Watchers of Time

Table of Contents

Praise for the novels of
Charles Todd

WATCHERS OF TIME

“A COMPELLING MYSTERY RICH WITH DEPTH
AND SHADING.” —
The
Washington Post Book World

“A SPOT-ON RECREATION OF THE 1919 PERIOD,
SOME WILY USE OF THE
TITANIC
TRAGEDY AND
VILLAGERS’ XENOPHOBIA, AND THE MOST
PERSISTENT PLAGUING BY A GHOST SINCE
MACBETH
. TODD FANS WILL QUEUE UP FOR THIS
ONE.”
—Kirkus Reviews

“COMPELLING . . . PSYCHOLOGICALLY
ASTUTE.”
—Publishers Weekly

“
POIGNANTLY MOVING AND SUSPENSEFUL . . .
THIS IS A SERIES THAT ONLY GROWS STRONGER
AS IT GOES ALONG.”
—Romantic Times

LEGACY OF THE DEAD

“ELOQUENT . . . RICH.”
—The New York Times Book Review

“TIGHTLY WORKED, POIGNANT . . . A MOST
MOVING STORY.”
—
Booknews
from The Poisoned Pen

“A RICH, COMPLEX NOVEL INTELLIGENTLY
WRITTEN AND VERY AFFECTING.”
—The Purloined Letter

“IMMENSELY INTRIGUING . . . A FINE, UNIQUE,
AND MOVING MYSTERY.”
—Booklist

“POWERFUL.”
—Kirkus Reviews

“SUPERB . . . CLAIM[S] OUR INTEREST AND
HOLD[S] US FAST UNTIL THE LAST CHILLING
PAGE.” —
Romantic
Times

“READERS WILL CONTINUE TO BE CAPTIVATED
BY TODD’S PORTRAIT OF THE DANGEROUSLY
UNRAVELING DETECTIVE, AND HIS EQUALLY
INCISIVE EVOCATION OF THE GRIEVING
POSTWAR WORLD.” —
Publishers
Weekly

“
MUCH MORE THAN YOUR AVERAGE ENGLISH
COUNTRY HOUSE MYSTERY.”
—
Mystery
Lovers Bookshop News

A TEST OF WILLS

A
New York Times
Notable Book of the Year

“TODD GIVES US A SUPERB CHARACTERIZATION
OF A MAN WHOSE WOUNDS HAVE MADE HIM
INTO A STRANGER IN HIS OWN LAND, AND A
DISTURBING PORTRAIT OF A COUNTRY
INTOLERANT OF ALL STRANGERS.”
—
The
New York Times Book Review

“TODD DEPICTS THE OUTER AND INNER
WORLDS OF HIS CHARACTERS WITH
AUTHORITY AND SYMPATHY AS HE CLOSES IN
ON HIS SURPRISING —AND CONVINCING—
CONCLUSION.” —
Publishers
Weekly
(starred review)

“THE EMOTIONAL AND PHYSICAL CARNAGE IN
WORLD WAR I IS USED TO REMARKABLE EFFECT.”
—Chicago Tribune

SEARCH THE DARK

“TODD WORKS . . . VOLATILE ELEMENTS INTO
A REMARKABLE VILLAGE MYSTERY . . . DRIVEN
BY CHARACTERS OF GREAT PSYCHOLOGICAL
COMPLEXITY.”
—The New York Times Book Review

“TODD’S IAN RUTLEDGE MYSTERIES ARE AMONG
THE MOST INTELLIGENT AND AFFECTING BEING
WRITTEN THESE DAYS.”
—
The
Washington Post Book World

WINGS OF FIRE

“[TODD WRAPS] HIS CHALLENGING PLOT,
COMPLEX CHARACTERS, AND SUBTLE
PSYCHOLOGICAL INSIGHTS IN THICK LAYERS OF
ATMOSPHERE.”
—The New York Times Book Review

“A STRONG MYSTERY, FILLED WITH FINE
CHARACTERIZATIONS [AND] A SUPERB EYE
FOR CORNWALL . . . WISE AND WILY.”
—
The
Boston Globe

ALSO BY CHARLES TODD

A Test of Wills
¹
Wings of Fire
Search the Dark
Legacy of the Dead
¹
A Fearsome Doubt
¹

AND COMING SOON IN HARDCOVER:
The Murder Stone

For Elayne K. McCullough—
For whom traveling the world was a joyous adventure
And whose friendship was a treasured gift.
And for Bill and her family, who brought her so much
happiness.
Bon voyage . . .

CHAPTER 1

SEPTEMBER 1919

Osterley

DR. STEPHENSON TURNED AWAY FROM THE bed where the dying man lay breathing so lightly the blanket over his thin chest barely stirred. His bony, restless fingers plucking at the edge of the wool were the only signs of life and awareness. Twice the young woman sitting on the bed beside him had tried to still them, covering them with her own, but her father’s hand picked up the silent tattoo again, like a drummer remembering his place, as soon as she released it. He had already frayed an inch of the binding. She gave up and sat back, sighing.

