Free The Confession by Charles Todd Page A

wasn’t wise, was it?”
    London, the den of iniquity? “No, it must not have been,” he answered.
    â€œI don’t suppose you know how that man came by Mrs. Russell’s locket or had Miss Cynthia’s photograph in it?”
    â€œNo. But when I find Miss Farraday, perhaps she can tell me.”
    â€œYes, and she’ll lead you up the garden path, if I know her, unless she’s changed.” As if she’d said more than she intended, Mrs. Brothers added, “But to be fair, she wasn’t wicked, just lively and sometimes trying.”
    â€œDid you by any chance keep in touch with her after she left River’s Edge?”
    â€œThere I can’t help you, and I’m that sorry. I never knew just where it was she went to in London. But she could have told me ten times over, and it wouldn’t have made any difference. I was never in London, you see. I did hear that the house had belonged to her parents, which isn’t much help, as she’s likely married by now and living somewhere else.”
    He finished his tea, retrieved the locket from the table along with the envelope, and prepared to take his leave, thanking her.
    â€œYou never told me how you came to have Mrs. Russell’s locket.”
    He owed her the truth.
    â€œThe dead man was wearing it when he was pulled from the river.”
    â€œIf this man,” she said after digesting what Rutledge had told her, “had the locket—where did he get it? Did he know what became of Mrs. Russell?”
    â€œI wish I could answer that,” Rutledge said. “But he told the police at one time that Russell had killed Fowler.”
    She shook her head vehemently. “I don’t believe a word of that. Now I could see maybe Mr. Russell taking his fists to Mr. Fowler. He had a black temper on him, Mr. Wyatt did. But murder? No.”
    â€œBut you said that they were jealous of Cynthia Farraday’s attentions.”
    â€œIf every jealous man took to killing his rival, you’d be busier than a beaver in a rainstorm!” she retorted. “What’s more, in your shoes, I wouldn’t believe someone wearing a dead woman’s locket.”
    F rom the Brothers farm, Rutledge drove back to Furnham and left his motorcar by The Dragonfly Inn. It was small and for Furnham, rather picturesque, with a cottage garden in front where hollyhocks bloomed among other summer flowers.
    The streets were busier now, women going about their marketing, fishermen coming up from the water, workmen standing in front of the ironmonger’s, passing the time of day. Beyond the High Street, the river was dappled with sunlight, and the boats riding at anchor were turning with the tide.
    Rutledge stopped the first man he encountered. From his rough clothing, he appeared to be a laborer, and there was cement crusted in the cuticles of his fingers.
    â€œMy name is Rutledge,” he began, already drawing the photograph out of its envelope. “I’m trying to locate the family of this man.” He held it out.
    The man barely glanced at it. From his flat expression it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. “Don’t know him,” he said, and brushing the extended photograph aside, he walked on.
    Rutledge continued down the street, found another man just coming out of the ironmonger’s, a bolt in his hand, staring down at it as if he weren’t satisfied with the choice he’d made. He looked up when a shadow fell over his hand.
    â€œWho are you?” he demanded, as if Rutledge had dropped from the moon.
    Rutledge recognized him, the man in corduroy trousers and a workman’s shirt who had challenged him earlier as he drove along the street with Frances. He wasn’t sure, however, that the man remembered him. He repeated his earlier approach.
    The man pushed his extended arm aside. “Never saw him before,” he said brusquely as he walked on.
    Rutledge tried three more