As he made his way out of London, Rutledge remembered the boxes that were in his sister’s attic. He hadn’t had an opportunity to tell Cynthia Farraday about them. Tomorrow, when he took her statement, would be soon enough. He would have to explain as well that they held what must be the only remaining copy of Willet’s third and last book. Whether she chose to see that it was sent to France was her decision to make. He was of two minds about its publication.
He stopped briefly in Tilbury, was told that both patients were resting comfortably, and drove on toward the Hawking. Passing the gates of River’s Edge, he didn’t look down the drive. He didn’t want to see the ghosts that must inhabit it now. He didn’t believe in ghosts. Still, he did not look for them.
He wondered if the house would ever be opened again. Too much had happened there, and memory could be an uneasy companion. But he rather thought that if Cynthia Farraday wanted it opened, Wyatt Russell would do that for her. After her ordeal today, perhaps her love for the marshes was tainted too.
He didn’t want to think about the dead man lying on the terrace. That would come later. He must come to terms with shooting a man. Not a German in the war but a murder suspect, and he went through those last seconds once more, to judge himself. There had been only one cartridge left in the revolver. He’d had to shoot to kill, he couldn’t be certain of disabling Morrison. Even so, he had been lucky that it had hit its mark. That didn’t make the fact easier to live with.
In some ways, he thought, Willet and Morrison had been alike. Selfish enough to go after what they wanted with little regard to the consequences in the lives of others. Willet knew his second and third books would anger everyone in Furnham, but he had written both of them anyway, and at the end of his life had salved his conscience by reporting Fowler’s death instead of going home and facing his family. It would have been easier for him to die alone in Paris.
Passing the turning that led to the Rectory, such as it was, and thence to the burned-out shell of the old church, he considered Morrison. The man could have put the education his mother had blackmailed Fowler into providing for her son to better use. He could even have become a good priest. And yet he had hidden behind his calling, comforting Abigail Barber even though he had killed her brother. Believing the lies he’d been told because he wanted to think of himself as the neglected child of a rich man instead of the son of a felon who died in prison.
Ahead lay the lane that led to Abigail Barber’s house. She must be frantic with worry, but at least he could assure her that her husband and her uncle would live.
A small victory. He accepted it as he turned off the headlamps and prepared his tired mind for the hour ahead.
Hamish said as Rutledge left the motorcar and walked toward Barber’s house, “Ye must put this inquiry aside. Ye canna’ hold on to it.”
And Rutledge realized that that was precisely what he’d done. Held on. Seeking absolution?
He remembered Cynthia Farraday’s flushed face as she had thanked him for saving her life. That would have to serve.
He felt a flickering of peace as he knocked lightly on the door and heard anxious footsteps hurrying to answer the summons.
