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 take her to a concert on Friday evening-she was an accomplished pianist in her own right, like their mother, and the program included Liszt, one of her favorite composers.

But once that duty was done, the rest of the weekend was his.

It turned out not to be as simple as he’d expected.

Frances enjoyed the concert immensely, as well as the light supper he’d arranged when it was over. Finishing her wine, she said, “Ian, do you think we could drive into Kent tomorrow to call on Melinda?”