Then he put it back again.
One deep breath to steady himself, and then he walked out of the shelter at the corner of the house and into the open.
He heard Cynthia Farraday gasp. And Morrison turned to look his way.
There was no time to think, he’d been right about that. Waiting had dulled Morrison’s wits. Danger had sharpened his.
Before the shotgun could swing up and be aimed, Rutledge had retrieved the revolver and fired.
The upward motion of the shotgun hadn’t stopped. Rutledge had no defense.
He watched the man’s finger close spasmodically on the trigger and prepared to throw himself to one side. Cynthia Farraday had her hands in the air, and then he realized in the same instant what she was doing.
Pulling the long pin from her hat, she rammed it into Morrison’s side.
He didn’t cry out. But his fingers clenched prematurely, and the shotgun went off even as his knees buckled and he went down. Rutledge could hear the shot raining down somewhere to the left of him, but he was already in a dead run toward the terrace.
Morrison had died by the time he got to the man, Rutledge’s shot in his heart. In some far corner of his mind, he could hear Cynthia Farraday crying, and peripherally he could see that her hands had covered her face.
Rutledge’s shot had been true. He wasn’t sure how he had managed it, there had been no time to take careful aim. Still, he’d used his revolver all through the war, he had learned to make every shot count.
He was not proud of the skill.
Pushing the shotgun to one side with his foot, he turned to Cynthia. She pulled her hands down.
“I wanted him to hang, ” she cried, staring at Rutledge with horror-filled eyes. “He murdered my family too. Why did you kill him?”
He reached out to her, but she spun away, running down the steps, across the lawns to the water. She leapt into the launch, and when she failed to start it, she sat down and stared at him numbly.
Leaving Morrison where he lay, Rutledge walked down to the landing and said, “Let me drive you back to London. There are some things you need to know.”
“I don’t want to hear anything,” she told him, turning her back on him. “Why won’t this launch start?”
“He told you. He disabled it. Leave it. It can be brought in later.” He squatted on the landing, next to the launch. “Listen to me. Wyatt Russell is alive. Notice of his death was a way of advertising for information to help us find this man.”
She half turned her head and said, “Is it true?”
“I’ll take you to him. He’s in my flat at present.”
After a moment, she said, “I think you’re the cruelest man I’ve ever known.”
“The motorcar is by the gates. I’ll meet you there. There’s something I must attend to first.”
She wouldn’t take his hand. Stepping out of the launch herself, she started toward the house.
He walked as far as the terrace with her, then without speaking, she veered to the nearest side of the house and left him to do what he had to do.
He returned the chairs to the garden room, spread a dust cloth over Morrison’s body, and closed the house door, taking the shotgun and the revolver with him.
The drive to London was made in a tense silence. There was one stop on the road, and that was in Tilbury, where he spoke again to the doctor in the casualty ward.
“Both men are out of danger. Did you reach Mrs. Barber?”
He had not. But his day hadn’t ended.
He also begged the use of the only telephone, and put in a call to Inspector Robinson in Colchester.
He caught the man just leaving for his dinner.
Rutledge said, “Your murderer is lying on a terrace behind River’s Edge.” He gave directions to the house. “I’m sorry. I had to kill him. There was a hostage.”
There was a pause at the other end of the line. “He’s dead, you say? Damn it, Rutledge, I wanted him to stand trial.”
Rutledge rang off, rubbing his aching elbow.
Leaving the Casualty Ward, he debated telling Cynthia Farraday the truth about Justin Fowler.
And then he decided that it was not his truth to tell. Fowler had made a life for himself in the north of England. He was content. He was safe. Best to leave it that way.
“Ye must tell him so.”
That too could be done, an unsigned letter to a tobacco shop in Chester.
Cynthia Farraday looked away as he turned the crank and got in beside her.
It would be after midnight before he reached Furnham again, he realized, hearing a church clock in the distance striking the hour. He hoped to be in time to meet Inspector Robinson there, after speaking to Abigail Barber.
As he drove through the familiar outskirts of London, Cynthia Farraday said, “I have a confession to make.”
“Go on. I’m listening.”
“In the beginning, when I believed you were a solicitor for the Russell family, I liked you very much. I told you I wanted to buy River’s Edge so that I’d have an excuse to see you again. I was flattered when you tried to follow me to my house. I thought it meant you liked me as well. Instead, you dragged me into a murder inquiry.”
“You were involved long before I came on the scene,” he told her.
“Did you know he held a knife to my throat when he caught me inside the house? I smiled at him when I first saw him in the doorway, thinking he’d come because he was looking out for River’s Edge. That he had heard about Wyatt and wanted to offer comfort. He told me he’d hurt his arm and had walked up to the house, hoping to find something to use as a sling. I could see it for myself, it was red, bruised. And when I turned to look for a strip of cloth, he came up behind me and I felt the coldness of metal against my skin. I couldn’t imagine what he wanted, I was afraid-but later he told me he’d cut Aunt Elizabeth’s throat. I had no idea you were coming for him until he took out the shotgun. He was the rector. I’d known him for years, trusted him, and yet he told me he was going to kill me. I thought Wyatt loved me. And yet he burst into my house and shouted at me and even slapped me. That was your fault too. In the past few hours I have learned to hate you.”
He said, his voice tired, “Then why did you stab him with your hat pin, to stop him from shooting me as he went down?”
“For the same reason I wanted him to hang. I wanted him to feel the pain he’d made the rest of us feel. Justin, Wyatt, Aunt Elizabeth. Me.” She took off the hat and tossed it into the back of the motorcar, discarding it as she was discarding the truth. “You showed me how evil people are. You showed me how impossible it is to trust anyone ever again. You showed me that I can’t even trust my own judgment. Even the war hadn’t showed me those things.”
There was nothing he could say. And so he drove on to his flat and signaled the nursing sister to allow Miss Farraday to come inside.
That done, he started for Furnham, to face another woman’s anger, even though it was not his fault that Jessup and Barber were shot.
He had almost reached the corner of his street when he heard someone calling his name.
Turning his head, he saw that Miss Farraday had come out of his flat and was running down the street toward him. He waited where he was, and as she got closer he could see that she was flushed, her eyes bright.
He took it for anger. And he didn’t think he could endure another denunciation.
“Please? I’m sorry-so sorry,” she said, stumbling over her words as she caught the door of the motorcar with one hand. “I was-it was-you saved my life and I never even thanked you.” She broke off, bit her lip, and walked slowly back toward his flat, her head down.
He watched her until she had stepped inside and closed the door.
Epilogue
