Watchers of Time (18 page)

“I was surprised to find the harbor has all but vanished.”

“I—it has been silting up for well over a century, I believe—”

A silence fell. The room, small but comfortably furnished, seemed to stifle her. She looked at the chairs and tables, the magazines on a low stand, the several pieces of Staffordshire porcelain on the mantel—anywhere but at Rutledge’s face.

The door opened and Mrs. Barnett came in with their tea. Miss Connaught seemed almost relieved at the interruption, her eyes following the settling of the heavy tray on a table at her elbow.

Rutledge thanked Mrs. Barnett, and when she had gone, he said, “Would you rather I poured?”

Priscilla Connaught looked up at him, startled. “Yes. Would you? I—” She smiled for the first time, giving her face a little color. “I really think I’d drop the pot!”

He filled their cups, asked her her taste in sugar and cream, and handed her one of them.

She sat back, seeming to draw comfort from the warmth between her two hands. After a silence, she said, “I’ve come to ask you something that matters very much to me. I went to see Inspector Blevins, but the constable on duty tells me he’s gone home and I didn’t want to disturb him there. I’m not on the best of terms with his wife.”

“I don’t know that I can help you—” Rutledge began.

“It isn’t a state secret!” she said abruptly. “Surely not. I need to know, you see—I need to know if the man they have at the police station is the person who killed Father James. The constable suggested that I speak to you.”

Ah! Rutledge thought. Aloud he said, “Inspector Blevins believes that the man is the murderer. Yes.”

“And what do you think?”

Parrying the question, he asked, “Do you know Matthew Walsh?”

Surprised, she said, “Is that his name? No, I have no idea who he is.”

“He came to the bazaar. He was the Strong Man.”

“Oh. I
do
remember seeing him. He was quite a spectacle, actually. Why do they think
he
killed Father James?” She sipped her tea, and he thought for an instant that she was going to spill it—the contents seemed to move in tiny waves, in concert with her nervousness.

“Why are you so concerned for him?” Rutledge asked.

“Concerned?” she repeated, as if bewildered. “For him? No—I have no interest in him at all. I want to know who killed Father James. It’s very important to me to know! That’s why I’ve asked about this man.”

“Are you a parishioner at St. Anne’s?”

“I attend Mass there. But you’re not answering my question directly. Have the police found Father James’s murderer or haven’t they?”

“We aren’t sure,” he said. Something in her face shifted. Disappointment? Was that what she felt? He couldn’t be certain. “There appear to be very good reasons to believe that this man could have committed the crime. But there are also some unexplained problems. The courts may have to sort it out.”

“I need to know!” she said again, her voice harsh with that need. “I can’t wait until the courts do their work.”

“Why?” he asked bluntly. “Did you care so much for the priest?”

“I hated him!” Priscilla Connaught said roughly.

For an instant Rutledge was reminded of what Mrs. Wainer had told him. That Father James had been killed for revenge.

“That’s a very strong word, hate,” he told her. “And if you did hate him, why should you care whether his killer is found or not?”

“Because whoever killed Father James has cheated me!” she cried, her voice trembling. “And I want to see him hang for that!”

Looking back on the encounter, Rutledge realized that his face must have reflected his shock. Priscilla Connaught set her cup on the tray with a clatter that sent tea over the lip of the saucer and onto the shining silver surface.

“I shouldn’t have come,” she said, rising to her feet. “I didn’t mean a word of what I’ve just said. I’m upset, that’s all. Everyone in Osterley is upset by this murder. Frightened by it. It’s late, I must go—!”

Rutledge stood also. “No, I think you’ve told me the truth. And in my opinion, you owe me some explanation—”

“I just want the killer found, that’s all! That part is true enough. And I wanted to know if that man—what did you say his name was?”

“Walsh. Matthew Walsh.”

“Yes. If that man Walsh was likely to be the murderer. And you won’t tell me straight out whether you believe he is or not!”

