with every intention of going back to Essex. But he actually went to his flat and paced the floor for over an hour, Hamish loud in the back of his mind, his temporary exile from the Yard and the inquiry at hand driving him to physical action.
There was something missing in the case, and he didn’t know what it was. Yet.
Why had Ben Willet, facing his own death, come to Scotland Yard to accuse Wyatt Russell of a murder committed during the war? The only connection between Willet and Russell, besides the river that connected River’s Edge and the village of Furnham, had been Cynthia Farraday. Had Willet known how she felt about Fowler and as a last gift tried to end her uncertainty over what had become of the man?
He could just as easily have been trying to protect her from the police by pointing them elsewhere. But if the police knew nothing about Fowler’s death to start with, why bring it to their attention?
And who had found it necessary to kill Ben Willet when he was already dying? Or had the killer known that? Major Russell had said that Willet wanted to be killed rather than face the indignity and excruciating pain of waiting for the end. But this didn’t smack of a mercy killing. Shooting him hadn’t been enough-his body had been stripped of identification and shoved into the Thames for good measure. It should have disappeared for good or else have been so badly disfigured by the water, the fish, and the passing ships that any identification would be impossible. But luck had not been on the killer’s side.
A third possibility was that someone had discovered that Willet had come to the Yard-or he had actually told someone what he’d done. But why bring up Justin Fowler’s death in the first place? What had driven Willet to make such a claim? He had seemed to have no place in either the village or River’s Edge, no one but a sister to mourn his loss, no one but that same sister waiting eagerly for news of him or for the closure that finding his killer could bring to those who had survived him.
And what about Willet’s writing? What role had that played?
Waiting for Gibson to find out what he needed to know could take days. It was better to drive to Colchester and see what he could discover for himself. That had been where Fowler’s parents had lived and died.
Hamish said, “There’s the room in Furnham.”
“They’ll be relieved when I don’t return,” Rutledge retorted, packing a valise.
But before he left London, Rutledge went to call on Dr. Baker.
He was an older man, his hair nearly white, his eyes a sharp gray.
“Murdered, you say? Willet? That’s startling news, indeed.” He regarded Rutledge for a moment. “But you’re here about his illness, not his murder. There was nothing I could do. We could have tried surgery, of course, but the cancer had spread too far, and Willet knew that.”
“What did he take for the pain?”
“I gave him morphine, but I don’t believe he took it very often. He said he had something to do before he died, and he wanted a clear mind.”
“Why should he come to Scotland Yard, give another man’s name, and in that man’s name, confess to a murder?”
“Willet did that? I’ll be damned. Medically, I can’t account for it.”
“How did he receive his diagnosis?”
“Quietly. He didn’t appear to be particularly religious, but I overheard him comment as he was dressing again that God was punishing him. He didn’t tell me how he’d incurred the Almighty’s displeasure. Perhaps I should have asked, but he wasn’t speaking to me, and I respected his privacy. Have you considered that his charade was intended to push the Yard into action? As he appears to have done?”
“It’s possible,” Rutledge answered neutrally. “Would Willet have paid someone to cut short his suffering? Rather than contemplate suicide?”
“I think not. Unless he’d finished whatever it was that drove him to eschew taking something for his pain, and it was growing unbearable. As it would have done. I’m sorry I can’t give you a more satisfying answer. I knew very little about his personal life, except for the fact that he’d recently lived in Paris and had come home to be seen by a doctor.”
Hamish reminded him of a last question.
Rutledge said, “You examined him, of course. Was he by any chance wearing a gold locket?” He took it from his pocket, holding it out to Dr. Baker.
“Quite pretty, isn’t it? And quite old, as well. But no, I’ve never seen it before.”
Rutledge thanked him and was about to walk out the door when Baker said suddenly, “I just remembered. He asked if I had any information on the plague. I gave him a book to read, and he brought it back on his last visit. He said he had found it very interesting. I asked him why he should want to study the subject, and he said that it was a hobby of his.”
“A hobby?”
“He must have seen my reaction-very much like yours, I’m sure-and he smiled and said, ‘The Spanish flu was a plague, was it not, killing thousands?’ I told him the effects might have been the same, the way it ravaged country after country, but that the pathology was quite different. It wasn’t spread by rats or fleas. And he said, ‘Yes, but you see, it’s the only comparison I can make.’ ”
C olchester had once been a Roman camp, the capital of Roman Britain until Queen Boudicca burned it to the ground during the Iceni revolt. It had also been a prosperous woolen center in the Middle Ages. It was very late when Rutledge reached his destination. The town was dark, quiet, only a few vehicles and fewer pedestrians on the streets as he made his way to the Town Hall with its handsome tower and then found the police station. Lights were on inside, but he knew that only a small night staff would be there. Tomorrow morning would suffice. There was a room available at the ancient hostelry, The Rose and Crown, and he fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. Hamish had been busy in the back of his mind from the time he’d left London, and he was glad to shut out the soft Scots voice.
After breakfast the next morning in one of the small half-timbered rooms off the main dining room, Rutledge left his motorcar in the inn’s yard and walked to the police station. The streets were busy, men hurrying to their work, women walking small children to school while older boys laughed as they took turns kicking a stone down the road. Shopkeepers were only just opening their doors, and the greengrocer was setting boxes of vegetables on racks in front of his window. He nodded as Rutledge passed, and then spoke to a woman just behind him, calling her by name and wishing her a good day. Rutledge could feel the warmth of the sun on his back and smell the summer dust stirred up by passing motorcars, the motes gleaming in the sunlight.
Not a day to speak of murder, he thought as he opened the door to the police station and stepped into the dim interior.
The sergeant at the desk looked up as he entered, and asked his business. Rutledge explained what he was after-any information that the local constabulary had on the family of one Justin Fowler, formerly of Colchester before moving to Essex.
He saw the expression in the man’s eyes change, although he gave nothing away.
“Scotland Yard?” he repeated. “It might be best, sir, if you speak to Inspector Robinson. I’ll find out if he can see you now.”
Robinson could, taking Rutledge back to his office and offering him a chair. The man’s desk was piled high with paperwork, but the room was tidy otherwise and Robinson himself was spare, neatly dressed, and curious to know why Rutledge had come.
He explained himself as well as he could, given the sparseness of information at his disposal, beginning with a report that had come to the attention of the Yard claiming that one Justin Fowler had been murdered during the war. His body had never been found, but because of another murder closely associated with that case, the Yard was interested in learning more about Fowler’s background.
Robinson considered him as he spoke.
“Fowler is dead, you say?”
“We can’t be sure. The man who told us about the murder has since died violently. We find ourselves wondering if the two events are connected.”
“Hmmm. Yes. What do you know about Fowler’s family?”
“Only that his parents died when he was eleven or twelve, and shortly afterward he was given into the guardianship of Mrs. Elizabeth Russell, of River’s Edge. Mrs. Russell is dead as well, and her son was gravely injured in the war. We’ve had no other information.”
