The Confession by Charles Todd

watched, Frances had said.
    It would tend, he thought, to make a man with a guilty conscience nervous. Was that why the house stood empty? The whispers that a man’s mind turned to accusation?
    He drew up before the church. He had no idea where to look for the Rectory, although there must be one. But with luck, he might find someone inside who could direct him.
    The sign announcing that this was the Church of St. Edward the Confessor had a new message today on the hoarding below: Seek and ye shall find. He will welcome all who come to Him.
    Rutledge hoped that a welcome would prove to be true. It had not in Furnham.
    He opened the door, listening to the squeal of rusty hinges as he stepped into the plain, Victorian interior.
    â€œYe willna’ have to seek anyone. Yon caterwauling will bring them running.”
    And Hamish was right. A door at the rear of the sanctuary opened and a man stepped through.
    He was wearing a clerical collar and an anxious expression on his square, sun-browned face. It was difficult to judge his age. He was one of those men who would appear boyish well into their forties. Rutledge found himself thinking that this must be a drawback for a clergyman trying to project an image of experience and wisdom.
    He didn’t come forward. He merely stopped where he was, seeing a stranger, and asked in a strong voice that belied his anxiety, “Are you lost?”
    â€œMr. Morrison? I’m from London. Scotland Yard. I’d like to speak to you about one of your parishioners.”
    â€œIndeed?” It was a question, not a statement. “We have the usual number of reprobates here, but I can’t recall that any of them has lately come to the attention of Scotland Yard.”
    â€œIs there somewhere we could talk?” Rutledge asked.
    The man gestured to the pews that filled the sanctuary. “There are seats aplenty here. Shall we take one of them?”
    Rutledge walked forward, and the other man didn’t move until he had come to the last row but one. “Will this do?”
    â€œYes. Thank you.” The man stepped forward and finally held out his hand. “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me.”
    â€œInspector Rutledge.”
    â€œAh. Well, Mr. Rutledge, I must confess that I’m not in the confidence of many of my flock, but I’ll do what I can to help.”
    They sat down on the hard wood of the pew, facing each other. Rutledge reached into his pocket and took out the locket on its delicate chain. Opening it, he held it out, but he already knew the answer to his question before he asked it. “Do you know this woman?”
    â€œYes. Yes, I did,” Morrison replied slowly, reaching for the locket, although it was clear he didn’t require a closer look. “She once lived nearby.”
    â€œCould you tell me her name?”
    â€œWhere did you find this locket? May I ask?”
    â€œIn Gravesend,” Rutledge answered. When the rector said nothing more, his eyes on the photograph, Rutledge added, “The police found it around the neck of a body taken from the Thames.”
    â€œDear God!” The rector closed the locket with a snap, as if he couldn’t bear to look at it any longer. He turned his gaze toward the altar. “Who—has the body been identified?”
    â€œWe have reason to believe that it is, was, one Wyatt Russell.”
    The relief filling in the rector’s eyes was almost painful to watch. Rutledge looked away. “Did you know him?” he asked.
    â€œI—yes, I knew him. He lived not far from here.”
    â€œAt River’s Edge, in fact.”
    â€œYes, how did you know?”
    â€œHe came to see me shortly before his death. You haven’t told me who the woman is.”
    â€œWas he a suicide?”
    â€œHe was murdered,” Rutledge replied shortly. “What is her name, Rector?”
    â€œGod rest his soul,” Morrison said fervently, crossing