She was flushed, and Rutledge thought she was close to tears. Suddenly he felt a wave of pity.

“We don’t have enough proof to charge him yet. It’s circumstantial evidence at the moment. But Inspector Blevins is waiting for information that might give us the answer to your question. And as a precaution he’s holding Walsh until it arrives.”

“Oh, God.” Her face seemed to close in on itself, the features tightening as if the muscles were pinched together. “Well, at least that’s honest.” She glanced around, searching for her purse, found it on the floor by her chair, and stooped to pick it up. “I’m sorry I interrupted your meal, Inspector. But I live alone; there’s no one to talk to about this. I sometimes think I’ve lost my perspective.”

“I wish you would be as honest with me,” Rutledge answered. “Why did you hate Father James?”

She sighed in resignation, brushing the edge of her hand across her forehead. “It was a very long time ago. Well in the past, and nothing to do with the police. It was before he became a priest. I went to him for advice, and he gave it to me. I followed it because I trusted him. And it ruined my life. It destroyed everything I believed in and loved and cared about. And this man who was so
wise
and
compassionate
and
understanding
became a priest. I have often wondered just how many other lives he ruined in his righteous belief in his own infallibility. But as long as I could hate him, I had something to live for, you see! And now that’s been taken away from me. And I really have nothing left. When that man killed Father James, he might as well have killed me, too!”

She swept past him, and out the door. Rutledge, staring at her stiff and uncompromising back, let her go.

Rutledge was halfway up the stairs when he thought about Monsignor Holston. He went down again to the lobby, found the telephone in the little alcove behind the desk, and put in a call to Norwich.

Eventually the priest answered, sounding out of breath. Rutledge identified himself.

“Sorry, I had to make a dash to answer the phone. Is there more news?”

“No, I’m afraid not. But I do have a small mystery on my hands. Tell me, do you know anyone called Priscilla Connaught?”

Monsignor Holston considered the question. “Connaught? No, I can’t place her.”

“She’s a parishioner here at St. Anne’s.”

“Was she at Mass this morning?”

“I didn’t see her. Tall, slim, graying dark hair.”

“No. I can’t put a face to the name. Does it matter? You could speak to Mrs. Wainer. She’d be able to tell you, surely?”

“Probably not important,” Rutledge said lightly. “Apparently Miss Connaught knew Father James a good many years ago. His death seems to have upset her more than most.”

“Priests have friendships, like anyone else. That shouldn’t surprise you.” There was a smile in the voice at the other end of the line.

“No, as a matter of fact, it doesn’t,” Rutledge responded. And after thanking Monsignor Holston, he hung up the telephone receiver.

Hamish said, “She wasna’ the kind of friend yon priest in Norwich would be told about. If she believed that Father James had ruined her life.”

“Yes,” Rutledge said slowly. “It’s an interesting thought, isn’t it? I wonder if she came to Confession every week to tell him how much she hated him. The skeleton at the feast, reminding the merrymakers of their fate. Or in this case, the priest of his failure.”

The dining room was closed, the French doors shut, and Mrs. Barnett was just coming out of the lounge with a tray laden with the cups and pots of tea that she had collected there.

The contrast with Priscilla Connaught was striking. Mrs. Barnett looked tired, her hands red from dishwater, and her black dress rumpled from the heat of the kitchen.

Rutledge offered to take the heavy tray, but she shook her head. “I’m used to it. But thank you.” She rested it on the polished wood of the reception desk, and said thoughtfully, “I didn’t know you were a policeman.”

“I wasn’t here in a strictly official capacity. Not at first,” he answered her. “But Inspector Blevins is understandably eager to complete this investigation. I’ve been asked to stay on until then.”

“Yes, I’d heard there was an arrest.” She looked around her at the lobby and the stairs to the rooms above. “I was glad it wasn’t someone who had stayed
here,
that week. That would have been shocking! We always have a few guests for such an event.”

