Watchers of Time (26 page)

Hamish said, “Aye, but there’s naught to be done. You canna’ stop the investigation.”

Rutledge gestured to the chair she had risen from, but she shook her head. And then, as if her legs wouldn’t support her any longer, she sank back into the seat.

“Do you know Lord Sedgwick well, Miss Connaught?”

“Lord Sedgwick? Hardly at all. I have met his son Edwin—but that must be close to sixteen or seventeen years ago, now.” She sounded distracted, as if only half her mind was on what she was saying.

“Here in Osterley?” Rutledge persisted, keeping to a neutral topic.

“No, Edwin sometimes stayed with a family I knew in London. He was little more than a boy at the time, and I didn’t like him very much.”

“Why not?”

“He was very easily bored, and more than a little selfish. He’d lost his mother, and everyone rather spoiled him. But I’ve heard that he turned out rather well—he was on someone’s staff at the Peace Conference last spring.”

“And Arthur?”

“I know him by sight, of course, but we’ve never met. Like his father, he was married to an American woman—I did meet her once. At a vicarage tea I’d been persuaded to attend. One of those sweet girls with little to say for herself. And unbelievably pretty. They spent most of the year in Yorkshire and seldom came to Osterley. Later I heard that she’d died.”

She was beginning to breathe more regularly now, finding it easier to carry on a polite conversation. The intensity that had held her on the edge of breakdown was draining away, and in its place was a precarious control again.

“Lord Sedgwick was concerned about the brakes on your motorcar.”

“He rather enjoys playing lord of the manor. And I’ve good reason to thank him for that—his chauffeur rescued me once when I’d lost my way and run out of petrol.” As if realizing that she was steadier, she asked again, “Are you sure—have you told me the whole truth about Walsh?”

Her eyes begged him for an honest answer.

“Yes,” he said gently. “I have no reason to lie to you.”

And yet he thought he had. She’d been distraught enough to do something foolish, before she’d reasoned out the consequences.

“Aye,” Hamish said, “it wouldna’ do to have
her
blood on your hands!”

She stood up again. “I must be on my way—”

“Whatever rumors you hear,” Rutledge told her, “come to me and I’ll tell you the truth. I give you my word.”

Priscilla Connaught took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m not sure I can believe you. I don’t know, I can’t somehow think straight.”

“It might be a good idea to speak to Dr. Stephenson. Someone you trust.”

She laughed, a hollow and mirthless sound. “There’s not much a medical doctor can do for a shattered life.”

“I wish you would tell me what Father James—”

Priscilla Connaught shook her head with finality. “It had nothing to do with his death. Only with his life. And that’s finished. Over and done with.”

She looked around, saw her purse on the table, and as she picked it up, spoke again. “I’ve lain awake at night, wondering who could have murdered him. If there was someone else he’d treated as cruelly as he’d treated me. I think I’d be happier believing that than in the story of a thief.” Then she turned toward Rutledge again.

“Thank you for your concern, Inspector,” she said with great poise, as if they’d spent an evening in pleasant conversation and she was leaving the party. “You’ve been quite kind.”

And with that, she wished him a good night and walked past him out the door.

Another of Father James’s failures, he thought, watching the door close behind her. Like Peter Henderson’s father . . . How many were there?

Mrs. Barnett was still in the office when Rutledge came back to the lobby and paused by the desk.

“Yes, Inspector?” she said, looking up.

“I’m told that Mr. Sims, Frederick Gifford, and Father James dined together from time to time. Did they come here?”

“Yes, about twice a month, generally. Occasionally it would be just Father James and the Vicar. I’ve always looked forward to having them come. They were no trouble at all, and I’d enjoy chatting with them when I brought their tea to the lounge.” The memory of that caught her for a moment. “It’s not easy, running this hotel on my own. I have so little time for anything else. It was almost like having friends drop by, because they would tell me about a book I might enjoy reading or where someone they knew had been traveling or even a bit of news from London that I hadn’t heard. My husband knew all of them quite well, you see, and in a small way it brought him back to me for just a little while.”

