“In point of fact, he probably saved your life. He came for me when he couldn’t find you this morning.”
“Told me-he told me he couldn’t lie if you asked-if you asked where I was.”
“If we hadn’t found you in the marsh, you’d be dead by now. As it was, it was a close run thing.”
One hand lifted vaguely in the direction of his chest. “Dying?”
“Probably not. But we need to know who shot you. Do you remember anything?”
“Nothing.”
“If there’s anything on your conscience, I’d advise you to clear it. Morrison will hear your confession, if you like.”
Russell closed his eyes. “Hurts. The very devil.”
He asked Morrison to summon one of the nursing sisters. When he was out of earshot, Rutledge said in a low voice, “Before I go, I must ask you. It’s my duty. Did you kill Justin Fowler?”
“God, no.”
“Did you kill Ben Willet?”
“Told you. No. Refused.”
Hamish said, “Do you believe him?”
Rutledge didn’t answer him. Morrison was coming back with the sister, and she carried a tray with water and a small medicine cup.
Russell’s good hand tried to clutch at Rutledge’s arm, his fingers grasping at air.
“As I fell. Silhouette. I remember now.” He paused, and when the sister was about to hold the water to his lips, Russell shook his head, still watching Rutledge’s face. “Am I-will they send me back to St. Margaret’s?”
“Speak to Dr. Wade. He will have to work that out.”
Yet Rutledge understood how the Major felt about the clinic. He himself had left Fleming’s clinic a month before the doctor felt he was ready. And the doctor, as it turned out, was right, he hadn’t been prepared for Warwickshire.
Russell leaned back, taking the medicine the sister had brought. Rutledge waited until he had swallowed it, and then he left, promising Morrison to drive him back to Essex as soon as possible.
As he walked back to where he had left his motorcar, he debated his next move. And he came to a conclusion. He drove back to the center of London and once more availed himself of The Marlborough Hotel’s telephone, reluctantly shutting himself into the tiny closet and putting in a call to someone he knew in the War Office.
George Munro listened to what Rutledge had to say, then replied, “Do you know what you’re asking?”
“I do. A great deal of time and work. My present inquiry revolves around finding the answer. ”
He could hear the sigh down the line. “I know. I owe you, Ian. I’ll do it.”
“Thank you.” He put up the receiver.
George Munro had been a fellow officer during the third battle of the Somme. The bullet that tore through the femoral artery in his leg should have killed him. But Rutledge had managed to stop the bleeding and drag him back to his own lines, sending him to a forward dressing station where a doctor named MacPherson and three nursing sisters had saved Munro’s life-and more important than that to Munro, his leg. He walked with a permanent limp thereafter and had complained bitterly when he was sent to the War Office after his release from hospital rather than back to the front lines. In the end, he’d stayed in the Army and at the War Office, glad of the decision that had taken him where his knowledge of strategy and tactics had seen him promoted.
Meanwhile, his wife had named their first son Ian MacPherson, in gratitude for her husband’s life.
He had been absent from the Yard long enough. Reluctantly Rutledge left his motorcar in the street and climbed the stairs to his office.
No one seemed to have noticed his absence. Gibson had come in and taken several of the files on his desk, replacing them at some point with several more. He sat down and scanned them, added his signature to two, and noted that two others were ready to be filed.
Someone tapped at his door, and Sergeant Gibson came in.
“Sir. Constable Greene told me he thought he’d seen you.”
“What news is there of Chief Superintendent Bowles?”
“Resting comfortably. It was a near run thing. It appears now that he’ll live. But whether he’ll come back to the Yard-or when-is uncertain at best.”
“What do the Yard punters have to say?”
Gibson grinned sheepishly. “As to that, sir, it’s currently five to one against his returning. Much of that may be wishful thinking.”
Rutledge smiled.
“Superintendent Williamson has taken over as of this morning, and Chief Superintendent Bowles has been placed on medical leave for the present.”
Rutledge had not had many dealings with Williamson. The jury was out on whether he was a good man kept on a short leash by Bowles, or whether he was a weaker imitation of Bowles.
“At any rate,” Gibson was saying, “we’re to go on as we were. Any questions, his door is open. Otherwise, he expects us to do our duty as if the Chief Superintendent is here.”
Rather trusting of him, Rutledge thought, but said nothing. The Yard as a whole was professional and responsible. And Williamson was wise not to appear too eager to step into his predecessor’s empty boots.
It was clear that Gibson was waiting for him to comment.
“Good man,” he said, then asked, “Any progress on the requests I’ve put in?”
Gibson frowned. “I’ve not been able to find this Justin Fowler. He appears to have dropped out of sight. Last known address as far as I can judge was River’s Edge, the Furnham Road, Essex.”
And that would fit with what Rutledge had been told, that Justin Fowler had been the last to leave the house, save for Finley, the driver. Had he felt obliged to go so that the house could be closed, the servants released from their duties?
“Where did he go when on leave?” Hamish asked.
His family home in Colchester had been sold, the money put in trust for him. And it was doubtful that he would have wished to return there, given the memories of his parents’ deaths in the house. Unless he’d taken a flat or bought a house in London, River’s Edge was his home.
Was that why he had gone there while on leave in 1915? Because he needed to remember a happier time before the war? He couldn’t have stayed there, but he could have spent a few hours on the grounds or in the house, if he still had a key.
And that brought up another problem Rutledge hadn’t considered until now. How had Fowler reached the River Hawkins?
Aware that Sergeant Gibson was still talking, Rutledge said, “Sorry! I was fitting together pieces of the puzzle. Go on.”
Gibson said, “Have you spoken to Miss Farraday or Major Russell? I should think they ought to know where Fowler is.”
“They’ve been less than helpful. If he’s alive, where is Fowler now? If he’s dead, why hasn’t it been reported?”
“In my view, sir-for what it’s worth-you must assume the worst.”
Twenty minutes later, Rutledge set the last of the folders in the basket for filing. There had been no telephone call from Munro, although he’d given the man more than an hour. Not a good sign, as Hamish was pointing out.
There was one other person he needed to speak to before he went back to the hospital and from there to Essex.
Miss Farraday was at home. She said, when he was shown into her sitting room, “I’ve had enough unpleasant news. I hope you aren’t here to add to that.”
“Where did Justin Fowler live, after the house at River’s Edge was closed?”
“He went into the Army in late September, I think it was, and on his first leave he took rooms at the Prince Frederick Hotel. He invited me to dinner one night, and we talked. Mostly about the Army and about our years at River’s Edge. I asked if he’d like me to write to him, and he said he thought it would be better if I didn’t. He was still quite upset about Aunt Elizabeth’s disappearance. I think one of the reasons he stayed on at the house after
