Watchers of Time (6 page)

Hardly a den of iniquity, Rutledge silently pointed out to Hamish. This was more the study of a scholarly man, a place for retreat and thought.

Hamish reserved his opinion.

Setting his book aside and standing, the man crossed the room and held out his hand. “From London, are you? That’s a fair journey! Bryony, some tea for the two of us.”

She cast a quick, smiling look at Rutledge and said, “The kettle is already on the boil.” The door closed silently behind her.

“I’m Monsignor Holston,” the tall, thin man continued. He had an aesthetic face and the eyes of a policeman— intent, knowing. The long nose, bearing a pince-nez, was aristocratic and gave the face character if not beauty. But the grip of his calloused hand was firm, strong. He offered Rutledge one of the chairs by the table, and returned to his own to mark his place in the book, close it, and set it aside. “I’m instructed to speak to you on Bishop Cunningham’s behalf. He was called away on pressing diocesan business. Scotland Yard. Well, I’m pleased to see you, I must say. This matter of Father James’s death has been worrying. What can you tell me?”

Rutledge smiled. “It’s more a matter of what you can tell me. I’ve come to listen.”

“Ah. Yes. Well, let’s not wait for our tea, then.” Monsignor Holston ran his fingers along the edge of the leather corners of the blotter. “It’s very straightforward, what the police propose must have happened. The local people took one look at the scene—at the desk broken open, most particularly—and declared that Father James had surprised a man intent on stealing funds collected at the bazaar a fortnight previously. Certainly the money was missing.” He realized how formal his words sounded, as if he were quoting directly from the police record, and made an effort to continue in a more natural tone. “Father James was usually in the church at that hour, you see, hearing Confessions, and should have been in the confessional, not his study. It must have been quite a shock to the intruder to hear him coming up the stairs! According to Inspector Blevins, the man panicked, seized the crucifix from Father James’s altar, and struck him down before fleeing. That’s all the police can tell me with any certainty.” The priest stopped, and the blue eyes studied Rutledge’s face. There was a wariness in them.

“Straightforward, yes,” Rutledge agreed. “But you—or your Bishop—apparently weren’t satisfied. Why? Is there more to the story than the police have learned? Or is it something to do with the circumstances in which he was found?”

“Sadly, no, we have no information about the crime itself.” Monsignor Holston smiled wryly. “Except that if it was robbery, it was unnecessary. Father James was a very caring priest. He’d have helped the man; he wouldn’t have turned him away. Or turned him in, for that matter. What’s frightening is—” He broke off and then added, “I spoke to the Bishop myself after I’d been summoned to Osterley by the police. I tried to explain what it was about the crime that troubled me.” He adjusted his glasses, as if to see his way more clearly through his own feelings. “I stood looking down at the body, and it’s true, the shock unsettled me. It was such a waste—a terrible, unspeakable waste! But my reaction went beyond that. I felt something that was
primeval.
Fear, if you will.”

Hamish stirred.

Rutledge said, “If he was a friend, that’s a fairly common reaction, Monsignor. Of a life squandered, and a certain anxiety because death has struck so near.” He paused. “Father James had died unshriven. Perhaps unconsciously, that weighed heavily. It would be natural for you to be concerned.”

“Yes, I’d take that into account. Of course I would. But it was more than that. God knows I’ve attended my share of deathbeds. Like a physician, I’m able to separate my emotions into tidy cubbyholes, in order to function. But not this time.” He looked down at his hands. “I grant you that to a poor man the sum collected at the bazaar must have seemed enormous. The blows, Inspector Blevins told me, were struck in rapid succession. A frenzy, if you will. A terrified man, caught out unexpectedly, might well have reacted in that fashion, hating what he was doing but driven to shield himself. And yet somehow I can’t accept that. If he had come
openly
—”

“There may have been reasons why the intruder couldn’t come openly. Or perhaps he’d convinced himself that theft was the easier way. That he couldn’t keep his promise to repay—or see that he worked out the money in time or kind.”

