“And did Mrs. Russell ever tell you why she didn’t approve of her cousin marrying Mr. Fowler?”
“She never said, not directly, but I heard her tell Mr. Wyatt that he was too old.”
All of which corroborated what he’d learned in Colchester.
He thanked her and left the farm just as Brothers was walking in from the pasture, his shoulders stooped with fatigue and his face red with sweat and smeared with dust. He saw Rutledge turning out of the gate and lifted a hand in greeting.
Nancy Brothers had done well for herself.
He was just turning around to go back to the farmhouse, a thought tickling at the back of his mind, when he saw Constable Nelson coming toward him on his bicycle.
“Found the missing mare?” he asked.
“We did. T’other side of River’s Edge, some five miles down the road. I notified the owners. No, I’ve come to find you. Abigail Barber is that upset. She wrote to her brother in care of that family in Thetford, to tell Ben that his father was ill. And then again to tell Ben that his father died. Now a letter’s come from them saying they haven’t seen Ben since the start of the war. Sandy Barber is beside himself, trying to think what to say to her.”
“The truth would be best,” Rutledge said. “It wouldn’t have been possible to keep the news from her for very much longer. Others have seen the photograph I brought with me.”
“Yes, well, Barber wants you to come and tell her.”
And explain as well why no one had told her before this.
He followed Nelson into Furnham and went alone to the Barber house.
Abigail was sitting in the front room when he knocked and then opened the door.
“Mrs. Barber?” he called from the entry, and when she replied, he joined her. Constable Nelson had been right. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face blotched by tears. There was a crumpled handkerchief in one hand.
“They’ve sent Scotland Yard to me?” she asked, looking at him as he took the chair she offered. “He said you were an Inspector. Sandy. It can’t be good news.” Her voice was thick, husky.
“I’m afraid not. But first I think it best to tell you what I know about your brother. He didn’t go back to Thetford after the war. He was afraid to tell his father what he really wanted to do. And apparently, from what I’ve learned from Miss Farraday-”
“Oh, Miss Farraday is it?” She looked up at him, anger in her eyes. “It was Miss Farraday that put ideas into his head about going into service. He never would have left Furnham if she hadn’t. He would have gone to sea like his father and grandfather, and never got notions about leaving his family. She and that driver of hers, sweeping into Furnham like the Queen come to call, was like a thorn in my side every time I saw her. As if she was gloating over taking Ben from us. What did she persuade my brother to do this time?”
“You didn’t like her driver?” He was surprised. Nancy Brothers had left the impression that Finley was dependable and helpful. Indeed, he’d been left in charge of River’s Edge until he himself had been called up.
“He was a servant, wasn’t he? No better than Ben was. But you’d have thought he was the Lord High Somebody. Standing stiff as a poker by that motorcar and not a word to say to anyone.”
“I don’t believe Miss Farraday was responsible for your brother’s decision,” he said, thinking of the copybooks he’d seen in Thetford. Still, she’d made it financially possible for him to return to France. “He was trying to establish himself as a writer.”
“He never showed any interest in such a thing when he was growing up.”
“Nevertheless, he was actively trying to write while he was a footman. I don’t know what he did during the war, but it must have shown him a different sort of life, and he decided to stay in Paris and work.”
“He’s still there? In Paris? Is that what Sandy wanted you to tell me? I’ve been so worried, thinking something must have happened to him. I’m glad my father never knew. He wouldn’t have cared for that. He never liked the French very much. Boastful people, he said, and thinking they know more than anyone else.”
“Ben wrote two books that were published in France. They were quite well written, by the way. He used the name Edward Willet. His father’s name as well as his own. And then this spring he came back to England to see a doctor. He was diagnosed with stomach cancer. There was not much the doctors could do.”
She said slowly, as if she found it difficult to hear what must be coming, “He was dying of it?”
“I’m sorry. Yes.”
“But why doesn’t he come home then, and let us take care of him?”
“We don’t know the answer to that, Mrs. Barber. It’s one of the questions we’re still asking.”
“Where is he? I’ll ask Sandy to take me to him. In hospital?”
“I’m afraid he’s dead.”
She stared at him, and then her face crumpled. “And nobody was there with him? None of his family around him?”
Rutledge took a deep breath. This was the part of his duty that he found the most difficult. “He was found in the Thames, Mrs. Barber. Someone had shot him.”
“He-did he kill himself? Because of the cancer?
“No. He couldn’t have taken his own life.”
Nodding, she said, “Then you’re saying that this was murder?”
“Yes. If it’s any consolation, he was intending to come home to see his family before returning to France to die. But he was killed before he could.” There was nothing else he could say. A silence fell, and he gave her time to recover from the blow.
Finally she said, “I want to see him. Will you take me to see him?”
“I-don’t believe it would be wise, Mrs. Barber. I don’t know that he would wish you to see him like this.”
“I’m his sister. There’s no one else. I want to see my brother.”
He considered offering to show her the photograph and then thought better of it. “Will you let your husband take you? I’ll see to the arrangements.”
“Not Sandy. I don’t want to go with him. But I’ll go with you, if you’ll be so kind.”
“Now?”
“Yes, please. I’ll just fetch my shawl.” And she rose, leaving him there in the room. Five minutes later she was back. He thought she’d splashed cool water on her face, for it seemed less flushed. But her jaw was tightly clenched, and he could tell that she was trying to steel herself for the ordeal to come.
“Is there anyone you’d care to take with you? Another woman, perhaps? Molly?”
“No. I’ll go alone. He’d have wanted it that way.”
And so he led her out to the motorcar, settling her into the seat. His mind busy planning his route, he chose to take the lane that led past the churchyard rather than to go through Furnham. She looked up as they were approaching it, and he cursed himself for his thoughtlessness, because both of them could see the raw hump of a grave near the east wall.
But she said only, “I’m glad my father didn’t know. It’s for the best. And if there’s any truth to what Rector was telling me, they’ve already met, haven’t they?”
He said, “I’m sure they have.” Remembering his conversation with Dr. Baker, he asked, “I saw those barrow- like graves in the back. They’re unusual. Plague victims?”
She stared at him, her eyes wide, then said, “I wouldn’t know.”
But he thought she did.
I t was a long and silent drive to Tilbury, where they took the ferry across to Gravesend. He found a cab to convey them to the hospital and sent a message to Inspector Adams as well.
By the time they had found someone to escort them down to the cellar, Inspector Adams came in, frowning as he saw Rutledge with Abigail Barber.
“Your note asked me to meet you here?”
“Thank you for coming. Mrs. Barber, this is Inspector Adams. He had made every effort to learn the identity of the man brought in by the Thames boatmen. Otherwise we would have had no way of knowing that he was your brother.”
“Mrs. Barber,” Adams said in acknowledgment, then added, “Are you sure you wish to go through with this? It can be an unsettling experience.”
“Did he suffer?” It was a question she hadn’t asked Rutledge.
“According to the doctor who examined the-your brother, he did not. He wouldn’t have known what had happened.”
