masquerade to perfection. Now I ask myself why it should be necessary.”
“Even if it was true-and I don’t for a moment believe that it could be-how did Ben even know that murder had been done? I don’t think he ever went back to Essex. He couldn’t have been a witness to something. If he had, surely he’d have confided in me. It makes no sense at all.”
“You said yourself that you hadn’t bothered to correspond with him during the war. Your duty done. Why should he feel compelled to tell you about Russell? Why would he wish to upset you?”
She took a deep breath, making an effort to steady herself and think clearly. “He must have been out of his mind. I knew he was ill, but not that ill. You don’t understand. When I first met him, Ben smelled of fish, and there was no future for him but going out in the boats. Wyatt would have seen nothing in him that required more than a polite nod, if that. But I did. And I did something about it too.”
“If what he confessed to isn’t true, then where is Justin Fowler? If he’s alive and well, we can put an end to that part of the inquiry.”
She was silent for a time, then said softly, “I wish I knew.”
“Did they quarrel? Fowler and Russell?”
“If they were going to quarrel, it would have been before the war.”
“Hard feelings don’t always go away.”
“Well,” she said tartly, “the cause of any quarrel went away.”
“You were free to go only because Mrs. Russell disappeared.”
She shivered. “When I came to live at River’s Edge, I was frightened by the marshes. I didn’t like the whispering when the wind rustled the dry heads of the grasses. I wouldn’t sleep with my window open, for fear that one day I’d be able to hear the whispers clearly, and I’d know they were talking about me. After a few weeks I grew accustomed to the sound and thought no more about it. But when Aunt Elizabeth disappeared, I dreamed that night that the whisperers had come for her. They’d called her out into the river. I’ve never told anyone that, but it was the main reason I left so abruptly. The other was that I didn’t want to be alone in the house with Wyatt and Justin. They were so certain they were in love with me. If there had been other young women in the vicinity of River’s Edge, they’d have ignored me. But there weren’t. And so I lost my only home for a second time.”
“Is it possible Wyatt Russell killed his mother? That her disappearance was his doing?”
“Oh, my God,” she said, sitting down as if her limbs refused to support her. “No.” She regarded him. “Even for a policeman you have an extraordinarily nasty mind.”
He smiled grimly. “As a policeman, I have seen more than one’s imagination could invent.”
“Yes. I suppose you have.”
“I’m surprised, given your years there, that you care so much for River’s Edge.”
“I loved the house. I’d have married Wyatt just to be mistress of it. But the thought of living with him happily ever after was too much. Even as a price for River’s Edge.”
“Could money have been involved?” he asked bluntly. “Was that why Russell was so intent on marrying you? And if you spurned him, perhaps he needed his inheritance sooner rather than later.”
Frowning, she said, “I was left with a comfortable income. But the Russells didn’t need my money. Besides, my inheritance was in trust until I was five and twenty-to protect me from fortune hunters, or so I was told. By five and twenty, I would no doubt be sensible enough not to run off with the dancing master.”
He smiled. “And how many dancing masters did you know?”
“Not one. I thought I might do better by going to London. It was said to be awash with dancing masters.”
“What became of Justin Fowler, after the war?”
“You’re the inspector from Scotland Yard,” she retorted, suddenly tired of him or his questions. “I’m sure you will find him without my help.” She walked to the door and held it open. “After all, you found me.”
He stood as well.
“You know your way. Good day, Inspector.”
Leaving the house, he wasn’t sure what to make of Cynthia Farraday. She reminded him of quicksilver. Just when one thought one had it within one’s grasp, it was gone, elusive and tantalizing.
“And deadly?” Hamish reminded him.
Chapter 11
It was after six o’clock when he reached the little village of St. Margaret’s, in Oxfordshire.
The church tower rose above the surrounding houses and shops, a sharp tower, as if to remind people of their duty to God. The clinic, he discovered by stopping at the tiny post office, was on the far side of town. It had once been a graceful country house, with a Dower House across from the main gates. Easily found, the postmistress had assured him.
And it was.
The Dower House was a mellow pink brick, and the late afternoon sun gilded the windows. Faced with white stone, it was set back from the road in a stand of trees, gardens following the short drive up to the door.
Across the road, the contrast was pointed. The gates to the main house were open, and he drove through what had once been a well-landscaped park. Now the rhododendrons were overgrown and dead boughs showed through the leathery leaves like the gray ghosts of other summers. The house too had seen better days, the gardens no longer luxuriant, the window shades uneven, giving the impression that no one had noticed how snaggletoothed this might appear to a visitor.
On the lawns were stone benches scattered here and there, some in the sun, others well shaded. None of them was occupied at present.
He left the motorcar to one side of the door and saw that it, like the gates, stood open.
Hamish said, “They’re no’ afraid that anyone will escape.”
A table stood just inside, in what had been the hall, and a middle-aged woman in a nurse’s uniform sat there, sorting charts and patient folders.
She looked up as he came in, and smiled. “Good afternoon. Have you come to visit any particular patient?”
“I’d like to speak to Matron, if I may. Ian Rutledge.”
“She’s just gone into her office. I’ll show you.”
And she led him down the passage. At one time the spacious rooms had been divided into wards, but the thin partitions had been removed. Only the pale lines on the scratched and scuffed parquet floors marked where they had been.
Matron’s office had been a morning room at one time. Now it was filled with filing cabinets while books crowded one another on a shelf. The desk was utilitarian and well used. An older woman with graying hair was seated behind it, and she looked up as he was shown in, then rose as the nursing sister gave his name.
“Mr. Rutledge,” she said, pleasantly. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you here before.”
“I’ve come to visit a patient of yours, one Wyatt Russell. But before I go in to him, I was hoping you could tell me something about his condition.”
“Are you a relative, Mr. Rutledge?”
He could see that she was reluctant to divulge any information.
“I’m from Scotland Yard, Matron.” He took out his identification and passed it across the desk to her.
“Do sit down, Mr. Rutledge.” She sat as well, then examined his identification before handing it back to him. “I should like to hear why you are calling on Major Russell. Have you come to ask for his assistance? Or is he accused of something?”
“I don’t know how to answer you, Matron. The inquiry is in its early stages. There was a man found dead in the Thames.” He gave her the date when Ben Willet had been pulled from the river. He knew, from the twitch of a muscle at the corner of her eyes, that he had touched a nerve. “The problem was, earlier on, this man had given Scotland Yard his name in another matter-but it was false. The name he gave was Wyatt Russell.”
“I see. But why should he do that? Had he ever met Major Russell, do you know?”
“I can’t tell you how well they knew each other. Slightly, at a guess. But they both lived in Essex, within a
