Set on the banks of the Thames below The Strand, Somerset House had become the repository of records for births and deaths and marriages in England and Wales. Named for a Tudor palace long since demolished, it had been designed with the intent to collect in one place offices of government formerly scattered across London, from Inland Revenue to the Admiralty. Nelson was said to have had rooms there, although it was unlikely.
Rutledge spent three-quarters of an hour looking for Justin Fowler. The name had been passed down through three generations in one family, and there were six more unrelated Fowlers who could also have been the murder victim.
Finally settling on Justin Arthur Ambrose Fowler, who was only two years older than Russell appeared to be, he discovered that there was no date of death registered. And no marriage.
Wyatt Russell was easier to find, again with no date of death. But he had been married to a Louisa Mary Harmon, who had died barely a year later in childbirth.
There appeared to be a connection between Fowler and Russell-their grandmothers shared the same maiden name-Sudbury. And from what Rutledge could determine, going back through records, the women were cousins. Fowler’s parents died in the same year and within two days of each other, when Fowler was eleven.
Russell had been born at River’s Edge in Essex, Fowler in Colchester.
He spent another half hour looking at various branches of the family but found nothing else that seemed to connect the two men in any way.
Thanking the clerk for his assistance, Rutledge went back to the Yard to find a map of Essex.
River’s Edge was not shown, which very likely meant it was the name of a house, just as Russell had indicated, and not a village. But he did find Furnham at the mouth of the River Hawking, set on a hook of land that curled out into the water. Like the Thames, the Blackwater, and the Crouch, Zeppelin navigators used the Hawking to find their way to London for raids. But unlike the Thames, the Blackwater, and the Crouch, the Hawking had never become popular with yachtsmen or possessed a Coastguard station at its mouth. Until the airfield had been built, it had probably remained little changed for hundreds of years.
So far, it appeared, the story Russell had told seemed to hold up.
Where was Justin Fowler? Alive and well in Colchester, or even Cornwall, for that matter? Or was he dead, his body as yet undiscovered?
Rutledge considered the upcoming weekend. He’d promised his sister Frances to take her to a concert on Friday evening-she was an accomplished pianist in her own right, like their mother, and the program included Liszt, one of her favorite composers.
But once that duty was done, the rest of the weekend was his.
It turned out not to be as simple as he’d expected.
Frances enjoyed the concert immensely, as well as the light supper he’d arranged when it was over. Finishing her wine, she said, “Ian, do you think we could drive into Kent tomorrow to call on Melinda?”
Melinda Crawford was the elderly woman who had been a friend of Rutledge’s parents. Rutledge had known her since he was a small boy fascinated by the treasures in her house. For she had lived in India until her husband’s death and traveled widely thereafter, collecting whatever struck her fancy, from jewels to swords to ivory figures of Chinese Immortals.
He had avoided Melinda since the war, although he had been thrust into her company from time to time by unexpected events. She knew him too well. And he feared that she would read in his face more than he cared for her to know about his war. As a child she had survived the Great Indian Mutiny, and having seen death at first hand, she was not as easily put off by his assurances that he was whole. If anyone could have understood about Hamish MacLeod, it was undoubtedly Melinda Crawford. And yet Rutledge couldn’t bring himself to confide in her. He still carried the shame of Hamish’s death, and that was something he could not confess to anyone, much less the widow of an officer twice decorated for gallantry.
“I was thinking of driving into Essex instead,” he said lightly.
His sister put down her glass and turned to face him. “Essex?” she said, and he could almost read the list of names passing through her mind as she considered their acquaintances. Failing to come up with a possible connection, she added, “Where in Essex?” And in her eyes he could see speculation that her unmarried brother had met someone of interest.
He laughed. “The marshes. Out along the River Hawking.”
“Then it’s related to Yard business.”
“No. Put it down to curiosity.”
Intrigued, she said, “Is lunch on offer? If it is, I’ll go with you.”
“I’ll do my best. But I have no idea what we’ll find in the way of likely places to dine.”
She considered the warning. “I’ll take the risk,” she answered finally.
And so it was that at eight on the Saturday morning, he arrived at his sister’s house-which had belonged to their parents-and found her dressed for the country and ready to go. As he held the door of the motorcar for her, she said, “The day doesn’t look promising.”
It was true. Clouds had banked over the city, and as they drove east toward Essex, the clouds seemed to follow at their heels. The brightness far out over the North Sea dimmed, and by the time they were well out into the countryside, the sky was slate gray over their heads and the increasingly marshy landscape was colorless and drab with no features of interest. It wasn’t suitable for cultivation or pasturage, and Rutledge decided the people who lived farther out on the hook of land that followed the length of the river must make their living from the sea.
Frances said, “Is this where your curiosity is taking you?”
Rutledge found the turning he was after. “Call it a sudden and irresistible desire to explore. I don’t know this part of Essex.”
“Then how did you know that turning was there?”
“Ah. As it happens, I was looking at a map.”
Just here the river was out of sight beyond the widening stretch of marsh grass and a few wind-stunted trees. But they could see it glinting like pewter from time to time and knew it was there, moving silently and swiftly, the current dark and smooth.
“I’m not sure I like this place,” Frances said after a while, gazing out toward the river. “Whatever possessed you to want to come here?”
“Curiosity,” he answered. “I told you.”
“Yes, well, you must be in desperate need of entertainment. Couldn’t we have explored in Surrey? Or perhaps Oxfordshire? There are some lovely restaurants in Surrey. And Oxford, as well.”
“I think you’ll change your mind before the day is out,” he said. But he had a feeling that she wouldn’t.
The road had begun to narrow before he saw the gates. He thought there had probably been more traffic here during the war, but now the verges were overgrown and uneven.
The tall stone posts were overgrown as well, a rusted chain stretched between them to bar visitors. A handsome pair of stone pineapples, the symbol of hospitality, capped the posts. A vine had twisted itself around the pineapple on the left, while the one on the right was chipped and white with bird droppings. His first thought was that someone had shot off the top. It had that sort of look to it.
Drawing up in the shallow space before the gates, Rutledge said, “Wait here. Do you mind? I’d like to explore a little.”
“I can just see the roof of a house behind those trees. Is that where you’re going?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll come with you,” she replied. “I’d rather not sit here alone. I could almost believe eyes are watching our every move. You could hide half a battalion in that grass across the way. I should have thought German spies by the dozens would have found this to be a wonderful landing place. How far is the North Sea, do you think?”
“A few miles. I’m sure this part of Essex was heavily patrolled by the Coastguard for that very reason,” he said. “I’m told there was an aerodrome somewhere out here. They’d have been doubly watchful. Are you certain you want to trek through that tangle?”
She smiled. “Of course I don’t.”
He helped her out of the motorcar and lifted the heavy chain for her to pass under it. They tramped through the high grass and weeds, Rutledge leading the way to break a path for her, and moved up what had once been the drive. Briars caught at her skirts and pulled at the hem of her short jacket.
“Really, Ian!” she said at one point. But they followed the drive for perhaps a quarter of a mile before they
