“She asked to be taken. I tried to persuade her not to go, but she was adamant. When we got there, I saw to it that the body was presentable and there were no other corpses in the room.”
“Yes, well, that’s as may be, but she couldn’t sleep last night. She sat in the parlor and cried. There was no comforting her. I went to find Morrison, finally, but he wasn’t at the Rectory. I came back home and sat up with her. First her father and then her brother. I wish to hell she’d never found out about him.”
“She has asked to have the body brought to Furnham. I’ve given permission for it to be released for burial.”
Barber swore. “Another funeral. We’ve not got over the first.”
He paced away from where Rutledge was standing and stared out to the mouth of the river, then paced back again. “Are you any nearer to finding out who killed Ben?”
“No. The question is, did his killer know Willet was dying? Would it have made any difference?”
“Why wasn’t he in Thetford where he belonged? Why was he wandering about in London? Abigail just told me some faradiddle about Ben wanting to be a writer of books.”
“Apparently he’d lived in Paris after the war. He wrote a book about a man who smuggled goods between England and France. This man met a girl on one of his journeys, and he went to look for her during the war. The book was published in France.”
“I’ll be damned. Abigail never told me that. And there was a girl he mooned over for weeks.” Another thought struck him. “Here, was it Furnham he wrote about?”
“I haven’t read the book.”
“Does Jessup know about this yet? He’d be spitting mad.”
“Will he indeed?”
Barber paced away and back again. “When Ben went to be a footman, Jessup asked Ned if he thought the boy could keep his mouth shut, and Ned said he would. Jessup said the last thing we needed was for Furnham to become notorious. He said people would come just out of curiosity, and if one or two of us was hanged, even better.”
“I hardly think Furnham would become notorious over a few bottles of brandy and the like. Still, do you think Jessup could have killed Willet?”
“God, no. I’m not suggesting that. Look, you’ve stirred up feelings here that we thought had ended with the war, when they dismantled the flying field. That’s all. The Blackwater and the Crouch are drawing holidaymakers from London. We’ve seen what that does to a village. We don’t want it to happen here.”
“Then help me find Ben Willet’s killer. You do want him found, don’t you? The dead man isn’t a stranger, he’s your wife’s brother.”
It was clear that Barber simply wished that the whole matter would go away. But he said, “Yes, all right, I do. For Abigail’s sake. And her father’s. I liked the old man.”
“Was the killer one of your merry band of smugglers?”
Barber grimaced. “We can get the things we need easier from France than from London. What’s so wrong with that? We don’t pay the tax on them, but we don’t go about with a barrow selling them in the streets either, do we? A bit of tobacco, a few bottles of spirits, some lace or a length of cloth. Where’s the harm?”
“The men go armed.”
Barber’s face changed. “You’ve seen them?”
“ ’Ware!” Hamish said in the back of Rutledge’s mind. “Ye canna’ tell them.”
And Rutledge himself saw the danger he stood in. “Don’t they always? Swords, muskets, shotguns. It doesn’t matter. Men in that line of work know the risks.”
The tension in Barber’s face eased. “True enough. You don’t always know what you’ll be dealing with at either end. Back to Ben Willet. If I knew who had killed him, I’d tell you. But I don’t.” And with that he walked off.
Rutledge watched him go as Hamish said, “D’ye believe him?”
I don’t know, Rutledge responded silently. I haven’t forgot the club.
“Aye, and it’s no’ wise to forget.”
Anxious now that Barber had also been unable to raise the rector, Rutledge considered his next step. Russell hadn’t come to River’s Edge last night. And Nancy Brothers had looked in vain for him in the church rubble. Morrison, in spite of his vows, had been uneasy about giving the man houseroom. Where was he now? More to the point, what had become of the rector?
The question was, how well had Nancy Brothers looked in the ruins?
They were on his way, and it would take no more than ten minutes to be sure. He drove there, got out, and made his way through the tumble of stones in the thick grass, a snare for unwary feet. He had to keep his mind on what he was doing, but he reached a slight depression where two of the larger stones formed a sort of wedge. He hadn’t come this far in his earlier exploration, and it was a place he would have chosen if sleeping rough. Well protected without being a trap. The nights were warm enough, and the weather had been dry. Russell had been lucky on that score. Squatting, he looked at the flattened stems. And watched an ant busily dragging away a tiny crumb of bread. Just outside he saw the pit of a plum, where it had been cast aside.
Satisfied, he rose and scanned the terrain. Then he walked back the way he’d come, to the road.
He found Jessup leaning against the wing of his motorcar, arms crossed.
“What’s so interesting about yon ruin?” he asked, his voice neutral.
“A habit of mine, looking at ruins,” Rutledge said easily. “My godfather happens to be an architect.”
“Is he, now?” Jessup asked, insolently measuring Rutledge with his eyes.
“When did the church burn?”
“When it was struck by lightning.”
“How old was it?”
“Old enough for the timbers to be dry.”
And that, Rutledge thought, must be true.
He walked past Jessup and bent down to turn the crank.
“On your way back to London, are you?”
“Not until I find the man who killed Ben Willet and tossed his body into the Thames.” He straightened and went around to open the driver’s door.
“He was killed in London. Not here. You should be looking there.”
Rutledge corrected him. “He was put into the river in London. But is that where he was killed?”
“Ben hasn’t been in Furnham since the war. You can ask his sister.”
“Perhaps he tried to come and was waylaid. When was the last time you were in London?”
Jessup’s eyes narrowed. “None of your business.”
“I can make it my business,” Rutledge told him, his voice harsh now. “And before you make a decision to take me on, speak to Sandy Barber. He’ll tell you it isn’t worth your while.”
He got into the motorcar, and Jessup put his hand on the other door, then thought better of it. He stepped away, and Rutledge drove on.
“A dangerous man,” Hamish said, echoing Morrison. “He likes playing the bully.”
“Because no one ever had the courage to face him down.”
At the Rectory, Rutledge stopped and pounded on the door. There was no answer. The door was unlocked and he looked inside, but there was no sign of a struggle, and the remains of breakfast for one still sat on a table in the corner facing the back garden.
Where, then, was the rector? Called to a sickbed? And what had become of Russell? Frowning, he stood outside for a moment. It would be hard to explain another disappearance in Furnham. Whatever the police had concluded in 1914.
Hamish said, “Were ye’ o’er hasty last night? Did he come later than expected?”
It was possible. Possible too that after his own breakfast, Morrison had taken one to the house for Russell, since it was too far for Nancy Brothers to venture.
He had just reached the Furnham road when he saw the rector bicycling furiously toward him from the direction of River’s Edge. Morrison hailed him frantically, and Rutledge waited at the crossroads for him to come within speaking distance of the motorcar.
“I can’t find the Major,” he called. “Do you have him in custody? Or has he gone away? Back to
