Wyatt Russell happened here, not in London. You have that to answer for as well.”
“You selfish bastard,” Barber said. “You’ve got us into this. Get us out of it.”
There was a long silence as Jessup weighed alternatives.
Rutledge saw the man glance once at the windows that looked down on the river. Then he shook his head as if to rid it of the thought. Instead, he grappled with the realization that he had no choice at all.
“All right,” he said finally. “We found Fowler floating, already dead. We thought at first he was a German spy come to grief on the river. But it wasn’t all that long after the old woman vanished, and we didn’t want the police here again. We towed him to the mouth of the river and turned him loose.”
“Who told Willet that Wyatt Russell had killed him?”
“It must have been Ned,” Barber said. “I can’t think who else could have told him.”
Jessup cut across his words. “It wasn’t Ned. I wrote to him in France and mentioned there’d been a falling- out between Russell and Fowler, and we’d heard a gunshot. Just in case the body washed up somewhere else. He wanted to know if they’d quarreled over Miss Farraday, and I answered that it was likely.”
“You told him-damn it, you never told me, ” Barber said angrily.
“It was to cover us. I thought it best.”
Rutledge said, “Willet believed you. That’s why I was drawn into this inquiry in the first place. He came to the Yard and told me that Wyatt Russell had killed Fowler. Willet knew he was dying. My guess is he wanted Miss Farraday to learn what had become of Fowler, and he could hardly tell her himself. He must have known how she felt about the man, and it was a way to repay all she’d done for Willet himself.” He smiled grimly. “You brought your own house crashing down around your ears, Jessup.”
“Willet wasn’t dead,” Jessup said. “Not when you came to Furnham that first time.”
“I was curious,” Rutledge countered. “Who killed Mrs. Russell?”
“I don’t know. Ned found her locket. He wanted to show it to the police. But I told him not to. I told him to keep it and give it to Abigail. But Ben saw it on his last leave and asked for it. He wanted to put his likeness in it and give it to a girl.”
To Cynthia Farraday? Would it have saved three lives if he had? Or would Ben Willet have been hanged for a murder he hadn’t committed? Rutledge shook his head.
Jessup mistook the shake to mean he wasn’t believed. “He couldn’t give it to Abigail. I can see now it would have got all of us into trouble if he had. But what would a girl in Thetford know about Mrs. Russell? Ben could tell her the locket was his mother’s, and who would think otherwise?”
They were scoundrels, all of them. Living by their wits, doing what they had to in order to survive.
“Do ye believe him?” Hamish asked.
Rutledge found he did. It was probably not the whole truth, but when did the whole truth ever exist?
“Which brings me back to Willet’s letter. He wrote it. He posted it. That much we know. He was leaving for France, he wanted to die there, and at a guess, it told whoever it was to break the news gently to Abigail and her father. What else did it say? And who came to London that last night of his life?”
“It wasn’t me,” Jessup said. “I was in Tilbury, getting a part for my boat.”
“He didn’t write to me,” Barber said. “It must have been to Ned.”
“Ned was too ill to travel to London.” But Rutledge had found his connection now. It was the last piece of the puzzle. “How would he have managed to keep such a letter from his daughter?”
“He was a sly old fox,” Barber said. “He’d have burned it in the cooker. He wouldn’t have wanted Abigail to learn any more bad news.”
And Ned Willet was dead. No one could ask him. Or prove what he’d done.
Jessup said, “He’d have told the priest. By God, he’d have sent the priest to London to persuade Ben to come home to his father.”
“Make sense, Jessup. The priest wouldn’t have killed him,” Barber retorted.
“Why not? They were all of them in love with that Farraday woman. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out the priest loved her too.”
“No. He saw the locket,” Rutledge said. “Morrison killed Mrs. Russell. He believed that Ben Willet knew what had happened to her. And a dying man often wants to unburden his soul. Morrison couldn’t take that risk.”
“Have you run mad?” Barber asked. “The priest? He’s like Constable Nelson, he’s afraid of his shadow.”
“Is he? He came into a house in Colchester one night and butchered Justin Fowler’s mother and father, and stabbed Fowler himself so severely he spent six months in hospital.”
“ Morrison? ” Barber exclaimed. “I sent for him to comfort my wife .”
“You look at the evil your ancestors did, but here is an equal evil right under your nose, and you thought because you could bully the man that he was nothing.”
“Did he have a reason for killing them?” Jessup demanded.
“He believed lies he’d been told by his mother. He thought he was owed a different sort of life. His real father was in prison, but he’d been led to look upon Justin Fowler’s father as his. He saw himself as the rejected son.”
“And you’re sure he killed Ben?”
“It was either you or Morrison. I thought you were angry enough with him that you’d killed him.”
Without warning, Jessup came straight for him as Barber shouted, “Here!” But Jessup shoved Rutledge aside and was out the door before either man could stop him.
“He’ll tell Abigail, she dotes on Rector,” Barber said, and was through the door before Rutledge could reach it.
But Jessup wasn’t heading in the direction of the Barber house. With long, determined, angry strides he went toward his own house.
Rutledge was halfway there when he realized what Jessup was intending to do. It wasn’t the shotgun in his house that he was after, it was the motorcar sitting in front of it.
He turned the crank with the vigor of his anger, got in, and was already gunning the motor before Rutledge reached him. As his hand gripped the door, Jessup used his fist to pound it, and when he couldn’t break Rutledge’s hold, he drove off, throwing Rutledge backward, twisting his arm and then slamming it against the side of the motorcar. Careening as he fought for control of the wheel, Jessup nearly collided with Barber, who was yelling at him to wait. The motor sputtered, caught again, and then Jessup was gone.
“He’ll kill him!” Barber exclaimed. “He’s that angry.”
Rutledge looked up the street. A grocer’s van was stopped in front of the tea shop, its motor running, and he sprinted for it, Barber at his heels.
Rutledge swung himself inside, realizing as he did that he’d damaged his elbow fighting to hold on to the motorcar’s door. Ignoring the pain, he began to roll and heard Barber swear as he struggled to join him, sprawling across the stack of boxes in his way. As Rutledge reversed the van and started out the London road, they could hear the van’s owner screaming at them from the tea shop door.
Barber said, almost out of breath, “I don’t think he’s ever killed anyone. Jessup. But it’s been a near run thing, a time or two.”
“I want Morrison alive.”
“But how did you know?”
“A curate by the name of Morrison tried to visit young Fowler in hospital. An alert constable kept a list of all callers. They were afraid the killer might come back. And he did. Only no one guessed. Later he wrote an anonymous note.”
“But Morrison was here, wasn’t he?”
“No. He accepted St. Edward’s when he learned somehow that Fowler was going to be sent to River’s Edge. He’s cagey about the time he arrived in Essex. But I’ll have London document the date and his background, now that we know where to look.”
“Why did he kill the others?”
“Morrison had killed the Fowlers out of jealousy. But when Justin survived and came to River’s Edge to live with a new family, it must have seemed doubly unfair. Two families when he had none. He made certain that Mrs. Russell died first, a warning to Fowler that he would be next. And when Russell finally came back to River’s Edge, another opportunity presented itself. The man was clever enough to be patient. He’d got away with murder before and he intended to get away with it again. Look-Jessup is just turning into the Rectory drive! We’re in time.”
