The Confession Read Free Page B

least from locals wanting them out.”
    â€œWhat sort of trouble?”
    â€œWind, for one thing, and low-lying mists on the water. And then there was the burning of hay ricks, sending smoke across the field. Petty theft. Quarrels among the men posted there and their neighbors. Mind you, many of the local girls didn’t object to the newcomers. That may’ve had something to do with it. From what I was told, Furnham is fairly isolated. Change wouldn’t be welcomed.”
    â€œWhat became of the airfield when the war ended?”
    â€œI expect it was turned back to the farmer who owned it.”
    Rutledge nodded. “Makes sense. All right, thank you, Greene.”
    â€œAnything come up about Furnham? I can’t say I’d mind going there to see it for myself.”
    â€œSome mention was made of the airfield over lunch. I was curious,” Rutledge said easily and went to his office.
    He debated whether to initiate an official inquiry into the murder that Russell had confessed to, and then decided against it. He wasn’t completely certain about the man’s motive in coming to the Yard.
    But his own curiosity had been aroused, and it would do no harm, he told himself, to look into it unofficially. If more information turned up, he could bring in the Yard.
    Two hours later, the reports on his desk finished, he went to Somerset House to look up Justin Fowler and Wyatt Russell.

Chapter 3
    S et on the banks of the Thames below The Strand, Somerset House had become the repository of records for births and deaths and marriages in England and Wales. Named for a Tudor palace long since demolished, it had been designed with the intent to collect in one place offices of government formerly scattered across London, from Inland Revenue to the Admiralty. Nelson was said to have had rooms there, although it was unlikely.
    Rutledge spent three-quarters of an hour looking for Justin Fowler. The name had been passed down through three generations in one family, and there were six more unrelated Fowlers who could also have been the murder victim.
    Finally settling on Justin Arthur Ambrose Fowler, who was only two years older than Russell appeared to be, he discovered that there was no date of death registered. And no marriage.
    Wyatt Russell was easier to find, again with no date of death. But he had been married to a Louisa Mary Harmon, who had died barely a year later in childbirth.
    There appeared to be a connection between Fowler and Russell—their grandmothers shared the same maiden name—Sudbury. And from what Rutledge could determine, going back through records, the women were cousins. Fowler’s parents died in the same year and within two days of each other, when Fowler was eleven.
    Russell had been born at River’s Edge in Essex, Fowler in Colchester.
    He spent another half hour looking at various branches of the family but found nothing else that seemed to connect the two men in any way.
    Thanking the clerk for his assistance, Rutledge went back to the Yard to find a map of Essex.
    River’s Edge was not shown, which very likely meant it was the name of a house, just as Russell had indicated, and not a village. But he did find Furnham at the mouth of the River Hawking, set on a hook of land that curled out into the water. Like the Thames, the Blackwater, and the Crouch, Zeppelin navigators used the Hawking to find their way to London for raids. But unlike the Thames, the Blackwater, and the Crouch, the Hawking had never become popular with yachtsmen or possessed a Coastguard station at its mouth. Until the airfield had been built, it had probably remained little changed for hundreds of years.
    So far, it appeared, the story Russell had told seemed to hold up.
    Where was Justin Fowler? Alive and well in Colchester, or even Cornwall, for that matter? Or was he dead, his body as yet undiscovered?
    Rutledge considered the upcoming weekend. He’d promised his sister Frances to