Rutledge rose, and touched the man with the toe of his boot, and none too gently.
“Constable Nelson?”
The man didn’t move.
“Constable Nelson!”
It was the voice of command this time, and Nelson’s body jerked; his lids fluttered and then revealed a pair of bloodshot eyes that could barely focus.
“Who are you?” he demanded in a hoarse croak.
“Scotland Yard. Get to your feet, man, you’re a disgrace to your uniform.”
Nelson tried to rise, fell back, and vomited profusely.
Disgusted, Rutledge said, “I’ll give you an hour. Clean yourself up and present yourself at The Dragonfly. I’ll be waiting.”
He turned and walked out, slamming the inner door and then the outer one, knowing full well the shock to Nelson’s ears.
But it was easy to see what had happened to the man. Shunted aside by the villagers, paid in contraband to eke out his meager resources and keep him too dulled to interfere, and without the strength to stand up for himself in these circumstances, he had accepted his lot. Someone must have seen to it that he was sober and presentable if or when the need arose, or the Chief Constable would have got wind of his condition and replaced him long since.
The question was, even fully sober, could Nelson still function?
Hamish said, “More to the point, he wouldna’ be trusted by the ithers.”
There was that as well.
Rather than return directly to the inn to wait, Rutledge made a detour to Barber’s house. He could see the black crepe that had been hung over the door, and several neighbors were just leaving, embracing Abigail Barber as they stepped outside. Behind them, the rector was preparing to leave also. As Rutledge approached, he heard Morrison asking a last question about the service for Ned Willet, and from the shadows of the front room someone answered. He could see the outline of a head and broad shoulder, but not the face. It wasn’t Barber. He was nearly certain it was the man he had seen twice before, once when he had come to Furnham with Frances, and once when he had tried to find someone willing to identify the photograph of Ben Willet. Whether he had been one of the smugglers coming up from the river in the middle of the night, Rutledge couldn’t be sure under oath, but he had a strong feeling he had been.
The rector offered a last word of comfort to a tearful, red-eyed Abigail Barber, touched her briefly on the arm, and with a nod to the man just behind her, walked away. As he reached the lane, he looked up and saw Rutledge waiting.
“Good morning,” Morrison said, surprised.
Rutledge said, “I thought you were not welcomed in Furnham.” They fell in step, walking to where Morrison had left his bicycle leaning against the nearest tree.
“I thought you had returned to London.”
“I still haven’t solved the riddle of a dead man.”
“I understand.” Morrison collected his bicycle and pushed it along with him as they continued toward the High Street. “Ned was one of my parishioners. He was always one to question, but he came to believe that he was safer in the church than out of it.”
Rutledge smiled. “A wise man, I think.”
“A careful one. Abigail liked to attend services with him, and Sandy tried to put his foot down, but Ned told him to worry about the state of his own soul.”
“Who was the man standing behind Mrs. Barber as you were leaving just now?”
Morrison had to think for a moment. “I expect it must have been Timothy Jessup. He’s Abigail’s uncle. Her mother’s brother. Not what you would call the friendliest of souls. The Jessups have always kept to themselves. But for all that, the rest of the village listens to them when they do voice an opinion. I’ve never quite worked out why, but there you are. Villages have their own hierarchy inherited down the generations, I should think.”
Rutledge waited until they had moved out of earshot of several women carrying dishes covered with linen cloths, on their way to the Willet house, then said, “When I left the church yesterday I decided to look in at River’s Edge. I expected to find the house closed and empty, as it was before. Instead Miss Farraday was there. She gave me to understand that she was interested in purchasing the house, if Russell intends to put it up for sale.”
“Cynthia Farraday?” Morrison turned to stare at him. “I had no idea…” He left it there, busy coming to terms with this piece of news. “I had no idea,” he said again.
They came to the High Street, and Morrison pulled his bicycle around, preparing to mount it. “You said Miss Farraday, ” he went on, concentrating on adjusting the band around his trouser legs. “That must mean she never married.”
“Apparently not.” But he had not asked her name, he had greeted her by it. And she had not contradicted him or used we in her subsequent conversation.
“I see.” With a nod to Rutledge he pedaled briskly out of Furnham.
Rutledge watched him go. He hadn’t told the rector the identity of the face in the photograph. It was up to Barber to find the right opportunity to break the news to his wife first.
Hamish commented. “Yon priest. He’s afraid to linger.”
And yet he’d ventured into the village to offer comfort to Abigail Barber, and would very likely conduct the service for her father.
Why had he stayed so long in a parish where hope was outpaced by the knowledge that he was not wanted here?
“Like yon constable, he hasna’ anywhere else to go.”
Chapter 9
Rutledge’s ultimatum to Constable Nelson was sixty minutes. It was closer to ninety when he finally walked through the door of the inn and found Rutledge standing in Reception, waiting impatiently.
But the constable had bathed, shaved, changed his shirt, and brushed his tunic and trousers until they were at least presentable. There was nothing he could do about his bloodshot eyes and a face gray from fighting down his nausea. His hands shook as well, and he seemed not to know what to do with them, pressing the palms against his trousers.
He was out of condition, and Rutledge could see that he was running to fat around his middle, for the last button on his tunic was straining across his belly. And yet he was a younger man than Rutledge had thought when he’d seen him lying in a stupor on the floor. Thirty-eight? Forty?
“Constable Nelson reporting, sir,” the man said, unable to keep the resentment out of his voice.
“Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard. Let’s walk, shall we?” They left the inn and turned toward the Hawking. “You were here before the war, were you?”
“Yes, sir, I’m going on my twelfth year in Furnham,” Nelson answered uneasily as he tried to see what it was that this man from London wanted of him.
“Good. I’m here to ask questions about one Ben Willet, and also about the former inhabitants of River’s Edge.”
“What’s he done, then, Ben Willet?”
“He was found in the Thames a few days ago. Murdered.”
Nelson’s eyebrows flew up. “Indeed, sir. Murdered? He was a quiet sort, not one you’d expect to be in trouble, much less murdered. Does Abigail Barber know? She’s his sister.”
“Barber is waiting for the proper time to tell her.”
“She’ll take it hard.” He paused. “Were you thinking it was someone from River’s Edge who killed him? I don’t see that being likely, sir.”
“Was Ben Willet here in Furnham when Mrs. Russell went missing?”
Nelson frowned. “In fact I believe he was, sir. Now you ask. His mother was taken ill of a sudden, and he got
