Watchers of Time (21 page)

As he came to the corner of the main road and Water Street, Rutledge paused and then opened the heavy door of Gifford and Sons. He stepped into Victorian elegance that had sufficed for two additional reigns and seemed to be in no haste to change. The elderly clerk at the desk might have served through all of them. He was tall and stooped, with the soft, very white hair seldom seen on any head younger than eighty. But the blue eyes that turned Rutledge’s way were bright as new paint.

“Good morning, sir,” the clerk greeted him. “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Gifford?”

“No, regrettably,” Rutledge answered with equal formality, recognizing the game. “However, I hope that he’ll spare me a quarter of an hour. My name is Rutledge. Inspector Rutledge, from London.”

The observant eyes took him in from head to toe. “Ah. I shall inquire, sir.” Rutledge wondered how he had fared in the summing up.

The clerk disappeared through a door into the private sanctum.

Looking about him, Rutledge could see that little had changed here since the first Gifford had begun to practice. The three chairs set against the walls of the spacious room were covered in worn leather, and the velvet-shrouded table in one corner was smothered in photographs in gilt frames, mostly of a man growing older, his son following suit, and then two younger men standing firmly in front of the camera with a look of nervous self-importance. A photograph of one of those men, dressed in uniform, had heavy black ribbon threaded through the openwork of the ornate frame.

“Grandfather, father, and sons,” Hamish said. “And one didna’ come home fra’ the War.”

The clerk returned, standing on the threshold. “Mr. Gifford will see you, Inspector.”

He led the way down a narrow passage, where two doors on the left were firmly closed, as if with sad finality. All they lacked was the black crepe of mourning. The clerk paused before a third, opened it, and introduced Rutledge with a Victorian flourish.

Rutledge walked into a paneled room bright with racing prints and glass-fronted bookshelves, a fine mahogany desk that was far older than the man seated in the chair behind it, and on the broad windowsills, an array of antique European snuffboxes and Chinese snuff bottles, each a small, exquisite gem, from enameled gold to cinnabar, ivory to painted glass, porcelain to jade. In the indirect light of morning they were quite beautiful.

A miasma of cigar smoke hung in the air.

Gifford rose to greet Rutledge, and Hamish’s first comment was “He’s small enough to be a jockey!”

He was a foot shorter than Rutledge, with the small features that matched his frame, thin and wiry. His hair was a rich, thick brown, as was his beard.

“I’m Frederick Gifford,” he said, gesturing to a chair. “Do sit down and tell me what I can do for you. I assume you’ve come about the Will?”

Surprised, Rutledge said, “As a matter of fact—”

Gifford nodded. “It seemed unlikely that Inspector Blevins would be interested in its provisions, given the nature of my client’s death. I’m told that they’ve finally caught the killer. It’s chilling to think about: Still, I suppose if someone is poor enough, any sum is princely.” The words echoed those of Monsignor Holston. Moving the blotter to line up with the pen and inkstand in antique silver gilt, Gifford sighed. “But I must admit that I’m surprised Father James’s reputation had reached London. It’s a compliment to his memory that Scotland Yard should take an interest in the matter.”

“He’s fishing,” Hamish warned.

Rutledge, accustomed now to offering a placating sentence or two, answered, “Father James’s Bishop was concerned enough to speak to the Chief Constable about the case. The Yard, as a courtesy, sent me to reassure him that all that it is possible to do was being done.”

“It has most certainly borne fruit!” As if satisfied that Rutledge’s credentials were in order, Gifford went on. “Well, as to the Will. There was nothing extraordinary in it. Father James didn’t leave a large estate, and what there is goes to his only surviving relative, a sister with a very young family. There’s a suitable bequest to Mrs. Wainer, for her years of service as housekeeper, and a small sum for the church fund. Not, I’m sure, as generous as Father James had hoped it might be, in the fullness of time!” His eyes watched Rutledge behind the pedantic mask of solicitor.

