quieter mood, men going about their business with an air of uncertainty about what the future held. Inspector Mickelson, sent to Northumberland to investigate a murder, had made a point of staying out of sight. Rutledge wondered if the man’s head would roll if Bowles was forced to leave for medical reasons. Mickelson had stepped on more toes than he could reasonably count, knowing he was protected by Bowles. The question was, would Bowles see to it that his successor also protected the man?
As far as Rutledge was concerned, Mickelson’s absence was a respite.
He went back to his office and made an effort to concentrate on a folder that Gibson had brought up earlier that morning. But his mind kept wandering to his dilemma.
Mrs. Dunner’s remark about the locket rang true.
And there was still the riddle of the charity school.
The elder Fowler’s support of it from such an early age must have some connection with his first disastrous liaison. Had he bought Gladys Mitchell’s silence about their annulled marriage by seeing to it that her son was properly educated? It wouldn’t have done for her to appear in a year or two with blackmail on her mind just as he was preparing to take another wife. The education of her son-but not his-would be the surest way of protecting his future. And a gift to the school, with the promise of more to come, as the boy’s education progressed, would keep him there.
But what did this have to do with murder?
It could be the connection that he had so far failed to find.
A bitter and forgotten child might look for revenge, if it had been fostered in him by a bitter and dying mother. First to kill the Fowlers. And when Justin survived, to look for him and destroy his new family.
Hamish said derisively, “Willet was no’ a member of the family.”
Rutledge took a deep breath. “He had the necklace. That somehow brings him into the circle.”
“They were all there the day Mrs. Russell disappeared. He could ha’ killed them all. And finished wi’ the past then and there.”
“He would have been hunted down.”
“He was no’ hunted down when the Fowlers were killed.”
Unable to sit still, Rutledge left the Yard, walked over the bridge to the far side of the Thames, then turned and walked back again. The exercise didn’t help.
Rutledge went to his motorcar and drove to the hospital where Major Russell was recovering, and found him propped up in a bed in the men’s ward.
“You’ve made progress,” Rutledge said, taking the chair beside him. “First, the Casualty ward. Now with the rest of the sufferers.”
Major Russell grimaced. “They snore like the very devil. I couldn’t sleep last night for it.”
“You probably wouldn’t have slept well anyway.”
“No. It’s hard to breathe. That keeps me awake. What do you want? Are you here to ask more questions? If I could answer any of them, the bastard would be in irons by this time.”
“I’ve come to ask you about Harold Finley. Mrs. Dunner regarded him as the son she never had. Cynthia Farraday cajoled him into taking her to London against your mother’s wishes. Your mother hired him to drive her. It’s how three women saw him. I want to know how he struck you.”
“Finley? I never gave him much thought. The groom usually drove my mother wherever she needed to go, until she bought the motorcar. She didn’t like it, she called it the contraption. And he couldn’t manage it. She advertised for a chauffeur who could work in the house if needed. The agency sent three or four men to be interviewed. She chose Finley. He worked out very well. Cynthia flirted with him outrageously, but she was a child, and he treated her like one, much to her chagrin. My mother was pleased with that. He dealt with Justin and with me just as easily. I took him for granted, I suppose, the way I took Mrs. Broadly and Mrs. Dunner and Nancy and the others. They were there.”
“Did he strike you as a man who was angry beneath the politeness of a servant?”
“I don’t think I ever saw him lose his temper.”
“Was he different when you were alone with him? When Mrs. Russell wasn’t present and he could be himself?”
“Not to my knowledge. He knew his place and he kept to it. What is it you want me say?”
“I don’t. This man came to an isolated household of women and children. Do you think he was hiding anything? His past? His name?”
“God, you’ve got a twisted imagination. No. Finley was Finley. That was all.”
“It seems to me that he could have found work anywhere. Why choose the marshes, and only Tilbury for any social interaction on his free afternoons?”
“He actually seemed to like the marshes. He took me out in the boat once, and we sat for an hour or more watching the marsh birds. I’d never really noticed the birds before. He fashioned a penny whistle for Justin, and none of us could play it, but we tried, and Cynthia laughed until she cried.”
Rutledge could see that he was getting nowhere, and he said, “Did strangers come to River’s End very often?”
“If they did, I never saw them. What are you getting at?”
“I expect I’m chasing ghosts.”
There was a moment of silence, then Russell said, “I expect there’s no chance Cynthia will take pity on me and visit?”
“I don’t know. She was shaken by your last encounter.”
“Yes, I’ve no doubt of that,” he said ruefully. “I always seem to get off on the wrong footing with her. I have a knack for that.”
“Is there anything you need?”
“Patience,” he said.
Rutledge left soon after and returned to the Yard. Constable Henry saw him walking down the corridor and called to him.
“Sir? There’s a message on your desk. A George Munro returning your call.”
“Thank you. I’ll take care of it.”
Ten minutes later, he had reached Munro, and he said, “You have something for me?”
“Yes, I do. But I don’t think it will help you very much.”
“You found the information about Justin Fowler and Harold Finley?”
“Mind you, it took me hours, because I was looking in the wrong place. Finally, as a last resort, I tried another direction, and that’s when I found both of them.”
“Let me take out my notebook.”
“You won’t need it, Ian. It’s very straightforward.”
“All right. Go ahead.”
“I looked at the rolls of the dead and then searched the missing. They weren’t there. I went to the list of deserters. And I found both their names on it. The Army would very much like to find both of them. The war is over, but the Army is still of a mind to shoot them.”
“When did they desert?”
“In the summer of 1915.”
Chapter 21
Rutledge sat there with the receiver to his ear.
After a time Munro said, “Are you there, Rutledge?”
“I’m still here.”
“How did you come across these names? I should very much like to know.”
“They came up in a murder inquiry I’ve been conducting. Neither man had contacted anyone since the Armistice. What month did they desert?”
“Both men had been wounded but at different times and neither wound was self-inflicted for a free ticket