“Yes, I grant you that. But consider two things. The intruder must have known the pattern of Father James’s usual movements. Otherwise, why choose that time of day? And he must have known that the study was upstairs, and that that was where the money was being kept. He didn’t ransack the rest of the house. He went directly to the study! And surely the first place he’d have searched— the most logical choice—was a desk drawer. The money
was
in there. Why tear the room apart, if he’d got what he came for? In my opinion, if the thief had been more careful opening that drawer and had slipped away before Father James came back from hearing Confession, surely no one would have been able to say with any certainty just when the money went missing!”

“Logic seldom enters into it. A man robbing a house is usually in a hurry and not eager to be caught. If he’d just killed in a fit of panic, he might have wanted to make it seem he’d expected a better haul. To point a finger away from the fact that he was desperate enough for the little he’d found in the desk.”

Hamish said, “Ye ken yon priest’s been busy worrying ow’r it. Gnawing at it like a dog with a bone.”

Monsignor Holston was shaking his head. “I am trained to think about religious issues. When I apply the same logic to this murder, I find—questions. Not solutions.”

“No murder is simple,” Rutledge told him. “But if I understand what you are telling me, Father James must have been killed by one of his own parishioners. It’s not a pretty possibility, though a likely one. And surely the police have considered it.”

A shadow of relief passed over the priest’s face. He said, “I’m afraid that several other things point in that direction as well, which I felt the Bishop had to be told. Father James wore an antique gold medal of Saint James on a chain, a gift from his family when he was ordained. The candlesticks from his private altar might have fetched a goodly sum, as would the altar crucifix that was used as the weapon. They were old, at a guess they’d belonged to the priests of St. Anne’s since the early 1700s. Why should a thief pass up such tempting opportunities? If he’s in desperate need and has already committed murder? What’s another minute taken to stuff a crucifix in a pocket or candlesticks under one’s coat?” An eyebrow lifted quizzically, as if inviting Rutledge to prove him wrong.

“Perhaps because the thief was afraid they were objects far easier to trace than a small handful of bills or coins.”

“Yes, I’d thought of that, too. My answer was, the metal could be melted down, if you knew where to go. The thief might not receive more than a portion of its real value, but it must surely come to a tidy sum. I find myself returning again and again to the fact that if he’d wanted only the money, he could have run out, shoving Father James out of his way, and taken the chance that in such a brief, unexpected encounter in a dark room, he might not be recognized. Better that than the sin of murder on his soul!”

“He’s fearful,” Hamish interjected, “that he might ken the killer—”

The door opened and Bryony came in with the tea tray, shadowed by a tiger-striped gray cat. Bryony set the tray onto the table close to the priest’s elbow, cast an eye over it, then left, the cat following at her heels with a smug air. Rutledge tried not to remember a white cat lying on a pillow in an empty room, looking for its owner to come again.

“The rectory doesn’t own Bruce. The cat,” Monsignor Holston said in amusement, catching Rutledge’s eye on the animal. “He owns the rectory. If I understand his genealogy correctly, his great-great-grandmother was a resident here. That’s before the Bishop’s time, and mine.” He poured a cup of tea for Rutledge and then for himself, passed the pitcher of thick cream and the bowl of sugar. A plate of thin sandwiches and another of thin slices of cake followed.

Rutledge was beginning to see a pattern in the dispassionate account Monsignor Holston had given. His reasoning had been easy to follow—someone who had no connection with the church might have considered the candlesticks and the crucifix an unexpected windfall. This thief hadn’t. But he’d known or guessed where to look for the money. As Holston had all but said, the evidence pointed directly to a member of the church. But was that his only deduction?

There were shadows behind the priest’s eyes, worry more than mourning. Rutledge decided to bide his time.

As Monsignor Holston settled to his tea, Rutledge asked, “Have the police interviewed members of St. Anne’s congregation? Surely they were most likely to know that the bazaar money was still in Father James’s hands. As well as where it was being kept.”