His face was grooved by illness, and a stubble of beard emphasized the lines, like a rough landscape of suffering below the sun-weathered skin of forehead and nose. Shaggy gray eyebrows hung heavily over the sunken lids. Age weighed him down, but there was a certain strength there as well, as if life had made him fight for all he had, and he had not forgotten the battles.

Catching the eyes of the man’s sons, who were standing on the far side of the bed, faces in shadows cast by the scarf draped over the lamp’s shade, the doctor nodded toward the window across the room, out of earshot of the patient. The young woman looked up as they moved away, but stayed where she was. She didn’t want to hear what was being whispered.

Another gust of wind swept the front of the house, and rain was driven heavily against the panes, rattling them. The storm had stalled, as they sometimes did here along the coast, reluctant to move inland and lose itself in the hilly terrain there. For three hours or more it had hovered over the village, flailing everyone and everything out in the open.

The older of the two brothers bent his head to catch the words as Stephenson said softly, “He’s moving comfortably and peacefully toward the end. There’s nothing more I can do. But he might wish to have Mr. Sims here? And I should think your sister would be comforted as well.”

Mr. Sims was the Vicar.

The younger brother answered, “Yes. I’ll go for him, then.” He went quietly across the room to the door. The scarf that shaded the lamp by the bed riffled as he passed, and the light flashed once across his face. There were wet trails of tears on his cheeks.

His sister reached out and briefly took his rough hand.

The other brother sighed. “He’s had a long life, Pa has. But not that long. Sixty-four. We’d thought he’d be with us another five, ten years. His own father lived to just past eighty. And Uncle Tad’s young for seventy-six.” He shook his head.

“Your uncle Thadeus has the constitution of an ox,” Stephenson agreed. “He may well outlive your grandfather’s years. But your father’s heart has given out, and his body must follow.” He studied the grieving man’s face, noting the deep lines of worry and sleeplessness. Hetty Baldwin, his housekeeper’s daughter, was getting a good man in Martin Baker, the doctor told himself. Much like Herbert in character—God-fearing, with strong ties to his family and a fierce sense of duty. It was a sound match. “Everything happens in God’s own time, you know. Even this. And it’s a kindness that he won’t linger.” He spoke the words as comfort, then nodded toward the bed. “See if you can persuade Elly to rest a little. She’s hardly stirred from his side since yesterday morning. We’ll call her if there’s any—urgency. She will only wear herself into collapse, driving herself like this.”

“I’ve tried, to no avail.” Martin turned toward the window, lifting the curtain and pulling aside the shade a little to look out. Rain ran down the glass in rivulets, pushed against the house by the wind. A filthy night, he thought. A fitting night for death to come. . . . He dropped the shade back in place and said to Dr. Stephenson, “There’s naught to be done to make it easier on her?”

“I’ll leave something. A sleeping draught. Give it to Elly in a glass of water, when your father is gone. And, Martin—see that Dick doesn’t insist on being one of the pallbearers. That shoulder of his is not fully healed, and the socket will never be as strong as it was. He’s not out of the woods yet. He could still lose the arm if he’s not careful. The army surgeons can’t work miracles without a little help!”

“I’ll remember.”

“Good man!” A clap on Martin’s shoulder for comfort, and then Stephenson walked back to the bed. He reached down and touched Elly’s hands, folded tightly in her lap. They were cold, shaking. “Your father is comfortable. He would want you to be the same. Let Martin fetch you a shawl, at least.”

She nodded, unable to reply. The gray head on the pillow moved, first to the right, then toward the left. Herbert Baker’s eyes opened, and focused on his daughter’s face. He said in a gravelly voice, “I want a priest.”

The doctor leaned down and replied reassuringly, “Yes, Dick has just gone to fetch Mr. Sims.”

“I want a priest!” the old man repeated querulously.

“He’s coming, Papa!” Elly said, fighting her tears. “Can you hear me? He’ll be here quite soon—”

“Priest,” her father demanded. “
Not
Vicar.”

“Herbert,” the doctor said soothingly, “let me lift you while Elly gives you a little water—”

The dark, pleading eyes shifted to the doctor’s face. “I want a priest,” the dying man said very clearly this time, refusing to be distracted.

The bedroom door opened and Dick was ushering in the Vicar. “I met him on his way here,” he told them. “Coming to see if we had need of him.”

Mr. Sims was taller than Dick, thinner, and not much older. “I’ve been sitting with Mrs. Quarles, and thought it best to call on you before going home,” the Vicar explained. Herbert Baker had taken all day to die. Most of the town knew the end was near, a matter of hours at best. Sims had stopped in twice before.

Sims reached out to touch Elly’s arm, saying easily, “Ellen, do you think you could find a cup of tea for us? We could use the warmth on such a wet night.”

She flushed shyly. “Tea? Oh—yes. I’ve just to put the kettle on.”

Smoothing the blanket over her father, she got up, leaving the room with reluctance. Sims took the place on the bed that she’d vacated and squarely met the intent eyes of the old man. “You’ve had a good life, Herbert Baker. You were married to a fine woman—a caring wife and a devoted mother. Both your sons survived the War, and have work. Elly is a lovely girl. God has been kind to you.”