“He couldn’t have foreseen an early death,” Rutledge agreed. He had chosen the words carefully, for there seemed to be something more and the solicitor was biding his time. Hamish, at the back of Rutledge’s mind, was also advocating caution. “Of course it’s too soon to be absolutely certain we have the right man. Inspector Blevins strikes me as thorough and experienced. He won’t be satisfied until he’s found the proof he needs. It does no harm to keep the broader picture in mind, meanwhile.”

There was a subtle change in Gifford’s manner, as though he had been waiting for a sign that Rutledge, the outsider, was not usurping the local man’s position. Villagers looked after their own. . . .

“Yes, well, we don’t have many murders in Osterley, thank God! But Blevins is a good man. We went to school together, the three of us—Blevins, my late brother, and I. He followed his father into the constabulary, and we went on to take up law. Two sides of the same coin, in many ways.”

Rutledge acknowledged the connection, saying lightly, “Unless you’re arguing for the defense.”

“True enough.” Gifford’s smile gave his face an unexpected strength. Reaching into a drawer of his desk, he extricated a sheaf of papers. He looked through them and selected one. “There was a codicil added to Father James’s Last Will and Testament some three or four days before he was killed. I haven’t been able to carry out his instructions, as the piece of property he’d specified has been mislaid.” He stared at the sheet before him, as if refreshing his memory, but Rutledge had the feeling he could have quoted the short paragraph from memory. “ ‘I leave the framed photograph in the bottom drawer of my desk to Marianna Elizabeth Trent, in the hope that one day she will have the courage to pursue the obligation that I must now entrust to her.’ ”

“A photograph,” Rutledge repeated, as Hamish echoed the words in his head.

“And an obligation. Yes. It was clearly of paramount importance to him, because he had written it out, to be certain I’d got it right.” Gifford frowned. “As a rule, a bequest is rather simple: a pair of garnet earrings to a favorite niece, or a collection of books to a cousin. That sort of thing. People generally want to ensure that a particular possession ends up in proper hands.”

“What did you make of this?”

“It isn’t my role to question, only to see that everything is regular as far as the law is concerned.”

“You’ve already contrasted Father James’s bequest with that of a pair of garnet earrings,” Rutledge pointed out quietly.

“True enough. When we’d finished, the codicil witnessed properly and so forth, he told me that it was a debt he owed, and wished to see paid. If I thought anything— and I’m not admitting that I did—it was that Father James wished to handle the matter discreetly, whatever it was. Rather than ask his sister to act for him. Or it may be that it was a kinder way of returning a photograph he valued, through a mutual friend.”

“Or—unfinished business of some sort,” Rutledge said, Priscilla Connaught coming to mind again. Was Marianna Elizabeth Trent another failure on the priest’s conscience? “A task he preferred not to ask you, as his solicitor, to perform for him. And using Miss Trent as the intermediary, the gift remains anonymous.”

Gifford stirred uneasily. “Perhaps Miss Trent knows this person. And could be depended on to break the news gently. Or in the right circumstances.”

“But this photograph has been mislaid, you said?”

“As Blevins must have told you, the desk was ransacked. Mrs. Wainer tried to put everything back, poor woman. As far as she remembers, there wasn’t a photograph among the contents, at least not a framed one. I myself looked, and there were no photographs at all in any of the drawers. It could very well be that Father James simply hadn’t gotten around to putting it in the desk. And Mrs. Wainer can’t be sure which of the photographs on display he had in mind, because apparently he never spoke to her about the bequest. Needless to say, I’ve been reluctant to make an issue of it. Nor have I contacted Miss Trent, since it’s rather awkward to admit we can’t put our hands on it.”

“She might know which it is.”

“I’d thought of that. But the Will is under probate, and there’s still time to find it. Early days!” Gifford restored the papers to his drawer. “A single photograph is not often the subject of a codicil, but there’s nothing wrong in it. And as long as the request is legal and reasonable, we are required to honor it.”

Hamish repeated something Rutledge had said earlier: “He couldna’ know he would be killed.”

Which was true. It might have been years before the priest’s Will was executed.

“Ye ken this photograph might be for a child?” Hamish demanded, following Rutledge’s thoughts. “And too young yet to be told who her mother is—or her father.”

