Watchers of Time (11 page)

“And yet you tell me he spoke to you again about Baker.”

The doctor picked up his pen, indicating that he wanted to get back to his own work. “I just explained what happened. There was some confusion the night this patient was dying. Baker insisted he wanted a priest. The one from St. Anne’s. But it was the Vicar who sat beside the old man when he breathed his last, close on to three in the morning. Father James had already gone back to the rectory, having spent no more than half an hour with the patient. I grant you that it wasn’t the usual sort of thing, but then I’ve sat by enough deathbeds myself to know that there’s no accounting sometimes. Martin Baker sent for a priest to give his father ease. Rightly so!”

“What do you think was resting so heavily on Herbert Baker’s conscience?” Rutledge asked the question conversationally, as if out of simple curiosity.

“I expect it was no more than some youthful indiscretion. Baker had been sexton at Holy Trinity for many years, and he may not have relished spoiling the Vicar’s good opinion of him, just at the end. I’ve known more than one case where a man’s wild oats came back to haunt him on his deathbed.”

“I shouldn’t think that Father James—an experienced priest from all I’ve heard—would be overly concerned about a young man’s wild oats.”

“Father James often surprised me with the breadth of his concern for people. There was compassion to spare for any lost sheep. I found it admirable in him.” The doctor uncapped his pen. “I’ve given you far more than your five minutes. This is pressing, the report I’m writing. I have a patient in hospital in London, facing surgery. It can’t wait.”

“Just two other questions, if you will. Did anyone to your knowledge hold a grudge against Father James?”

“He wasn’t that kind of man. His predecessor was autocratic, and while everyone respected him, there was little love for him. Father James on the other hand was a reasonable, clear-thinking individual who took his duties to heart but was never oppressive about it. I wasn’t one of his parishioners, but I am told he preached a fine homily in a voice that made the rafters sing.”

“I understand Father James was a chaplain at the Front, and was sent home early. With severe dysentery.”

“Yes, it was chronic, and the army surgeon was of the opinion he would be dead in a month if he wasn’t sent home. Decent water, decent food, and bed rest saw him right enough. Father James wasn’t happy to be sent home. He wanted to serve. There was a Father Holston in Norwich who set him right again by telling him that God, not Father James, decided where he could serve best. Which oddly enough came true. In the influenza epidemic he was my right hand. I’d have lost twice the number of patients without his dedication. Seemed to have the constitution of an iron man, I can tell you!”

Rutledge thanked Stephenson and stood up to leave. As he walked to the door, he turned and asked, “When did Baker die? Before or after the Autumn Fete at St. Anne’s?”

“A day or two after the bazaar. As I recall, the Vicar said something about the timing of the storm—that it was a blessing it hadn’t struck earlier. Now that’s all I have to say to you. Good afternoon!”

Hamish grumbled as Rutledge walked out of the surgery, “If it wasna’ his health that worried yon priest before his death, and this man Baker didna’ weigh unduly on his mind, what kept him awake at night? Was it yon fair at the kirk?”

“Yes, I was wondering about that myself. Sometimes people come a long distance to attend these affairs, if they have any sort of reputation for good food and good entertainment.”

“People travel far to funerals as well.”

“I think the bazaar is a more likely choice. Father James didn’t officiate at Baker’s services—the Vicar would have done that.”

Looking around him at the town of Osterley, where a watery and inconsistent sunlight was reflected from the flint walls, Rutledge found himself thinking that he would be on his way back to London tomorrow. Back to the letters lying unopened in the desk drawer in his sitting room. Away from the smell of the marshes and the call of gulls overhead. He answered absently, “The local police will know more about such evidence than I do.”

But would they? Whatever lay at the core of this murder, whether it was theft or a killing with a purpose, someone appeared to have covered his tracks very well.

Was he clever—or merely lucky?

Hamish said, “For a man who willna’ be involved with this death, you ask a good many questions.” There was a taunt behind the simple words.

Rutledge said, “No. I’ve merely tried to be sure that the good Bishop’s fears are unfounded. . . .”

But was that really true? In Rutledge’s experience, investigations often floundered when the police failed to ask the right question. Or failed to look behind the most obvious evidence at what could have been overshadowed by it. Damning connections grew out of persistence, connections that at first glance were not even visible. Most mistakes were made by the human element—the refusal to be objective.

An old Sergeant at the Yard had told him once, at the start of his own career, “When the police look for guilt, there’s always enough to serve their purpose. Nobody is free of guilt. But if you search for the
truth,
now, that’s a different tale!”

What was intriguing about this case was the reaction of those who were close to Father James. They ignored the theft and believed that nothing short of a Greek tragedy could explain this murder: The assumption that the death of great men grew out of cataclysmic events. It was implicit in their denial of the facts: Even though a small sum was stolen, it had nothing to do with the actual crime.

But what if it had? A life was not always given its real value. . . .

Hamish said, “Aye, but what if this killer only hunts priests, and there’s another one in jeopardy now?”

Neither theft nor Greek tragedy but madness? Rutledge raised his eyes to look up at the church standing high above the road, and wondered how such a killer would choose his next victim. Or if he had already killed before . . .

Since the Osterley police station was no more than a few doors from the doctor’s surgery, Rutledge left his motorcar where it was and walked there.

