home. Finley failed to report to France in July. Fowler’s wound was more serious, but he didn’t return to duty in September. What’s more, he missed a medical examination to update his recovery. That was in August. From my end, the two cases don’t appear to be related. I’d like to hear what you see at your end.”
“It shoots my own theory full of holes.”
“Yes, I expect it does. All right, the shoe is on the other foot now. You owe me, rather than the other way around. Give my love to Frances, will you? Joan was asking about her just the other day.”
“I’ll be sure to.”
With that Munro was gone, and the line went dead. Rutledge realized he was still holding the receiver when the operator asked if he cared to place another call.
It was late when Rutledge got home, having had to interview a possible suspect in someone else’s case. The air in the flat was hot and oppressive, and he opened several windows to let in what little breeze there was. London had had a particularly long spell of warm dry weather, punctuated by a few storms that hadn’t seemed to bring in cooler temperatures.
He was all too aware that he was back at the beginning in the Willet case. And the more he learned, the more unlikely it was that the disappearance of Mrs. Russell had anything to do with Willet’s murder. If he’d found the locket in the marshes while searching for her, then put a photograph of Cynthia Farraday in the place of the wedding pair, Willet was guilty of theft, not murder. And it was more and more likely now that he had posed as Wyatt Russell because his mind was confused by the drugs he’d been taking.
Yet he had carried that imposture off flawlessly.
Which brought Rutledge back to the likelihood that Major Russell had been shot because coming through the reeds along the riverbed, he’d been mistaken for the man from Scotland Yard. It would be easy to rid themselves of him in the middle of the night with no witnesses, and the reason why Ben Willet had had to die would be safe.
Even if the Yard knew to look for him here, a dozen inspectors sent out in his place would have no better luck finding a body than earlier searchers had had looking for Mrs. Russell.
“He didna’ come to see if you were dead.”
“No, that would have left footprints. If I hadn’t been found in a few days, whoever it was could safely put me in the river.”
Hamish said, “The house is his.”
“He must come there often enough to feel it is. And if he isn’t Jessup, I’ll wager Jessup knows who he is.”
“Aye, it’s verra’ likely true.”
Which meant a confrontation with Jessup was looming. He didn’t altogether regret it.
Rutledge left the window and went to bed shortly after that, but he lay there for a time, thinking about Cynthia Farraday and trying to decide what it was that made her so attractive to so many men.
No great wisdom arrived with the morning.
On the way to the Yard, he considered placing a request in the Personals of the Times, asking either Justin Fowler or Harold Finley to contact Scotland Yard. Both men were considered deserters by the Army, and the risk for them was too great to expect them to yield to curiosity. That avenue was effectively closed to him.
There must be another.
In his office, refusing to admit defeat, he played with the wording of such a request.
Hamish said, “Ye ken, Fowler hasna’ used a farthing of his ain money. He’s deid. It’s the reason why he’s shown as a deserter.”
“Then where was his body hidden?”
“There’s the river. The same reason Mrs. Russell’s body has no’ been found.”
“Then Major Russell’s body should have been put into the river as well.” But he knew the answer to that. There hadn’t been time to bring a boat up to River’s Edge and take the body aboard. Morrison’s concern and his own search of the high grass had seen to that.
An idea was taking shape.
Galvanized, Rutledge worked feverishly for three-quarters of an hour, crumpling sheets of paper as he made false starts and was faced with unexpected hurdles. Finally, satisfied, he went to find Sergeant Gibson.
“Read this. I’d like to see it in tomorrow morning’s Times.”
Gibson scanned the sheet of paper, then looked up at Rutledge. “Sir? Is this true?”
“Only half of it. Russell is alive but badly wounded. It’s possible that the person who shot him also shot Benjamin Willet. I need to draw him out before he kills again.”
“You believe he will?”
“If he discovers that Russell is alive, he will bide his time and try again.”
Gibson read the paragraph more carefully. Major Wyatt Russell was shot three days ago on the lawn of his house on the Furnham Road, Essex, and taken to a London hospital where he was expected to recover and name his assailant. This morning at six o’clock, he succumbed to severe blood loss and infection. Scotland Yard is treating this death as a case of murder by person or persons unknown. Anyone with information that could help the police with their inquiries is asked to contact Sergeant Gibson at Scotland Yard. All replies will be held in the strictest confidence.
“I’ll see to it,” Gibson told him, but there was doubt in his voice. “You’ve told the Major?”
“I’m on my way now.”
At the hospital he caught Dr. Wade just coming out of surgery. They retired to an empty office and Rutledge explained his plan.
“I don’t care for it,” Dr. Wade said flatly. “The danger of infection hasn’t passed.”
“I understand that risk. But if Major Russell survives this wound, whoever shot him will still be out there waiting.”
“You can’t be sure of that. Can you?”
“I’m not willing to find out.”
“Yes, there’s that. But where are you taking him? He needs care, he can’t fend for himself.”
Rutledge had considered the possible answers to that on his way to the hospital. His first choice had been the rector, Mr. Morrison. But the cottage was small, and if there were any changes in the Major’s condition, medical care was too far away. And the cottage was far too close to Furnham. Morrison would be no match for an angry Jessup.
The second choice was the clinic in Oxfordshire, but he was fairly certain the Major would have no part of that. And a careful killer just might think to look for him there, to see if the Times article was true.
The third option was to take the Major to Cynthia Farraday. That too had its risks.
Which left him with no alternative but to offer his own flat, with a nursing sister in charge of Russell’s care. And yet he had rejected that for personal reasons. His flat was his sanctuary, his dark corner where he could scream in the night when the war came back again. Here Hamish was at his most vocal, and his presence was a living thing.
His rational mind told him that the Major and the nursing sister would find nothing there to betray his connection with Hamish MacLeod. And yet the part of his mind that Hamish inhabited recoiled in terror and refused even to contemplate such an idea, even when Rutledge himself would not be in the house at all.
The rest of the journey had seen a battle with himself. But now he said to Dr. Wade, “My flat in London.”
And for the next half hour together Rutledge and Wade hammered out every possible detail until both were satisfied.
Dr. Wade said, “I’m still not convinced that this is necessary.”
“It’s important to try.”
In the ward, he found the Major sitting up against pillows and drinking a glass of water.
“I’m surprised to see you again,” he said as Rutledge took the chair by his bed. “I thought our business was concluded until you found my assailant. I’ve told you all I know.”
“I’ve come to arrange for you to die.”
“I’m damned if you are.”
He handed Russell a copy of the sheet that he’d given Sergeant Gibson. Setting aside his glass, Russell read the words written there and then read them a second time.
