Military necessity had been paramount. Rutledge had almost hated Hamish for breaking, for forcing his own hand. But close as he was to breaking himself, he had known that the young corporal was right. Still, Duty was all. Compassion had no place on a battlefield. Obeying orders was the paramount rule.
There had been times when Rutledge himself had wanted to die, to shut out the voice hammering at him. And he couldn’t, because when he himself died, Hamish would finally be dead as well. He’d led a charmed life in the trenches those last two years of the war-his men had commented on that again and again. But Rutledge had understood it for what it was. God had not wanted him. A murderer…
To put an end to the memories threatening to overwhelm him, Rutledge pulled to the verge and stopped the motorcar. Reaching for the envelope on the seat beside him, he took out the locket. Opening it, he looked down at the face of the woman whose photograph had been so carefully placed inside.
Who was she? Why had she been important in the life of one Wyatt Russell?
The woman staring up at him was silent, and after a moment he closed the locket and returned it to the envelope. Why had the dead man been wearing it?
Perhaps if he knew the answer to that, he told himself, he would know why Wyatt Russell had died.
When he reached London, Rutledge went directly to The Marlborough Hotel, where he and Russell had dined. If Russell’s belongings were still in his rooms there, it was possible they could tell him more about the man than he’d wanted to reveal when he was alive.
There was a couple just arrived, and it took several minutes before they had registered and relinquished their luggage to the man waiting to carry it to their room. As they walked away, Rutledge stepped forward and asked to see the register for the date, twelve days ago, when he’d come here with Russell.
The clerk was reluctant at first until Rutledge quietly identified himself as Scotland Yard. And then he insisted on checking the register himself.
After going through the guest book, the clerk shook his head. “I don’t find a Mr. Russell for that date or any other close to it,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“If you would, go back through it again. He indicated he’d taken a room here. He wasn’t well.”
The clerk ran his finger down the list of hotel guests, turning the pages slowly.
“No, Inspector, I’m sorry. I don’t see that name.”
Either Russell had lied about where he was staying-or he had lied about his name.
Rutledge thanked the clerk and left. By the time he’d returned to the Yard, Chief Superintendent Bowles was waiting for him. Gibson gave him a warning, with an I-told-you-so expression on his face.
Knocking on the Chief Superintendent’s door, Rutledge stepped inside. “You wished to see me, sir?”
“What’s this business about Gravesend and a cadaver?”
“I recognized the photograph they sent to the Yard, and I went to see the body for myself.” He gave a brief account of Russell’s visit and the information he’d learned in Gravesend. But he said nothing about the lunch with Russell or stopping at the hotel before returning to the Yard.
“And you’re sure of this dead man’s identity?”
“I’m sure he’s the same person who came to my office,” Rutledge answered carefully. “I’d like to go to Essex, to verify the information I was given. And there may be people there who can tell me more about Russell.”
“Yes, yes, by all means. I don’t put much stock in his confession, I suggest that you not waste your time in that direction. It’s his death that concerns us.” He paused, taking up his pen and rolling it in his fingers, as if it might produce answers for Rutledge if he stared at it long enough. Then he said, “I’m acquainted with Inspector Adams’s superior. It wouldn’t do to let this matter drag on. If you take my meaning?”
Rutledge did. Bowles was pleased to take over the inquiry, bring it to a swift and certain end, and put his opposite number’s nose out of joint.
An hour later, Rutledge was on his way to Essex.
This time he didn’t have Frances to keep him company. This time it was Hamish. Although the sun was shining and the day was fair, the journey seemed to drag, and he would have sworn that Furnham was twice as far as it had been earlier.
He’d decided that perhaps the place to begin his inquiries was with the clergyman in charge of the isolated church that he and Frances had seen. It was roughly halfway between the deserted house at River’s Edge and the village of Furnham. If anyone knew something about Russell’s background, it would likely be the man who had ministered to his family.
As he passed the gates to the estate, he wondered again why Russell had deserted it. Because of his wife’s death? Or because he had committed murder there and got away with it? Until someone had found him out and come for him.
An eye for an eye.
Ahead he could just see the peaked roof of the church, standing out like a sentinel in the long reaches of the marshes. The grasses had more color today, varied in texture as well as shade, and the river beyond was intensely blue as it mirrored the sky. And yet the warm late summer’s day was chilled by the whispers of the wind through the grasses, setting them to move and rustle, as if hidden among them were crowds of people talking together.
Frances had noted it as well, but alone now, he realized that it was defining this place in a way that he hadn’t expected.
As if I’m being watched, Frances had said.
It would tend, he thought, to make a man with a guilty conscience nervous. Was that why the house stood empty? The whispers that a man’s mind turned to accusation?
He drew up before the church. He had no idea where to look for the Rectory, although there must be one. But with luck, he might find someone inside who could direct him.
The sign announcing that this was the Church of St. Edward the Confessor had a new message today on the hoarding below: Seek and ye shall find. He will welcome all who come to Him.
Rutledge hoped that a welcome would prove to be true. It had not in Furnham.
He opened the door, listening to the squeal of rusty hinges as he stepped into the plain, Victorian interior.
“Ye willna’ have to seek anyone. Yon caterwauling will bring them running.”
And Hamish was right. A door at the rear of the sanctuary opened and a man stepped through.
He was wearing a clerical collar and an anxious expression on his square, sun-browned face. It was difficult to judge his age. He was one of those men who would appear boyish well into their forties. Rutledge found himself thinking that this must be a drawback for a clergyman trying to project an image of experience and wisdom.
He didn’t come forward. He merely stopped where he was, seeing a stranger, and asked in a strong voice that belied his anxiety, “Are you lost?”
“Mr. Morrison? I’m from London. Scotland Yard. I’d like to speak to you about one of your parishioners.”
“Indeed?” It was a question, not a statement. “We have the usual number of reprobates here, but I can’t recall that any of them has lately come to the attention of Scotland Yard.”
“Is there somewhere we could talk?” Rutledge asked.
The man gestured to the pews that filled the sanctuary. “There are seats aplenty here. Shall we take one of them?”
Rutledge walked forward, and the other man didn’t move until he had come to the last row but one. “Will this do?”
“Yes. Thank you.” The man stepped forward and finally held out his hand. “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me.”
“Inspector Rutledge.”
“Ah. Well, Mr. Rutledge, I must confess that I’m not in the confidence of many of my flock, but I’ll do what I can to help.”
They sat down on the hard wood of the pew, facing each other. Rutledge reached into his pocket and took out the locket on its delicate chain. Opening it, he held it out, but he already knew the answer to his question before he asked it. “Do you know this woman?”
“Yes. Yes, I did,” Morrison replied slowly, reaching for the locket, although it was clear he didn’t require a closer look. “She once lived nearby.”
“Could you tell me her name?”
