Free The Confession by Charles Todd Page B

times, and met with the same unfriendly refusal to admit to recognizing the dead man. And there was no way to tell whether they were speaking the truth or whether the man was their long-lost brother or son.
    Hamish said, “Speak to a woman.”
    But Rutledge was reluctant to show the photograph to a woman. He’d done so with Mrs. Brothers because she knew the household at River’s Edge and could tell him if she recognized the face.
    He had reached the end of the High Street, where the bend in the road turned slightly north toward the farms. Looking back the way he had come, he decided to try the pub. It was on the river side of the street, just before the small harbor cut into the reedy land.
    He hadn’t chosen to go there first, unwilling to spread word about his search. He knew very well that the men he’d already spoken to might gossip, but he had a feeling they wouldn’t. In a pub, where men gossiped as freely as members of the Women’s Institute, rumor would fly after he’d gone, and he preferred to watch reactions for himself. Still, he needed to find a name, and Chief Superintendent Bowles would be expecting him to produce it when he’d returned to London. And Bowles didn’t care for excuses, however valid. The pub was named—not surprisingly—The Rowing Boat. And the sign above the door, swinging in the light breeze, showed three men pulling for the open sea in their small vessel, backs bent to the oars.
    Rutledge stepped inside. In the dim interior, he could see two men playing cribbage at one table. Another man sat hunched over a corner table, eating a thick sandwich and drinking what appeared to be cider. The windows at the far end of the room looked out over the river, and stairs to one side must lead, he thought, down to a cellar and possibly the water as well.
    Behind the bar, with its gleaming brass, the wood polished from age and generations of elbows, stood a very tall, thin man with receding gray hair. He straightened when he saw that the newcomer wasn’t a regular, and he watched Rutledge stride toward him without a word of welcome. His eyes gave away nothing, but there was a tightening in the muscles around his mouth.
    His first words were, “Police, are you?” The men at the two tables turned to stare.
    â€œMy name is Rutledge,” he began without further identification, and as he passed the photograph across the bar, he repeated what he’d said before, that he was searching for the man’s family.
    â€œComing into money, are they?” the man asked.
    â€œI won’t know until I succeed in finding them.”
    â€œHow did he die, then?”
    â€œHe was found in the river.”
    The barkeep’s eyebrows rose, his first sign of interest. “In the Hawking?”
    â€œNearby,” Rutledge replied. After all, the Thames passed Tilbury. That, in terms of distances in this part of Essex, could be called nearby.
    â€œNever seen him before,” the man said finally.
    â€œHow long have you been barkeep here?”
    The question was met with silence.
    â€œMy guess is a good ten years,” Rutledge continued. “I’m told the dead man once lived here in Furnham. I should think you’d know your custom by face if not by name.”
    â€œI have a very poor memory,” the barkeep answered him, and lifting his voice, he asked, “You there, at the corner table.”
    The man had gone back to his sandwich and now looked up, his craggy brows lifted in surprise at being addressed.
    â€œHave I ever called you by name?”
    The man at the table hesitated.
    â€œWell, have I?”
    â€œNo. Never,” the man responded at last, taking his cue from the barkeep’s tone of voice.
    â€œThere, you see?” he said to Rutledge. “And do I remember,” he went on, to the cribbage players, “do I remember your favorite beverage when you come in?”
    They shook their heads, eyes