Charles Todd - The Confession

The Confession

Charles Todd

For Sally and for David, with much love. Rutledge is one county closer to Mill Barn... and next year will bring him even nearer. As promised.

And for Carolyn Marino, and everyone at HarperCollins/Morrow, for being the wonderful people you are. With much gratitude.

Contents

The Essex Marshes, Summer 1915

T he body rolled in the current gently, as if still alive. It was facedown, only the back and hips visible. It had been floating that way for some time. The men in the ancient skiff had watched it for a quarter of an hour, as if half expecting it to rise up and walk away before their eyes.

Hes dead, right enough, one said. One of ours, do you think?

This far up the Hawking? Its a German spy, the second man said, nodding, as if that explained everything. Bound to be. I say, leave him to the fish.

We wont know who he is until we pull him out, will we? the third said and leaned out to touch the corpse with the boat hook.

Here! the first man cried out, as if this were sacrilege.

The body bobbed a little under the weight of the hook.

He doesnt care, the third man said. Why should you?

Still and all

Turning the hook a little, he put the end under the dead mans collar and pulled. Under the impetus of the hook, the corpse came out of the reeds obediently, as if called, and floated toward the skiff until the shoulder of his dark, water-sodden uniform bumped lightly into the hull.

A bloody officer.

Hes been shot, the third man said as the body shifted. Look at that.

Turn him over, the second man ordered, after peering at the back of the mans head.

With some difficulty, that was done, and all three stared into the dead face, flaccid from hours in the water.

None of our fishermen, the second man went on. Dont know him atall. You?

The first man shook his head. I dunno. Theres something familiar about him. I just cant put a name to him.

Lets have a look, the third man said, and reached out to clutch the front of the sodden uniform, pulling him close enough to thrust his fingers into the mans breast pocket. He came away with a wallet stuffed with pound notes. He whistled in surprise.

The second man was already stretching out a hand for the trouser pocket nearest him, swearing as the skiff dipped alarmingly, and he had to kneel in the bottom of the boat. As the skiff steadied, he managed to dig into the wet cloth and extract more pound notes. Ill be damned!

Opening the wallet, the third man searched for identification. Ah. He pulled out a card from behind the wet notes. Squinting a little, he read, Justin Fowler. London. Whats he doing here, dead, then?

I told you. A German spy.

Youve got spies on the brain, the third man snapped. Get over it.

There had been a spy scare not long before. Several waiters in London restaurants bore German names, and it was reported to the authorities that these men had been listening to private conversations while guests dined, looking for information to be sent back to Berlin. Nothing had come of it, as far as anyone in this part of Essex could discover. Mr. Newly had not been back to the city to visit his daughter, and thus the source of this bit of news had dried up before the spies had been arrested, shot, or deported, allowing for considerable speculation in The Rowing Boat at night. Much had been said about what should be done with such men if they were caught out here, far from London.

Who do you suppose killed him? the first man ventured. Someone who followed him from London? Its not likely to have been anyone from the airfield. Ive never seen them this far upriver.

Most likely whoever shot him shoved him into the water. Out of sight, out of mind. The third man counted the wet notes a second time. Theres almost a hundred pounds here!

Flotsam and jetsam, the second man said. We found it, we keep it. Like a shipwreck. He gazed round at the desolate sweep of water and marsh and gray sky as if half expecting to see a ships hull half sunk in the deeper reaches beyond.

It was an unfortunate reference. They knew, all of them, what a shipwreck could lead to.

What do we do with Mr. Fowler? the first man asked dubiously. If we bring him in, well have to summon the police. Someone is bound to want to know whats become of his money.

Tow him out to sea. Let him wash ashore somewhere else, the third man said, scrabbling in the bottom of the skiff for a length of rope. This he proceeded to loop around the dead mans neck, and then he ordered, Pick up yon oars. I cant row and pull at the same time, now can I?

The first man sat where he was. Were towing him nowhere until theres some understanding here. The money is evenly divided.

I saw him first, the second man ventured. Finders fee.

The hell with that, the third man retorted. Share and share alike, I say. And then theres no room for one of us to feel denied and start trouble. Were all in this together. If one must hang, well all hang.

If I walk home today with this much money in my pocket, my wife will ask questions. What do I say, then? the first man demanded. Shell start the trouble, mark my words.

Then dont march home with the money stuffed in your pocket, you fool. Put it by, and use it a little at a time. You dont go waving it about first thing. Think of your old age, or your daughters wedding, when a bit of the ready will come in handy. This poor devil doesnt need pounds wherever hes gone to, and its a sheer waste to let the sea have it. Weve done nothing wrong, have we? We didnt kill him, we didnt leave him here to be found by a schoolboy looking to fish for his dinner, we just took what hed got no use for. Simple as that.

Half persuaded, the first man said, Still, Ive never kept a secret from my wife. Thatll take some doing. He picked up his oar from the bottom of the skiff and put it in the water.

The third man laughed. Youve never needed to lie before. Now theres a reason.

They began to pull against the incoming tide, heading for the mouth of the inlet, towing the body behind them. The first man scanned the shoreline as they passed.

I dont see anyone about, looking this way. Do you think they can see whats at the end of the rope?

It just appears that weve forgot to bring the rope inboard.

What if he comes back again? the first man asked, glancing over his shoulder. He was finding it a struggle to row against the current with that sluggish weight pulling at the rope attached to it.

He wont, the third man promised. He hasnt been in the water all that long. You can tell, the fishes havent truly got at him yet. But they will. And no one will be the wiser.

But there he was wrong.

London, Summer 1920

S ergeant Hampton had brought the man to Rutledges office, saying only, Inspector Rutledge will help you, sir, before vanishing back down the passage.

The visitor was a walking skeleton, pale except for his dark hair and his pain-ridden dark eyes. Sitting down gingerly in the chair that Rutledge offered, he seemed to feel the hardness of the seat in his bones, for he moved a little, as if hoping to find a more comfortable spot.

My name is Wyatt Russell, he began in a voice thinned by illness. Im dying of cancer, and I want to clear my conscience before I go. I killed a man in 1915 and got away with it. I want to confess to that murder now. There wont be time to try me and hang me, but at least youll be able to close the file and Ill be able to sleep again.