“Did the French ever produce the book they talked about? On another run, perhaps?”
“I shouldn’t think so. If they did, no one showed it to me. And Ned would have, he loved a good joke. Why is it so important?”
“Because it’s possible the book does exist. And that the author’s name was Edward Willet. But not the father, of course. The son.”
“I still don’t see why this matters. What could it have to do with young Willet’s death? For all we know it could be an entirely different branch of the family. Ned told me once that there are Willets in Derbyshire and Norfolk.”
“Nor do I see the connection. At the moment.”
Morrison shook his head. “How many books do you think the people of Furnham read in the course of a year? The Bible, perhaps. They’ve always lived hard lives, these villagers. They don’t have the luxury of reading, nor the time or the money to buy books. The children go to school until they’re old enough to help earn their keep. The war was particularly hard, with the sea cut off.”
“I understand.”
“Is there any other matter I can help you with? Other than Ben’s full name?”
Rutledge said, “I have a puzzle on my hands. Three deaths, with seemingly no link between them. Mrs. Russell in 1914, Justin Fowler in 1915, and now Ben Willet’s. You know these people better than I ever shall. Do you see a pattern that I have missed?”
Morrison frowned. “We don’t know what happened to Mrs. Russell, do we? She may well have been in great distress over the coming war, as her family suggested. If that’s true, I bear some of the blame for not seeing her need in time. As for Fowler, why should you think he’s dead? Simply because he has cut his ties with the people who used to be close to him? A troubled man sometimes prefers to turn to strangers, rather than risk the pity of those he cares about. As for Ben, I’m afraid that in the end we’ll discover that his death is more related to London than it is to Furnham.”
“You present a very reasonable case. I wish I could believe in it. When you’ve been a policeman as long as I have, there’s a sixth sense about murder. The locket around Ben Willet’s throat connects him to River’s Edge, if nothing else does.”
“Ah yes, the locket. But that too has a reasonable explanation, doesn’t it? I’m afraid Miss Farraday has left a trail of broken hearts behind her. I shouldn’t be surprised if Ben was one of them. She was kind to him, after all.”
“It explains the photograph. Not the locket itself.”
“Are you so certain that it isn’t the only one of its kind?”
“With Mrs. Russell’s initial engraved on the face?
“There must be thousands of Englishwomen named Elizabeth, Emily, Eleanor, Eugenia-have you considered that?”
“I don’t like coincidence.”
Morrison smiled. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there. My business is to save souls, not to hunt killers.”
As Rutledge rose to take his leave, Morrison added, “If you find that Willet’s book exists, I should like to know about it. In fact, I’d like to read it myself.”
“I’ll be sure to tell you.”
They had walked as far as the door when Rutledge said, “This man Jessup. Is he dangerous, do you think?”
“Timothy? He’s a hard man to know. And he doesn’t care to be thwarted. By Ben going into service instead of to sea, or by an airfield being built in this parish. He nearly killed a man, coming to blows with him, after he discovered he’d come here to weigh the possibility of Furnham becoming a seaside town. I shouldn’t like to cross him.”
An unwitting echo of Constable Nelson’s words. And Morrison’s comment explained why he and Frances had been challenged by the man.
After leaving the Rectory, Rutledge spent three-quarters of an hour looking for any sign of a runaway horse. There was always the chance that Russell had taken it to speed him on his way to Furnham. But he had no more luck that Constable Nelson had. Someone had been along the road with horse and cart, that was clear enough, but a single horse-no.
He continued to London, his mind occupied with the problem of the three victims. While Morrison might believe there was no connection, he had a feeling there must be. It was one of the reasons he’d come looking for Russell.
He expected, when he reached Cynthia Farraday’s house, that she would refuse to receive him. But the maid, Mary, admitted him and led him to the small sitting room, where Miss Farraday was writing a letter.
“If you’ve come to see if I’m well, you’ve wasted a trip,” she said as he walked through the door. “I’m angry now. At Wyatt and at myself for being frightened of him.”
“I’m happy to see you fully recovered,” he countered, then asked, “Do you by chance still have a copy of the book Ben Willet is said to have written?”
“Said?” she asked. “I told you he’d had two volumes published. He was working on a third. I don’t suppose he finished that before he was killed. But there it is.” Rising from the desk, she went to the bookshelf under the window and retrieved two books. “Here. See for yourself.”
He thanked her and took the books. He looked at the name on the cover-Edward Willet. As he’d expected. Then he opened the first of the two books at random, reading a page here and there.
It was a war memoir as she had told him earlier. The title was A Long Road Home.
Beginning when Willet went to enlist, it was filled with stories of the men he’d trained with and then fought with. They were well realized and very human. And it brought the war back all too vividly.
“Have you read this?” he asked, looking up.
“The earlier part. I found the rest too disturbing. How awful it must have been to have these men come into one’s life, to get to know them, and watch as they are shot or blown up or grievously wounded by shrapnel. There was another Corporal he came to know very well, another young man in service in Thetford, and a month before the Armistice, the man was shot and died in his arms.” She shook her head, as if to clear it of the image she’d invoked. “I couldn’t bear it.”
He said, fighting to keep his voice even, “It was what we knew.”
Still skimming, he stopped at the top of a page and read on. I hadn’t heard from home for some weeks, and then I saw an officer I recognized. He lived near my village. His shoulder was in a bad way, and he was being sent to England for further treatment. I asked if he would find out if my father and my sister were all right. I’d heard that one of my brothers had been killed, the one here in France, but there had been no news about the one in the Navy. Captain F- told me he intended to go to Essex as soon as he was well enough, and he promised to send me word. But he never did. I expect he must have died of his wounds, because as far as I know, he never came back to France. I’d asked around, hoping he was all right and they hadn’t had to take off his arm. All of us fear amputation more than death. My sister did write finally, and told me that Joseph was dead as well, and she begged me to come home safe. It was with heavy heart that I went back into the line that day, and I think I killed a good many Germans in Joseph’s name…
Rutledge was about to ask Miss Farraday if she’d read the chapter and if she thought Captain F- was a reference to Justin Fowler. He remembered in time that she had told him she could have loved Fowler. Instead he looked for the date of that passage, and it was in the spring of 1915. And as far as he could judge, reading on into September, there was no other reference to Captain F-. He’d have to read the book from cover to cover, to be sure of that.
“Have you found something of interest?” she said, watching him as he read.
“It brings back memories,” he said, evading her question.
She nodded. “I expect it would.”
He turned to the second book, thicker by far, and this time, fiction. The title was simply, Marianne.
It was set in Paris during the war, and the chief character, Browning Warden, was searching for a woman he’d met before the war while smuggling along the French coast.
Hamish said, “Ye ken, it wouldna’ make his family verra’ happy.”
Which was probably why Willet hadn’t told them about the books. Or perhaps he felt that he wasn’t ready to
