The Confession by Charles Todd Read Free Book Online Page B

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.”
    â€œIf 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.
    â€œNo, 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?”
    â€œWhat’s this business about Gravesend and a cadaver?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œAnd you’re sure of this dead man’s identity?”
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œYes, 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