“Oh, yes, that was done, and done again. There are, as in every parish, Catholic or Protestant, a few . . . er . . . black sheep. These were questioned a third time. But such men aren’t likely to commit murder—petty theft, perhaps. Even burglary, if pressed by circumstances. There were at least three needy parishioners who might well have talked their way out of trouble, if Father James caught them in his study. Ill wife in one case, and too many children to feed in another, and a third is known for his taste for the horses. In their straits, any sum might have been tempting. In Inspector Blevins’s opinion, none was likely to be a killer. He said not one of them had the stomach for it.”

“Perhaps Inspector Blevins should be searching for a man who might have had one of the booths at the fair. Or had come to the fair for the express purpose of finding money somehow. And chosen to come back and try his luck at the rectory, when he had been unsuccessful anywhere else.”

The cake was heavy with eggs and sultanas. Rutledge thought,
Frances would tell me it’s strengthening. . . .

“Yes, the local authorities have been quite thorough there also. They’re still searching for individuals who had set up a booth and any strangers who had drawn attention to themselves. Apparently it isn’t easy to trace their movements—this is a popular time of year for harvest fetes and bazaars. They could be in a dozen towns.”

Rutledge finished his cake and set aside his plate. The thin man opposite him had consumed three helpings to his one. Filled with a nervous energy that demanded stoking, Monsignor Holston seemed not to notice the richness of the cake.

“Let’s return to my earlier suggestion—and yours. What if we turn the tale around, and ask ourselves if the priest was killed—and the pittance taken to cover up the crime?” Rutledge asked.

“The police also dismissed that theory. They reported to the Bishop that there is no reason to believe that Father James had enemies.” The blue eyes had become watchful.

Policemen often interviewed witnesses and friends of a murder victim who felt a driving need to find explanations, to look for answers. But Rutledge had the strong impression that Monsignor Holston was trying to shape the thinking of this man from London, guiding it carefully toward an unclear goal.

Rutledge said, “I think it might be time for you to give me the whole of the story.”

Monsignor Holston smiled. “Do you usually have so little faith in the things you’re told, Inspector?”

“Which is another way of saying, perhaps, that I believe you yourself have not yet come to face the truth.”

The priest sighed.

“It isn’t a matter of truth,” he replied, turning for a moment to look out the window at the rain. “It’s a matter of faith. Sometimes there’s a feeling one can’t shake off. Have you ever experienced such a thing?” When Rutledge nodded, he went on, “Try as hard as I will, I can’t ignore that primeval response—that sense of danger—of fear for myself, as well as for Father James. I asked the Bishop to send for Scotland Yard because my instincts tell me it was the right thing to do. What if there
is
more here than meets the eye? What if this murder is beyond the experience and training of the local people to investigate fully? What if the killer is able to outwit them, and we see no one brought to justice?” He paused, then said in a strained voice, “It’s likely that I’ll be sent as the interim pastor at St. Anne’s, until a replacement can be found. I don’t want to be the next victim!”

CHAPTER 4

RUTLEDGE STARED AT THE PRIEST, HIS mind working swiftly as he weighed what had been said—and what had not.

“You’ve been afraid from the beginning, haven’t you, that Father James was not killed for money? For the sake of argument, what if you’re right? What if the theft
was
no more than a cloud of confusion, to mislead the police? If you’re worried about being the next victim, the only conclusion I can draw is that you’ve been told something—”

Monsignor Holston interrupted, his voice earnest. “I was in that room, before they’d taken Father James away. And there was violence in the presence of his body. Violence that went unexplained. And it spilled over on me! Do you understand what I am trying to say? What if this murderer isn’t satisfied that it’s finished? Or has your profession inured you to death, Inspector? Perhaps it’s out of fashion—after the slaughter of thousands in the War— to put the death of any man—even a priest!—down to an unspeakable act?”

“They are both unspeakable acts, murder and war,” Rutledge answered grimly. “I haven’t become inured to either of them. You’re describing the force of the crime, I think, not the motivation.”