permission to come and see her. He was one of the searchers, as I remember.”
“What do you think happened to Mrs. Russell?”
“As to that, I don’t really know, sir. Tilbury handled the inquiry. I was asked to leave the matter to them.”
“Why?”
“Because there was hard feelings between the family and Furnham. I can’t tell you why, only that they wanted no part of me. They spoke to the Chief Constable. Of course he did what he had to do, and called in Tilbury.”
“Her body was never found? That’s difficult to believe. If she drowned, which seems to be likely, surely it would have washed up somewhere between River’s Edge and the sea.”
“The current’s tricky sometimes. Especially after a storm. There’s no telling whether she’d have been found if she’d washed up in the marshes on the other side of the Hawking. There’s inroads that the storms have made. A body could lie in one of them for weeks without being discovered.”
“Someone must have searched that side of the river!”
“Yes, sir, they did. All the same, no one, not even the likes of Ned Willet, knows all the secrets of those marshes.” He stopped at the water’s edge, where it lapped gently at the toes of his boots. “Can I ask you what this has to do with Ben Willet’s death?”
“It seems that he was carrying a photograph of Miss Farraday in a locket that had once belonged to Mrs. Russell. Apparently she was wearing it on the day she vanished.”
“I’ll be damned,” Nelson said. “Are you sure of that, sir?”
Rutledge took out the locket and held it up. “See for yourself. It’s been identified as belonging to Mrs. Russell.”
Nelson took it tentatively, as if he had no right to touch it. “As to that, sir, I can’t tell you that this belonged to Mrs. Russell.”
“Any idea where Wyatt Russell might be? Did he even survive the war?”
“I heard that he had. But that’s all.”
“I was told that he could very well have killed one Justin Fowler in 1915.”
“Mr. Russell, sir?” Nelson shook his head. “I don’t see him as a murderer. Who told the police such a thing?”
“It was Ben Willet.”
Nelson stared at him. “But how could he know? Willet, I mean? Did you speak to him yourself? How did that come about?”
“Willet came to the Yard a fortnight before his death. Where did he join the Army, do you know? With the men of Furnham, or in Thetford?”
“He was in Thetford when he enlisted. So I was told by Ned Willet. He had friends there and joined with them.”
Rutledge said, “I shall have to go to Thetford. But this isn’t a good time to ask Mrs. Barber where to find the house.”
“If I ever knew, I’ve forgot,” Nelson said, looking away.
They watched a heron lift off from the far side of the river and fly toward the distant mouth in that strangely elegant slow motion that marked their flight. Then the two men turned back toward the High.
“We never really knew Ben, if you take my meaning,” Nelson said after a moment. “He wasn’t like the rest of them. Eager to go to sea as soon as they could, or if they weren’t fishermen, to work the farm or mind the greengrocer’s shop. Furnham is set in its ways, you can see that for yourself. It looks to the sea, not to London. At first I didn’t understand, I thought they were all benighted. But I came to like the way things were done here. I didn’t want to leave.”
“Where did you live before?”
“In the Fen country. Not all that different in some ways from the marshes, as far as the land goes. A hundred years different in our way of seeing things.”
“But you couldn’t be the village constable and still shut your eyes to the smuggling.” At the expression of alarm on Nelson’s face, Rutledge said, “I saw the brandy bottle on your floor. It’s only my business if it has anything to do with the murder of Ben Willet.”
Nelson took a deep breath. There was a suggestion of resentment in his voice, overlaid with guilt. “If I’d told London what I suspected about the smuggling, I’d have had to leave Furnham. I knew that from the start. I made my choice.”
“It hasn’t been much of a life for you.”
The constable shrugged. “I was never an ambitious man.”
On the surface that was evident. And yet-what had he left behind, what had he turned his back on, that made spending his days and nights in a drunken stupor a better way of life?
They had reached The Dragonfly. Nelson pointed to the sign above the door, creaking on its hinges as the wind picked up. “That was the name of a ship. Did you know?”
“A smugglers’ craft?”
“No.” He shrugged again. “Not that it matters. What do you want of me, sir? Do you think the murderer is here, in Furnham? Am I to help you search him out?”
“I don’t know. I’d hoped you could tell me something about Willet and the Russells that would explain what connected the two men. All I’ve found is the disappearance of Russell’s mother.”
“In your place, I’d look in London. Ben Willet was away from Furnham long enough to have made enemies somewhere. There’s no one here who wanted him dead.”
But Hamish didn’t believe him, stirring restlessly and warning Rutledge.
“Perhaps I will.” He saw the relief in Nelson’s eyes and added, “You’ll send for me, if you learn anything to the contrary?”
Nelson promised, but Rutledge knew even as the words were spoken that the constable had no intention of keeping that promise and contacting him. Whatever he might learn. His duty was to Furnham, not to Scotland Yard.
Rutledge nodded and walked on into Reception. Head down, Nelson turned toward his home. Rutledge wondered what repercussions there might be for the constable now that he’d been seen talking to Scotland Yard. Even if he had told London nothing of importance.
The clerk was behind the desk, sorting through papers, and he looked up as Rutledge approached.
“Where’s the churchyard?” he asked, and the man stared at him as if he’d asked directions to the moon. There must, he thought, be a shorter way to get there than driving out of the village.
“The churchyard?”
“Presumably you have one? I understand Ned Willet will be buried there tomorrow.”
“Ah.” Reassured, the clerk said, “If you go down past his daughter’s house, there’s a road beyond. Well, not much of a road at that. More of a track that has seen better days. Follow it west, and you’ll find the churchyard.”
Rutledge thanked him and went out to his motorcar.
Hamish said, “What really kept yon constable in Furnham?”
I’d like to know, Rutledge silently replied as he turned the crank. It’s as if everyone in this village has a guilty conscience.
He followed directions, driving down the lane past the Barber house, quiet now, the door shut, and saw that just beyond there was indeed a road half hidden by the tall summer grasses.
When he reached it, he realized that to the east it must run past the farm where he’d interviewed Nancy Brothers, eventually circling back into Furnham. From this vantage point, he had a very clear view of the farm beyond hers, where the land was still high enough for good drainage. And the other end of this track must lead to the Rectory before debouching on the London Road, just as Morrison had told him. A loop, as it were, marching in parallel with the High Street.
As he turned toward the west, ahead across the marsh he could just glimpse the tops of yews. And where there were yews there was usually a churchyard. In the far distance, he thought he saw the glint of sun on water. Another river? Or just one of those temporary pools that appeared after a heavy rain and soon vanished? Indeed,
