No one had seen or heard anything. No one knew of any trouble touching the family. The killer had come quietly, finished his work, and left, taking nothing, leaving nothing but death behind.
Hamish said, “If the wife had screamed, and one of the servants had come running, there would ha’ been another murder.”
“Very likely. But I don’t think the killer wanted that.”
He replaced the statements in the box and sorted quickly through the other pieces of evidence in the file. The postmortem report that graphically described the number and placement of the knife wounds in the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Fowler, indicating the savagery of the attack and commenting that Mrs. Fowler’s survival for even a few hours after it had been nothing short of miraculous, although she hadn’t regained consciousness. That was followed by a statement from the doctor who had treated Justin Fowler, describing the severity of his wounds and expressing concern about telling the boy that his parents were dead, suggesting that the police wait until he was out of danger.
A sergeant had meticulously made a list of all the personal correspondence found in Fowler’s desk in the six months before the murders, and another had been compiled of clients he’d dealt with in the past six months. The police had been meticulous, even to keeping a list of those who had called at the hospital in the first few days after Justin had been rushed to Casualty.
And there it was.
A name he recognized.
Rutledge sat back in the chair, telling himself it had to be a coincidence. A faint echo of memory awoke, something that Inspector Robinson had told him. What’s more, it explained why Mr. Waring hadn’t been able to find the right name when he’d been questioned at the school. Another discordant fact had fit well into the whole now.
And other odd pieces began to fall into place, making a pattern.
He just might have found the connection after all.
Armed with this new knowledge, Rutledge asked to use the station’s telephone and put in three calls to London.
When the last of these calls had been returned, Rutledge whistled under his breath.
Gladys Mitchell’s son had been adopted when he was barely a year old-just about the time she met the young man who would later become the father of Justin Fowler. Ridding herself of an encumbrance in the hope of impressing a rich man? But it hadn’t worked out the way she had planned. Meanwhile, the boy’s new parents hadn’t wanted to give him up. Still, they had sent him to the Charity School in London because he had had a scholarship there. They were too poor to do otherwise.
That much Rutledge had already worked out, but for the details.
What he had had no way of knowing was that Gladys Mitchell had become a matron at that same school, using the name Grace Fowler. Had the solicitor, Harrison, been aware of that? It was most certainly when she’d poisoned her son’s mind against the elder Fowler and his family. The boy grew up to follow in his adoptive father’s footsteps as a shoemaker, but he hadn’t prospered. His adoptive mother-Gladys’s sister-died soon after, followed within a year by her husband, and the boy, now a grown man, was penniless, unhappy, and in search of a new life. He had found it in an unexpected place.
Sitting down again at the table, Rutledge stared at the box of evidence in front of him. Hardly able to take it all in.
“Dear God,” he said aloud.
Behind him, Inspector Robinson replied, “He’s not available, but I am. What have you found?” When Rutledge didn’t answer straightaway, he said harshly, “It’s my case. I remind you of that. The Yard hasn’t charged you with this inquiry. You have your own.”
Rutledge turned as he collected the rest of the file and added it to the box. “Quite. I can’t connect my murder to yours. I don’t know why your killer should have shot my victim.” He rose and handed the box to Robinson. “I might add that your predecessor was a careful and thorough man. If anyone should have found this murderer, it was he. The only problem is, we aren’t omniscient, are we? It’s what gives the criminal an edge.”
Taking the box, Inspector Robinson said, “I don’t appreciate your examining this file without speaking to me. What were you looking for?”
“Any tangible evidence that could be useful. A name, a coincidence, an irregularity, anything out of order.”
“If an answer comes of what you’ve discovered, I want to know.”
“There’s no real proof, Robinson. Only a faint hope.” He was on his way to the door. “What I’m afraid of, if you want the truth, is that if I’m not careful, they will hang the wrong man. And even if I’m careful, that could still happen.”
Inspector Robinson was a zealot when it came to this particular crime, and there had to be some way of proving what he, Rutledge, suspected, without involving Justin Fowler or having him taken up for desertion. Rutledge didn’t approve of what the man had done, refusing to go back to France. But that was a matter for Fowler’s conscience.
He left then, faced with the dilemma of what to do with the information he had.
Wyatt Russell could probably tell him what he needed to know. But Russell hadn’t seen his assailant. And Rutledge wasn’t eager to put words in his mouth.
Who could answer his question?
Nancy Brothers?
When he came to the junction with the road to the Hawking River, he took it.
But halfway to Furnham, he changed his mind. Leave Nancy Brothers out of it. Go straight to Constable Nelson.
The rector was wheeling his bicycle along the road, on his way from Furnham to the Rectory. Rutledge slowed to keep pace with him.
“Back again, are you?” Morrison asked.
“I’m afraid so. Willet’s death is still a mystery.”
“I thought you’d all but settled on Jessup.”
“In truth, I’ve yet to place him in London. But all in good time.”
They had reached the Rectory drive. Morrison went ahead and leaned his bicycle against the side of the cottage. “Come in. I’m making a pot of tea.”
Rutledge followed him inside and walked to the window to look out as Morrison brought down the teapot and filled it with cold water.
“I need more information. I considered speaking to Nancy Brothers or Constable Nelson. It’s possible you can help me as well.”
“If I can.”
“When did you take up the living at St. Edward’s? Were you here before Cynthia Farraday came to live at River’s Edge?”
“I don’t believe there was a priest here then. There hadn’t been since 1902, I think it was. I refused the living twice myself before my bishop convinced me it was my duty to bring God back to this benighted place. Or words to that effect. He’s dead now. I often wonder what he would have to say about my dealings with the people of Furnham. I’m not the most successful shepherd, I grant you, but this is not the general run of flock.”
Rutledge laughed. “What about Nelson? When did he come to Furnham?”
“About five years before the war, I should think. 1908? 1909? But you were asking me about Cynthia Farraday. I’ve told you most everything I can think of. Is there anything in particular?”
“I’ve spoken to her a number of times, and I’ve begun to think that she’s still in love with Justin Fowler. She refuses to believe he’s dead. She feels he must be among the missing. What she doesn’t know-I didn’t care to be the one to tell her-is that he’s been listed as a deserter by the Army.”
Morrison’s surprise was genuine. “Has he been, by God?”
Rutledge finished his tea. “Now I must beard Jessup in his den. Do you know where he lives?
“The house just past the bend in the road. On the right.”
But when Rutledge stopped in front of that cottage, he changed his mind. Reversing, he went instead to The Rowing Boat. It appeared to be closed, but he knocked at the door. There was no answer.
