water. This too offered nothing, and he went into the dressing rooms on either side, before turning to go.
Hamish said, “The kitchen quarters.”
In the hope of finding a tin of tea and a kettle as well as a hob to heat it on, Russell could have fallen asleep at the servants’ table, unwilling to climb the stairs to find a more comfortable place to rest. It was worth taking the time to have a look.
Afterward he was never quite sure why he decided to go to one of the windows. He had already reached the doorway, his hand on the knob, on the point of shutting it behind him. Instead, he turned and crossed the room a second time, lifting an edge of the drapes to peer out into the night.
The ambient starlight seemed brighter than it had before, as if the moon was about to rise, just touching the horizon. The shadows on the lawn were dark as pitch by comparison, and the reeds and salt grass along the water’s edge were nearly as black. But the water itself was bright in contrast, a pewter ribbon making its way to the sea beyond.
He thought at first that his eyes were playing tricks on him. And then he realized that someone was standing on the landing stage, his silhouette blending with the boards, irregular and almost undetectable.
He couldn’t tell if there was a boat tied up below, out of his line of sight, or if the man had walked there from the house itself.
Was it Russell? It was impossible to judge height or shape. The only thing he could be certain of was that the figure was not that of a woman. Whoever it was, he was wearing trousers.
Rutledge stood there, watching him for several minutes, and then, as if the man felt his gaze, he turned and looked toward the house, staring up at it intently. The light touched his upturned face, and his eyes were black holes in the paleness.
Chapter 15
Rutledge stayed very still, certain that he had been spotted. That something, some inadvertent movement, had given him away. Then, finally, the man turned back to his contemplation of the water.
Even now he couldn’t be sure. Was it Russell standing there? Or someone from the village?
He let the edge of the heavy drapes fall gently back into place and was across the room in swift long strides, shutting the door and making his way to the staircase. It had taken him fewer than two minutes to go down the stairs and reach the room overlooking the terrace.
But when he looked out, he saw no one on the landing stage or on the lawns.
Whoever had been there was gone.
And he had no idea where.
He searched the landings, the grounds, and the park for nearly three-quarters of an hour, but if Russell had come to River’s Edge, he’d disappeared.
There was still the chance that he’d seen someone from the village, but Rutledge was unconvinced. What would possibly bring them out this far at this hour of the night?
There had been no indication that the house had or was being used to store contraband, although it wouldn’t have surprised him to find that it had been on occasion.
An empty house on the water was always a great temptation. A boat could easily come up this far on a dark night, put in at the landing long enough for the goods in bulk to be unloaded and carried up to the terrace doors. A fairly decent livelihood. But this gift had been handed to them at the same time that crossing the channel had become impossible. The villagers must have cursed their luck. And if the smuggling that he had witnessed was any example, they hadn’t reestablished their contacts or else they were unable to afford more than three men could carry.
Hamish said, “They’re a suspicious lot at best. They wouldna’ trust strangers in France any more than strangers in yon village.”
Rutledge had to agree with him.
He gave up the search finally. Whoever had been here had gone, either by boat or on foot. Quietly and without being seen. Walking down the choked drive to his motorcar, Rutledge was glad he’d left it some distance from the stone gates.
All the same, he was relieved to find it just as he’d left it, motor and tires intact. He had no taste for walking all the way to Furnham.
T he Dragonfly Inn was dark, but when Rutledge tried the door, it opened. A small lamp burned in the little room behind Reception, and he called to the man who was usually there. No one answered. He wondered how the inn made enough money to stay open, given the owner’s aversion to strangers.
And then he realized the answer to that.
Ordinarily this was where the contraband was brought-except when a man from Scotland Yard had stubbornly taken up residence. It could be sorted and passed on at leisure but more importantly controlled by the chosen few involved. The three men in the run he’d witnessed had had to make other arrangements, no doubt cursing the intruder from London every step of the way.
He grinned in the lamplight, amused.
Turning the register around, he saw that one other person had stayed here in his absence, one Frederick Marshall. A single night. A fisherman? Or someone who had once served at the airfield? Rutledge couldn’t imagine a sudden attack of nostalgia bringing one of the airmen or their crews back to Furnham.
He signed his name, put down the number of the room he’d been given before, and went up the stairs. In his absence, it had been cleaned and the bed newly made, fresh towels on the rack by the washstand.
Without bothering to turn on a light Rutledge undressed and went to bed, but it was some time before he actually fell asleep.
Hamish was awake and busy in the back of his mind, and Rutledge found himself mulling over the night’s events.
Who had been standing on the landing stage? And where had he gone?
Rutledge didn’t believe in coincidences. It had to be Russell, and it was very likely that he’d borrowed or taken a boat to make the long journey down the Hawking, reaching the house by river rather than over the road. Why he hadn’t stayed was anyone’s guess. At least for the night, late as it was. Bruised and tired as he must have been. Or had this simply been reconnaissance-to be sure, before he brought in supplies and prepared to stay, that no one was waiting for him here?
Because there was no other place, really, where Russell could go.
Sleep overtook Rutledge then, and the first rays of dawn were coming in the window when he awoke. The man behind the desk-clerk or owner, Rutledge had never been sure-was startled to find Rutledge coming down the stairs as he arrived the next morning.
It took several minutes of explanation and exclamation before the clerk would accept the fact that Rutledge intended to stay at the inn and wanted his breakfast. When it finally came, it consisted of overcooked eggs, burned toast and tea strong enough to walk back to London on its own. There was no sign of Molly, and he wondered if she was called in only when there were guests to serve.
As he was finishing his meal, he asked the man about the visitor in his absence, Frederick Marshall.
“Here, you’re not to be reading the register. It’s none of your affair!” the clerk told him, angry.
Rutledge said, “It’s done. Who is he?”
“He came to see if there was any good sport fishing here,” the clerk said, clearly against his will. “The other rivers in this part of Essex have a fair amount of it, and he thought the Hawking might as well. He was of a mind to buy land and set up a yacht club, if it was promising.”
“And is it promising?”
“I sent him over to the pub. He was told that the war had put paid to any good fishing, what with the Zeppelins and the fighters at the airfield, and the Coastguard mining the mouth of the river.”
“I should think Furnham would prosper with more contact with the rest of the country. It would mean some changes, but they’re inevitable.”
“And that’s what we don’t need,” the clerk said, goaded. “What will we do with ourselves when Furnham is