Taking the opportunity presented, Rutledge asked, “Would you mind telling me what you know about Miss Connaught?”

Alarm filled Mrs. Barnett’s eyes. “I can’t believe
she
has anything to do with Father James’s death!”

“She offered some information, that’s all. I wondered if it was trustworthy.”

“Ah.” Mrs. Barnett turned the tray a little, thinking. “It probably is, because she has no particular reason to lie, as far as I know. She keeps to herself.” And then as if prompted by his attentive silence, Mrs. Barnett explained, “Which hasn’t endeared her to most of the women here in Osterley. Many of them have put her down as a snob. That reserve of hers shuts people out. My late husband always believed she’d been involved in some sort of scandal, and was banished from Society.” She tilted her head, in the way women did when amused about the antics of men. “Well, that’s the romantic view, anyway.”

“What’s the general impression?” Rutledge asked, as if merely curious.

“That the only reason she’d be content in Osterley for so many years is that she has nowhere else to go. Occasionally she’s invited to dinner, to make up the numbers, and if she accepts, she’s pleasant company. But not the sort of woman another woman would sit down and have a good gossip with. Men seem to find her rather attractive and well-informed. But she’s not a flirt. I’d always wondered if she was married to someone rather unpleasant and there was a nasty divorce. The woman who cleans for her helps out here at the hotel when we’re busy, and according to her, Miss Connaught has no photographs or other personal things in the house, as if there’s no past that she cares to remember.”

Hamish commented, “Or no future to fill . . .”

Realizing that she had said more than she intended, Mrs. Barnett reached for her tray. Glancing up at Rutledge, she added, “I shouldn’t have told you that! It’s no more than idle speculation and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t pass it on. As owner of the only hotel, my livelihood is dependent on my discretion.”

“I see no purpose in passing it on. You’ve helped me make a personal judgment, that’s all.”

Lifting the tray again, she smiled. “It must be the fact that you’re a policeman. You listen rather well, and before I knew it, I was rattling on. Or perhaps I’ve missed my dear friend Emily more than I’d realized, since she moved to Devon to be with her daughter!”

He opened the door to the kitchen for her, and said good night.

CHAPTER 10

STILL MULLING OVER HIS CONVERSATION WITH Priscilla Connaught, Rutledge went out the hotel door into the evening air. The wind had picked up off the sea, cold as night, and he shivered. Turning toward The Pelican Inn, he made his way up Water Street to the main road, stopping for a time to look up at Holy Trinity. The church had beautiful proportions in this light, standing stark against the sky and framed by trees that marched south of it. Whoever had built it had had an eye for setting as well as architecture. Castles usually went up on the highest point in a district, but here it was the church. It must have been built after the Black Plague and the worst of the Wars of the Roses, because there were no defensive aspects in the design. Gracefulness was its hallmark, and the long windows, the high clerestory, the rise of the roof gave the tall tower at the west front and the round beacon tower at the chancel an elegance of their own.

Among the trees in the churchyard, Rutledge’s night-accustomed eyes picked out a solitary figure, head bent, standing among the gravestones. Then the figure straightened to stare up at the night sky above the towers. A mourner? Or another lonely soul with no home he wanted to go to?

“Like you?” Hamish asked softly.

Turning, Rutledge walked along the main road, passing the darkened windows of Dr. Stephenson’s surgery, the brightly lit ones of the police station, and what appeared to be a small country solicitor’s office tucked—with a prosperous air—into the corner where Water Street and the Hunstanton Road met.

His mind kept returning to the different view of Father James that Priscilla Connaught had presented to him, and before he could sleep, he wanted to think it through. Right or wrong, she herself believed it implicitly. Until half an hour ago, he’d believed that everyone had mourned Father James, the man and the priest, in equal measure.

“Relegating the dead to sainthood,” Hamish pointed out, “is no’ uncommon. No one wants to speak ill of the recent dead.”