“I was in France in 1915,” he said after a moment. “If this is where the murder occurred, you should speak to the Army, not to Scotland Yard.”

“It isn’t an Army matter,” Russell replied shortly.

“Perhaps we should start at the beginning, if I’m to make use of your confession. Where do you live, Mr. Russell?”

“I have a house in the Essex marshes. I’ve lived there all my life, until the war. I have money of my own and have never needed to seek employment.”

“Was the Yard called in to investigate this murder, or was it handled by the Essex police?”

The man smiled. “I really can’t say. I didn’t hang about to see.”

“In that case, can you be certain you killed this man? He could have been wounded and recovered.”

“Yes. I’m absolutely certain. You see, he’s my cousin. I’d have known if he’d cropped up again later. His name is-was-Justin Fowler. Not to speak ill of the dead, but we had our differences, he and I, and in the end they were serious enough that I had to make a decision. That doesn’t excuse killing him, I realize that. I’m simply trying to set the record straight.”

“Was a woman involved?”

Russell was disconcerted. “A woman? Ah. A love triangle. Sorry to disappoint you, but it wasn’t that simple. And I’m not prepared to go into any more detail. Suffice it to say, I killed him and got rid of the body. It was during the war. People were enlisting, going to work in the factories. A time of upheaval, change. No one noticed when he went missing.”

“The more we learn about a murder, the sooner we can determine who is guilty and who isn’t. Establishing motive is an important part of an inquiry.”

“But I’ve just told you-I’ve confessed to killing him. I can show you how and where, and what became of the body. I can’t believe you need any more than that.” His face had flushed, adding ugly blotches of red to his gray complexion.