Gibson. Or had someone actually come forward and been clever enough to ensure he himself wasn’t tricked?
Rutledge tried to replay the voice in his mind. Low, but not deep. Most certainly male. It reminded him of Ben Willet’s, the same timbre, the same cultured overtones. Willet was a good mimic, the voice of a gentleman coming naturally to him. But he was also dead, and his sister had identified the body.
Rutledge sent a message round to his sister’s house to say that he would be late. And then he went to see Major Russell.
“Someone contacted me,” he said as he came into the bedroom. “It wasn’t such a wild idea after all.”
Russell said quickly, “Who was it?”
Handing him the envelope, Rutledge said, “Do you recognize the handwriting?”
After studying it for a moment, Russell said, “I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”
“Would you know Findley’s hand? Or Fowler’s?”
“I don’t know that I’ve ever seen anything in Finley’s handwriting. And it isn’t Justin’s. His had more of a slant to it.”
Rutledge told him what had transpired, ending with, “He asked for immunity from prosecution for desertion.”
“Good luck to him,” Russell said. “The Army will never agree to that. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn it’s someone from Furnham. You did see to it that they knew about the Times? All right then. I’ve dealt with soldiers from isolated villages. Some of them were so homesick they would have deserted if they hadn’t been too afraid to try.”
Rutledge himself had dealt with raw troops facing battle for the first time. “Or it’s a trap?” he said slowly. “I’m to meet him again when it’s dark.”
“What would he have done,” Russell asked, “if this man Gibson had met him? He’d have been prepared to put him off, wouldn’t he, and make certain that you would come.”
It was an interesting point.
“Take someone with you,” Russell added. “That’s my advice.”
“I’ll ask Constable Greene. I can’t risk taking Gibson with me.”
“No need to frighten him off. Have a service revolver, do you? The clinic took mine away. Carry it with you.”
“Good advice.” But policemen were not expected to go armed.
Later when Rutledge asked Constable Greene to accompany him to the meeting, the man said, “It’s my wife’s birthday, sir. I don’t think she’d forgive either of us.”
Constable Henry had already left for the day, and Sergeant Gibson was closeted with the Acting Chief Superintendent.
Rutledge left the Yard on his own, walking through the quiet streets back to St. Martin-in-the-Fields.
He wasn’t sure what he was facing. Still, he hadn’t brought his revolver. He would take his chances without it.
Arriving at the church, the first thing he saw was a white square of paper pinned to the door.
Taking it down, he walked to the pool of light cast by a streetlamp, unfolded the half sheet, and tried to read what was written there.
The words were a black scrawl. Not at all the neat writing on the first message. He thought, this must be the man’s true hand. Or else he’s apprehensive, afraid of a trap.
With Hamish uttering a warning in his mind, Rutledge finally deciphered the tangle of words. Walk another quarter mile north, and I’ll find you.
Whoever it was, he was being very careful. But then the price for desertion was death.
Rutledge continued north, out of the square, coming finally to a dark street where trees blocked the light of streetlamps, casting long black shadows across the road. Half seen beneath one of the trees stood a tall slim man in country clothing, a cap pulled down over his eyes.
He was suddenly reminded of Furnham, when he had waited under another tree, this one by the bend of the road until three men with sacks over their shoulders had come up from the river. He’d been alone, tense, prepared for trouble, then had watched it walk directly toward him and knew that he stood no chance if he was caught there.
Rutledge understood what the other man was experiencing, knew the price he’d paid to come to this meeting. Stopping some ten feet from him, Rutledge waited for him to speak. All he could see was the pale glimmer of a face beneath the cap but no distinguishing features.
“They aren’t offering me anything, are they?” the man said after a moment, resignation in his quiet voice.
“I’m sorry. No.” He could see a faint lift of his shoulders as the man accepted the bald truth.
“Well. I’ll have to take my chances, won’t I?”
“I’ll do what I can. But I make no promises. Still, I need whatever information you can give me. I can’t find a killer without it.”
There was a pause, as if the man was considering how to begin. Finally he said, “All right. My name is Harold Finley. I worked at River’s Edge until it was closed and stayed on as caretaker until I was called up.”
Rutledge stayed where he was, waiting for an errant breeze to shift the leaves a little and show him the man’s face. It had nearly happened once already.
“I came back to the house twice after that. When my training was finished and I was given leave. And later in the summer of 1915, when I’d recovered from my wounds. I knew Justin Fowler was already in England, so I wasn’t surprised to find the terrace doors open. There was no one inside, and I decided to walk down to the water, and I stood there for a while. I was beginning to wonder where Fowler had got to, and just in case he’d brought in supplies at the kitchen landing, I thought I might go along and help him carry boxes up to the house. Do you know where it is, this landing?”
“I do.”
“Fowler was there, stretched out on the ground. I thought he was dead, and I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to find out it was suicide, but he wouldn’t have been the first to fall into despair at the prospect of returning to France. I got to him and discovered he’d been shot in the back of his head. That was a shock, I can tell you. What’s more, when I touched him, the body was still warm. I tore open his tunic to listen to his heart, hoping I could save him. It occurred to me that whoever had done this must still be nearby, that I could be shot as well, but I found a faint, irregular pulse. I couldn’t leave him.”
As he relived the event, his words tumbled over one another. And there was the ring of truth in his voice, echoes of the shock and fear and desperation he’d felt.
“Any idea who could have shot him? Why they should still be nearby?”
“It had to be someone from Furnham. Who else?” Something had changed in his voice now.
“But with the war on, there was no smuggling. Nothing to store at River’s Edge. Why Furnham?”
“I couldn’t think clearly, I tell you.” He turned away. “I didn’t want him to die. And just then someone spoke, and I wheeled, thinking-but it was Fowler. I could barely make out what he was saying, even though I put my ear to his lips. And what he said made no sense. No sense at all. And he died while I was holding him.”
“What did he say?”
“Brother. He said it twice. Brother.” Finley hesitated. “All I could think of was Major Russell. And that was impossible. They weren’t actually brothers, were they?” He leaned forward, waiting for an answer.
“Wyatt Russell was an only child. As was Justin Fowler.” He paused. “It’s possible that there is someone who believed that he was Fowler’s older brother. It isn’t true. But as a child he must have been led to think of himself as the elder Fowler’s son. And it’s also possible that this man-if he exists-killed Fowler and murdered both of his parents. Perhaps that’s why the police have never found the person responsible. The family’s solicitors never told them about this man.”
“Gentle God.” There was a long pause. Rutledge wished he could see Finley’s face. “Is that true?” he asked finally. “Can you be certain of it?”
“I believe it to be true. I’ve tried to find this man. But I don’t have his name. For a time, I thought he might be you, coming to work for the Russell family in order to finish what had been started in Colchester.”
“You thought I’d killed Fowler-and now Russell?” Even in the darkness, his surprise was evident.
“There’s no one else, is there? You were the only outsider at River’s Edge.”