Something to look forward to . . .

It was a gratification Rutledge did not have. And he had, after a fashion, come to terms with the fact that how he lived today, on the edge of breakdown and exhaustion, would be a pattern he could expect in his tomorrows. It was not self-pity, whatever Hamish drummed into his head, but acceptance. The price of living with himself.

Mrs. Barnett hesitated, on the point of wishing him a good night.

Instead he asked, “Would you give me the name of the young woman who is also staying here?”

Something altered in her face. “I’m sorry, Inspector. She’s a guest here, and you must ask her yourself.”

Hamish said, “It’s no’ unusual, for a hotel to guard the privacy of a woman traveling alone.”

Rutledge, inexplicably angry, as if accused of a breach of manners, said curtly, “It’s a matter of police business, Mrs. Barnett, not personal interest.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth before he regretted them. But it was too late to recall them.

Mrs. Barnett stared at him, as if she didn’t believe him. Then she replied stiffly, “Her name is Trent, Inspector.”

He didn’t hear what else she was saying, something about Somerset.

“Is her first name Marianna?”

“She’s registered as May Trent.”

But May was often a diminutive for Mary. The Queen, Mary, was called May by her family.

Had Gifford known Marianna Trent was staying in Osterley? He’d chosen not to tell Rutledge that.

Or was he trying to make sure that Rutledge didn’t go in search of the woman?

“You didna’ ask,” Hamish informed him.

The next morning, Rutledge found Inspector Blevins already in his office at the station. A letter lay open on the blotter in front of him.

He looked up as a constable ushered Rutledge into the room, and nodded.

“I hope your morning has been fairer than mine.”

Rutledge said, “The scissors sharpener?”

“Yes, a man named Bolton. He swears Walsh was with him the night the priest was murdered. It won’t be easy to pry the truth out of him. If there is any truth to be had.”

“I have another bit of bad news. The London police believe they’ve found the body of Iris Kenneth in the Thames. The woman who kept the lodgings where Iris Kenneth lived was satisfied enough to sell her belongings for whatever they might bring.”

Blevins was staring at him. “When was she found?”

“A week ago. Two days before you picked up Walsh.”

“Damn!” Blevins leaned back in his chair. “It’s like dealing with a will-o’-the-wisp—you no sooner think you have your hands on the truth when it evaporates like morning fog! Do you think Walsh might have killed her? To shut her up?”

“God knows. There’s no real evidence to support murder. She may have killed herself. Or someone else may have put her into the water. I did ask Mrs. Rollings about an old pair of men’s shoes. She couldn’t believe that Iris Kenneth had ever owned anything of the kind.”

Blevins reached for the letter he’d tossed aside. “Read this.”

It was a statement from the cart maker. One Matthew Walsh had contracted with him for a new cart on 31 August, 1919, and had paid on account until the agreed-upon sum had been reached. The last payment, four days after Father James’s death, was in small notes and coins. The problem was, the other three payments had been as well.

“It’s a conspiracy, that’s what it is,” Blevins went on sourly. “Standing by each other—the cart maker, the scissors sharpener, Walsh . . . I don’t know what to believe.”

“It’s odd, isn’t it, for a scissors sharpener to be friendly with a Strong Man who frequents bazaars and small fairs? They aren’t of the same class. One is an itinerant peddler, the other a showman of sorts.”

“Yes, I’d thought about that. But there’s a connection, in fact. The two men were in the same unit in the War. War changes things.”

It did. You learned to trust a man not because of what he had been in civilian life but for what kind of soldier he made. Whether your life was safe in his hands when you went over the top or whether he was likely to get you killed . . .

“Which could matter enough for this man Bolton to lie for him,” Hamish was saying.

Or—Bolton might have been standing watch the night of the murder.

“It might well have been Bolton’s shoe print out by the lilac bushes,” Rutledge said aloud.

