimes they confessed to protect someone else.
“I was in France in 1915,” he said after a moment. “If this is where the murder occurred, you should speak to the Army, not to Scotland Yard.”
“It isn’t an Army matter,” Russell replied shortly.
“Perhaps we should start at the beginning, if I’m to make use of your confession. Where do you live, Mr. Russell?”
“I have a house in the Essex marshes. I’ve lived there all my life, until the war. I have money of my own and have never needed to seek employment.”
“Was the Yard called in to investigate this murder, or was it handled by the Essex police?”
The man smiled. “I really can’t say. I didn’t hang about to see.”
“In that case, can you be certain you killed this man? He could have been wounded and recovered.”
“Yes. I’m absolutely certain. You see, he’s my cousin. I’d have known if he’d cropped up again later. His name is-was-Justin Fowler. Not to speak ill of the dead, but we had our differences, he and I, and in the end they were serious enough that I had to make a decision. That doesn’t excuse killing him, I realize that. I’m simply trying to set the record straight.”
“Was a woman involved?”
Russell was disconcerted. “A woman? Ah. A love triangle. Sorry to disappoint you, but it wasn’t that simple. And I’m not prepared to go into any more detail. Suffice it to say, I killed him and got rid of the body. It was during the war. People were enlisting, going to work in the factories. A time of upheaval, change. No one noticed when he went missing.”
“The more we learn about a murder, the sooner we can determine who is guilty and who isn’t. Establishing motive is an important part of an inquiry.”
“But I’ve just told you-I’ve confessed to killing him. I can show you how and where, and what became of the body. I can’t believe you need any more than that.” His face had flushed, adding ugly blotches of red to his gray complexion.
“You’ve come to the police,” Rutledge said, wondering what was behind the man’s sudden anger, “of your own free will. Now it’s necessary for the Yard to look into your confession and draw its own conclusions. A motive will tell us to what extent you are guilty of this crime. What role the victim played in antagonizing you-”
“Damn it, man, dead is dead.” He glanced around, as if expecting to find answers in the plain walls and dusty window glass. Or was he searching for a way to retreat from what he’d confessed to? Rutledge thought it likely, and Russell’s next words proved him right. “I shouldn’t have come. It was selfish of me. I just didn’t want to die with this knowledge on my soul.” His gaze returned to Rutledge. “If you can’t help me, I’ll leave and we can forget I ever walked through your door.”
“You’ve admitted to murder-” he began.
“Have I?” The man’s mouth quirked. “My doctor will tell you it’s just the morphine speaking. I have hallucinations, you know. It’s difficult sometimes to tell true from false.” He rose to go. “I’m sorry to have taken up your time, Mr. Rutledge. Dying is not something to relish. It is something to endure. No matter what the poets may tell you.”
He reached for the back of the chair to steady himself, then said, “I doubt we’ll meet again.”
He went out the door without looking back, a man in great pain, walking upright by an effort of will, Rutledge thought. Pride was sometimes the last vanity to go.
After a moment, Rutledge stood up and went after him. “Is there somewhere you must go? Or will you have lunch with me?” he asked as he caught Russell up.
“Lunch? I can hardly swallow a mouthful of tea without nausea.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’d like your company.”
Russell considered him. “Why should you wish to sit across a table from this gaunt wasteland of a man? If you think you’ll convince me to change my mind about coming here, you’re wrong. I have a strong will. It has kept me going longer than my doctors thought possible.” He smiled at that, transforming his face to a shadow of what it might have been before his illness.
“I was in the war,” Rutledge said simply. “I have seen death before.”
After a moment Russell nodded. “I’m at The Marlborough. They do a decent roast lamb with mint sauce. I can enjoy the sauce still.”
The Marlborough would not have been Rutledge’s choice. He had gone there last with Meredith Channing. It wasn’t a memory he cared to revisit. But he had a feeling that if he suggested another restaurant, he could well lose Wyatt Russell.
The hotel was not very far away, but Rutledge drove them there, and Russell sat beside him in silence. He got out of the motorcar with some difficulty, but Rutledge wisely stayed where he was, offering no assistance.
Inside, Reception was busy, but the dining room was still mostly empty, since it was early for a meal.
They were conducted to a table in a corner, and Russell sat down on the damask upholstered chair with a sigh of relief.
“I should take a cushion with me these days. Sitting on wood has become a trial for me. Will you have something to drink? It’s my treat, because I shall be able then to set the rules.”
“As you wish. I’ll have a whisky.” Hoping to loosen Russell’s tongue…
Russell nodded, gave the order for two, and looked around. “I don’t know half these people. Before the war, I could have put a name to most of them.”
“In London often, then, were you?”
“I was young, unmarried, just down from Cambridge. Full of myself. Full of the future. In love. Essex was dull, boring. London was busy, exciting. If I even thought about it, life seemed to stretch ahead in an endless golden haze, and I expected to be happy forever. Or at least, looking back on 1914, that’s how I recall it now. It may not have been such a blissfully happy time, but it does no harm to think so. Were you in London then?”
“I was. I seem to remember it in the same way. Were you in the war?”
“Oh, yes, rushing to sign up before it was over, chafing at the bit, afraid the Kaiser would fold before I’d learned how to fight him properly. Writing letters home from training filled with patriotism and an eagerness to kill a people I’d never met. Well, I did know a few Germans at Cambridge. Nice enough chaps, I didn’t picture them when I was hot to shoot the Hun. They weren’t the sort to bayonet Belgian babies and rape Belgian women. My cousin was fond of one of them, in fact, but the man was called home shortly before hostilities were declared, and we don’t know if he survived the fighting or not.”
“If you were in the war, how is it that you were in Essex to commit murder?”
“Yes, that’s a bit confusing, isn’t it? I was sent to London with dispatches. The house had been closed up, but I went down to have a look at it. Fowler was there, we quarreled. Opportunity presented itself, and temptation did the rest. There was a temporary airfield nearby. Zeppelin watch and night flights. The only risk was that if the body was discovered, one of the new chaps would be blamed for what happened. But apparently I was lucky. No one stumbled over him.”
“Were you married when you went to war?”
“Ah, too many questions.”
Rutledge’s whisky came. Still probing, he said, “I decided not to marry the girl I thought I was in love with. And a good thing-I think she loved the uniform more than she loved the man. The marriage wouldn’t have lasted.” And he was reminded again of Meredith Channing, whose marriage had lasted, on the cold ashes of duty.
Russell studied Rutledge for a moment over the rim of his glass. “Did it turn out well, your war?”
“Not at all well.”
“Yes, it seldom does, I expect. I found that killing people wasn’t to my liking after all. But I did my duty to my men and to my country. I was damned glad when it was over, all the same.”
“Did being a soldier make it any easier, killing your cousin?”
There was a moment’s hesitation. “The policeman again. Do you never leave him at home? It must be a
