The Confession by Charles Todd Read Free Book Online

he’s wearing a woman’s necklace,” Adams said. “A sentimental gesture.”
    â€œRussell lost his wife in childbirth a little less than a year after they were married. Neither her Christian name nor her maiden name began with an E .”
    â€œSo much for sentiment,” Adams said dryly.
    Still considering the face in the locket, Rutledge said, “He knew he was dying. That means he’d seen a doctor. Possibly in London. We’ll need to find him and speak to him.”
    â€œI thought you told me he lived on the Furnham Road in Essex. That’s on the Hawking, isn’t it?”
    â€œThe house there is closed. When I met him, he was staying in The Marlborough Hotel. Someone there should be able to tell us more.” Rutledge frowned. “Are we absolutely certain that Russell didn’t fire that bullet into his own brain? To avoid a worse death?”
    â€œImpossible, according to the doctor. Unless the man was a contortionist. Would you like to see the remains?”
    Rutledge accompanied Adams to the hospital where the body had been taken. Down in the bowels of the building they walked through a series of passages to where a small morgue had been set up. The other three bodies had died in the hospital, Adams explained, and were awaiting the undertaker. In the far corner lay their murder victim.
    When Rutledge pulled back the covering over the body, he recognized Russell instantly. The likeness was stronger than that of the photograph, which must have been taken in poor light. “Yes. I’d swear to his identity in the witness box.” He moved the dead man’s head slightly to look at the entry wound of the bullet. “Your doctor is right, he couldn’t have shot himself. Who did you say found the body?”
    â€œA waterman by the name of Acton. He got it into his boat and brought it in. You can speak to him if you like. He should be back in Gravesend in about five hours.”
    â€œYou have his statement? It’s satisfactory?”
    â€œOn my desk. And yes, Acton has been on the river for years. No reason to think he had anything to do with Russell’s death.”
    â€œThen I’ll take the statement rather than wait.” As he replaced the sheet over the dead man, Rutledge said, “If you learn any more about him—if anyone in Kent comes to you searching for him—let me know. But I rather think you’re right about London being the place to begin.”
    â€œI’ve already gone through our list of missing people. No one fits his description, and he’d have been missed by now. Surely someone would have come looking for him.”
    â€œWhat about Tilbury, across the Thames from you?” Rutledge asked as they left the hospital.
    â€œWe sent a photograph to the police there at the same time we sent one to the Yard. I followed it up with a telephone call, and my opposite number didn’t know him or have him on any lists there. Still, I’ll ask again, now that I have a name to give them and I know he once lived in Essex.”
    Rutledge thanked him, taking with him the locket, a copy of the statement from the ferryman, and the report of the postmortem.
    They lay in an envelope on the seat beside him as he drove back to London. And from the rear of the motorcar came the voice he knew as well as his own, and dreaded to hear.
    Hamish said, “You didna’ believe him. Russell. Ye ken, if ye had, he might well be alive.”
    â€œNo. He made his choice. He wouldn’t tell me what I needed to know. He made a mystery of what he had to say because he didn’t want to incriminate himself. Or betray someone else.”
    There was a derisive chuckle.
    Hamish wasn’t there. Rutledge had told himself that a thousand times, but it was no comfort. Hamish was dead and buried in France, and that was no comfort either.
    The doctors had called it shell shock, this hearing of a voice that was so real