“I’d considered that. I don’t think I could prove it, not without the shoe he was wearing at the time. But there’s a possibility, all the same. Witnesses saw Bolton any number of times that day, but no one saw Walsh. Bolton claims he came in just after dusk. Could be the truth.”

“What does Walsh say?”

“What you’d expect. He was happy to claim it was true and he demanded to be released at once.” Inspector Blevins’s lips twisted in a bitter smile. “As for helping us with our inquiries, I’ve pried more information from a razor clam!”

Rutledge asked, “If Walsh isn’t your man—for whatever reason—where will you look next?”

Blevins said grimly, “I bloody well don’t know! I’d already looked at the good people of Osterley, before Walsh turned up as a likely suspect. And there was nothing I could find that made any sense, nothing that pointed to someone wanting to murder Father James. Theft was the most likely reason for what happened, and Walsh was the most likely thief. But it’s early days yet! I’ve yet to hear from the War Office, we’re still tracking Walsh’s movements, and I am going to crack Bolton’s alibi, if I can. Early days!” he said again, as if to convince himself.

“Do you know a Priscilla Connaught?”

“Yes. She lives alone out by the marshes and seldom mixes with anyone in Osterley, as far as I know.”

“She’s a member of St. Anne’s.”

“So are fifty other people. Sixty.” Blevins leaned forward, his elbows on the blotter. “My money is still on Walsh. Until I’m satisfied that there’s no earthly chance he’s guilty.”

He looked at Rutledge, pain in his face. “I’ve told you before, I
want
the killer to be a stranger. I don’t want it to be anyone I know. I don’t want to think that any member of St. Anne’s parish, any friend of mine, any neighbor— any enemy for that matter—could murder a priest!”

“And yet,” Hamish said, “he was killed!”

Rutledge said, “It would be easier to watch a stranger hang.”

Blevins shook his head. “I’ll watch the murderer hang. It won’t matter to me if I know his face or not. It isn’t the hanging that I can’t live with. It’s the thought that someone I have seen every day in Osterley is capable of such a crime.” He regarded Rutledge for a moment. “You’re not a Catholic. You may not see this the way I do.”

“I don’t see that being a Catholic has anything to do with it.” He refused to be drawn beyond that.

The Inspector looked away, his eyes moving on to the high, soot-streaked ceiling, as if searching for answers there. “Murder isn’t finished by killing, that’s what I’ve learned in this business. It’s just the beginning. A death opens doors that are better left shut. I’m a very good policeman. I do my duty and I mind my town like a bitch watching her pups. I see that people live in safety and in peace, if not in harmony. And the harmony is gone now.”

Against his will, Rutledge said, “What do you know about Peter Henderson?”

Blevins’s eyes came back to him. “Peter? I don’t think he’s capable of killing anyone ever again.” There was a pause. “But his shoes are old and worn. And Father James did his best to heal the breach with Peter’s father. When he couldn’t, he tried to make Peter swallow his pride and go to the old man and beg forgiveness, if only to be accepted back into the family at the end. They—Father James and Peter—quarreled about that. Publicly. Down on the quay. You could probably make a good case for Peter Henderson. But I don’t want to. The poor devil’s suffered enough.”

Rutledge retrieved his motorcar from the hotel and drove to Old Point Road, his destination the rectory.

Mrs. Wainer, surprised to see him, opened the door wide and said, “Come in, sir. Has there been any news?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I wanted to ask you—”

From the kitchen came an old voice, saying, “ ’Oo is it, Ruth? Is it Tommy?”

“It’s the policeman from London, dear.” She turned back to Rutledge, apologetic. “It’s Mrs. Beeling. She’s come for a cup of tea and a gossip. In the kitchen . . .”

“I won’t keep you—” Rutledge began, but the housekeeper shook her head.

“No. Come along back, if you don’t mind—she’s not well, and I don’t like leaving her alone too long!”