Had they known anything about Ben Willet’s death? Or had they believed that it was only an excuse to look into other matters?
The inn was only a short distance ahead, but Rutledge waited until he was certain there were no watchers guarding the backs of the three men. He was just about to move when someone detached himself from the recessed doorway of The Rowing Boat and turned to jog up the High Street, disappearing into the small village school.
He waited another ten minutes, in case the watcher left the school and went home. Finally, satisfied that he was in the clear, he stepped quietly out of the shadow of the plane tree and walked without haste toward the inn.
Rutledge had seen Barber-or in point of fact, heard him-at the kitchen door of the inn hardly more than an hour ago. Therefore he couldn’t have been one of the three coming up from the river. Nor was he the watcher in the pub’s doorway, for that man was smaller in stature. Still, Rutledge wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Barber was the force behind the smuggling.
Smuggling wasn’t unheard of along the southern coast of England even in this day. Fisherman had long ago learned that they could supplement their meager living from the sea by dropping in at a French port and making quiet arrangements with their opposite numbers. War or peace, men needed to eat, and His Majesty’s Excise be damned. But this last war, with submarines as well as Naval vessels and German raiders patrolling the seas, must have curtailed the usual cross-Channel trade, much less fishing. Times would have been hard for villages like Furnham. The question was, why had the village turned its back on the airfield, which could have brought in much- needed revenue to the shops and pub?
He reached The Dragonfly without incident and, as silently as possible, climbed the stairs to his room. The innkeeper was nowhere in sight. And his room was as he’d left it. No one had come in to search it in his absence.
Rutledge wouldn’t have put it past the inn’s owner.
The next morning, Rutledge was grudgingly served his breakfast in the small dining room overlooking the street. There were five tables, crowded together cheek by jowl, but he was the only guest.
“Tell me about the airfield,” he said to the young woman who was serving him.
She was pretty, fair hair tending to curls in spite of rigorous attempts to keep it out of her face, and her eyes were hazel. He wondered if this was the Molly who had brought news of Ned Willet’s death.
“I dunno much about it, sir,” she said. “I was only twelve when they came to build it, and my mother saw to it that I had nothing to do with the young men who were posted here. She said they’d break my heart by dying, and there was no use to befriend them. And she was right about the dying. We saw three of them go down out over the water, trailing smoke. I was glad I didn’t know them then.”
“Still, the airfield must have changed the way of life in Furnham. By sheer numbers if nothing else.”
She cast a wary glance toward the kitchen door, firmly shut. “It did that. There was a scuffle or two between some fishermen and the men up at the farm. After that, they were ordered to stay behind the fence, and we were left to ourselves. Still, we got to hear things. How they carried on in London on leave, like there was no reckoning tomorrow. How they took up with the girls and ruined them. How they made the younger lads restless and eager to try things they had no business trying. One of my brothers ran away to enlist. He was mad to fly, but he was only fifteen. My father had to go and fetch him home. It was a terrible time, really. The men would roar up the road in their motorcars and motorcycles, and three or four even had boats of their own, and it was hard enough fishing without them stirring up the river. We were that glad when the war ended and they went away.”
Someone in the kitchen began to bang pots and pans. She reached for his empty toast rack and hurried toward the kitchen to refill it, putting an end to any conversation. Over the racket he could hear a male voice shouting at her.
Rutledge found himself thinking that to the people of Furnham, isolated and insular, the murder of an unknown archduke in Sarajevo held little importance in the course of their lives. The arrival of strangers in their midst-some of them volatile and living only for today because they couldn’t count on tomorrow-was immediate and personal. Furnham hadn’t wanted change-or to change. And it was thrust upon them without a by-your-leave.
Finishing his tea, he didn’t wait for his toast. But as he walked out of the dining room into Reception, he heard someone crying in a corner behind the stairs. He thought it was very likely the young woman who had served him.
There was nothing he could do, and trying would only have made matters worse.
He went out to his motorcar and drove back to the farm where he had trespassed the night before.
He found the farmer in the milking shed, busy washing down after the morning milking. The man was ruddy- faced and broad in the chest, a little taller than Rutledge. He looked up suspiciously as the stranger walked into the shed, followed by the black dog busy wagging its tail as if it were well acquainted with the newcomer.
“I thought you were here to protect us,” he said to the animal, then turned to Rutledge. “And what is it you want?”
Rutledge said easily, “My name is Rutledge. And you are-?”
“Name’s Montgomery.”
“Good morning, Mr. Montgomery. I understand your farm was taken over during the war for use as an airfield.”
Montgomery bristled “I had no choice in the matter. Your lot took my land without a word to me, just walked in and told me that my best pastures and the marshes nearest the sea were now the property of His Majesty’s Government. Near enough. And I had to find somewhere else for my cows to graze where those damned aeroplanes wouldn’t frighten them into fits. And somewhere else to grow my corn and my hay for the winter. One of the aircraft crashed and caught fire. The blaze nearly touched off my roof. You won’t persuade me to anything you could have in mind. So you might as well turn around and walk out of here before I lose my temper.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not here to ask anything of you other than information. I’m interested in learning how Furnham felt about the field.”
“I don’t know why it should matter to you. But the fact was, I was vilified. Threatened. You’d have thought I’d written to the King personally and begged the lot of them to come here. I was damned whichever way I turned. If it hadn’t been for Samuel Brothers and the other farms, I’d have lost everything. As it was, it took me nearly a year to clear away the broken glass, uproot the foundations, and turn the landing field back to pasturage. The latrines soured the land, and there was oil and petrol everywhere. I did it myself, and no one volunteered to help me. The rabble-rousers were all for sabotage, but nothing came of that. Still, there were clashes. I’d not have been surprised to see murder done on either side. The fliers called this a hardship post. No one wished to be assigned here. We even had a few American aviators from Thetford, and three of them died here. That upset my wife, I can tell you. When a man burns, the smell doesn’t go away for days.”
“You mentioned Americans coming in from the field in Thetford. Did you know that Ned Willet’s son was in service there?”
“Ben? I can’t tell you when I last saw him. It was before the war, I know that. Is he coming down for the funeral? Ned was a decent sort. I was that sorry to hear he’d died.”
“Ben Willet himself is dead. He was found floating in the Thames nearly a week ago.”
“ Ben? Now that’s sad news.” He shook his head. “My wife called him a changeling. Nonsense, of course, but he wasn’t like the rest. He came here with his father one summer, needing work. A boy of twelve, mucking out the stables and the like. She lent him books, and I found him once in the loft, reading. He was that upset, thinking I would sack him.”
“Did you know Wyatt Russell or Justin Fowler?”
“I knew who Russell was. And his father before him. Who was Fowler?”
“He came to live at River’s Edge when he was orphaned.”
“I doubt I ever set eyes on him. What do they have to do with young Willet drowning?”
“I don’t know. Scotland Yard is looking into his death. That’s why I’m here. Before he died, Willet came to the Yard and gave his name as Wyatt Russell, saying that he had information about the murder of Justin Fowler.”
“He claimed he was Russell? Now why would he go and do such a thing?”
“We haven’t discovered why. Did you often see Cynthia Farraday in Furnham?”
Something in the man’s expression altered. “My wife, Mattie, never liked her.”
“Why not?”