Rutledge answered him silently, “And that will bear looking into.” Aloud he added to Gifford, “Will you leave a message for me at the Osterley Hotel, if you locate the photograph? I don’t suppose it will matter to Blevins’s investigation, but at this stage, who can say?”

“Yes, I’ll be happy to do that,” Gifford said, jotting down a few lines in a small leather-bound notebook.

“Did you know Father James well?”

“He was an ordinary man, in many respects. He never made anyone uncomfortably aware of his collar—there was never any fuss about it. I’ve seen him down on the floor reading a book with half a dozen children. But there was a dignity about him as well that I admired. Quite a good tennis player, and possessed of a wry sense of humor. He had the most persuasive voice.” Gifford grinned. “With that gift, I’d have been a barrister! Father James and the Vicar—Mr. Sims—and I sometimes dined together. Not out of deep friendship so much as for the company. I lost my wife in ’15. I’ve learned,” he said ruefully, “that a widower with a good law practice is fair game, to make up the numbers at a dinner party. Especially when a maiden sister or cousin has been invited.”

Rutledge laughed. He had been introduced to all the sisters of his friends and half their cousins—until he’d become engaged and thus considered off the market. A twinge of memory swept him. Jean had been the first to make it clear that he was not a good prospect now. Even for the most desperate spinster.

Gifford prepared to rise, bringing the interview to a close.

But Rutledge sat where he was. “There’s another matter. Did you also serve as solicitor to Herbert Baker and his family?”

It was Gifford’s turn to be surprised. “Herbert Baker? Good God, how did you come to know
him
?”

“I didn’t. But he died shortly before Father James’s death, and I’d like to know how his Will stood.”

Bewildered, Gifford said, “I don’t believe Father James witnessed it, if that’s your point.”

“No, but I understand from Dr. Stephenson that he was in attendance just before Mr. Baker’s death. What can you tell me regarding the Will’s provisions?”

Gifford steepled his fingers. “Very straightforward. There wasn’t much in the way of money, although Baker owned the house he lived in. It’d been his wife’s family home. Naturally he left that to the elder son, Martin, with the proviso that the other son, Dick, and the daughter, Ellen, live there until they married. Dick just came home from hospital, bad shoulder wound. And Ellen is the youngest. A late child.”

Rutledge considered how to put his next question, and decided to be blunt. “Were the three children Herbert Baker’s?”

“Good Lord, I should think they were! Ellen looks very much like her mother, and the brothers are the spitting image of Herbert. Same spare frame, and same high forehead, same left-handedness. Why on earth should you suppose they weren’t?”

“I don’t. I merely wondered if there could be any skeletons in the Baker closet.”

The grin reappeared. “Herbert Baker, if you’d known him, was not the man for skeletons. He was sexton at Holy Trinity until his health broke, and while he’d worked hard all his life, he hadn’t the money or the time to squander on wine, women, and song. A devoted father, most certainly. And as far as I know, an honest man.” The grin broadened into a smile. “If you want the truth, he probably led as boring a life as anyone in Osterley.”

“Then there was nothing that might have rested heavily on his conscience at his death?”

“The only thing that ever worried Herbert Baker as far as I know was his wife’s illness. It was hopeless from the start, but he sent her to London to be treated. Tuberculosis, and too advanced when Dr. Stephenson caught it to expect a cure.” He shrugged. “She was the kind of woman who never complained, never sent for a doctor except in childbirth, used her own remedies for whatever ailed her, and generally died as she’d lived, as self-effacing as possible. But the sanitarium gave her two more years of life, and I don’t believe any of the family would have considered it money wasted!”

“Sanitariums are expensive. Where did a poor man find the money?”

“Charity, if you want my honest opinion. It’s happened before, actually. Not three years ago there was a woman who needed surgery for her goiter, and a generous contribution from her employer paid the better part of the cost. It was done with circumspection—I handled the paperwork myself, as the donor wished to remain anonymous—and this woman has never learned the truth. She believes she paid the entire fee.”