The sign was still up, and he started to turn away, intent on the drive back to Norwich. But there was the sound of a voice somewhere inside, and he hesitated, then reached for the knob, thinking he might find someone with whom he could leave a courtesy message for Inspector Blevins.

He stepped into a scene of chaos.

A huge man had been pushed against his will into a chair that faced the Sergeant’s rough, wooden desk, and two constables were attempting to hold him down on the seat while he bellowed at an Inspector listening to his curses with an expression of distaste. A Sergeant stood at the Inspector’s shoulder.

The constables turned to see who had come through the door, glanced back at their Inspector, and in that instant of distraction loosened their grip on the massive shoulders.

The Inspector glared at Rutledge, demanding, “What do
you
want?” and then savagely ordered, “Franklin— watch what you’re
doing,
damn it!”

“Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard—”

The man in the chair surged to his feet like a whale breaching.

Hamish yelled a warning and Rutledge hastily leaped aside.

The enormous man broke away from the constables and lunged toward the door, one shoulder ramming into Rutledge and sending piercing swords of fire through his body. He gasped for breath, the pain nearly doubling him over, but thrust out a foot instinctively, managing to trip up the man and then to dodge his thundering fall.

Everyone was shouting at once: The clamor was deafening.

The constables were on the man like monkeys, and Blevins, breathing hard, swore again. “Don’t stand there, Sergeant, give them a hand!” As his Sergeant, an older man, jumped into the fray without much effect, Blevins added at the top of his lungs, “
Hit
him if you have to!”

The wildly struggling man went limp as something struck him on the head with a solid thud of flesh against flesh. A fist.

Rutledge, leaning back against the wall, was trying hard to breathe normally again, dizzy with the effort. The Sergeant, calling angrily to the constables to hold on, leaned over his desk to fumble for handcuffs.

Between them the four men managed to haul their dazed captive to his feet and out of the room, toward the rear of the station. As the prisoner regained his senses, Rutledge could hear his rising bellows and the thumps of his heavy boots as he kicked out at his captors or the walls, whatever was in reach.

Blevins walked back into the room rubbing his thigh with his fist. “Damned ox! Rutledge, did you say? From the Yard? What do they want? Is it about the priest’s murder?” As Rutledge nodded, Blevins bent to pick up papers that had fallen from the desk to the floor. He added, “Well, you’re just in time.” He jerked his head toward the rear of the station, where the protests and curses marked the location of a holding cell. “That’s our man. At least there’s every likelihood it is. He was the Strong Man at the bazaar. Quite an act, pulling a line of carriages against a team of horses, picking up a bench with two young ladies seated at either end, defying ordinary men to lift his iron weights. Very popular with the young people, engaging personality, they tell me. Name’s Walsh.”

It had been simple theft after all. “What connects him with the priest?” Rutledge felt like hell, his mind refusing to function, while his lungs burned.

“Circumstantial evidence so far. Mrs. Wainer was quite put out when she found Walsh wandering about in the rectory on the day of the bazaar looking—he said—for water to wash up. She sent him away with a flea in his ear. Fortunately, later on she remembered what had happened and told Sergeant Jennings. And when the police in Swaffham caught up with him at a fair there, he had a new cart for his gear. We’ve just brought him in, as a matter of fact.”

“Nothing suspicious in a new cart, surely?” The fire was subsiding.

“It was paid for two days after the priest was killed. With bits and pieces of bills and coin.” Blevins gestured to the chair vacated so abruptly by the Strong Man, then sat himself down behind the Sergeant’s desk. There was a cut on the heel of his hand, and he stared at it, then at the bloody stain spreading on his cuff. “Damn the bastard! Teeth like steel traps!”

Rutledge took the chair. His chest was settling into a dull ache now. Gingerly testing, he took a deep breath and felt nothing beyond the usual resistance. But the memory of the pain was still fierce. “The sort of money a bazaar takes in, yes. But surely the kind of thing his act brings in as well.”

Blevins glared at him. “Look, we’re just at the beginning of this business. I’ve got men asking questions at the smithy where the new cart was built to see when it was ordered. I’ve got men asking questions about Walsh’s movements the day of the festival here as well as the night Father James was killed. A man that size can’t slink around without being noticed. Half the county force has been given to me for the duration to track the killer down. A local lord has even put up a reward for information leading to an arrest. Father James was well liked. We’re doing the best we can!”

Rutledge rejoined peaceably, “Yes, I can see that. You seem to have the investigation well in hand. Bishop Cunningham was alarmed enough to ask the Yard to see if there was anything we could do. Monsignor Holston will be glad of the news that someone’s in custody.”

“I suppose he will.” Blevins rubbed his eyes tiredly. “He was a friend of Father James’s. Do you want the truth? This is the first reasonable lead we’ve found. And if he
didn’t
kill the priest—Walsh, I mean—why did he put up such a fight? Here and in Swaffham!”

Because, Hamish pointed out, the man might well have other secrets to keep, unrelated to murder.

Rutledge said, “Then you don’t want me underfoot. I’ll return to London and leave you to it.” He had already been planning to do just that, but now there was an unexpected sense that he had somehow failed the people who had turned to him for answers. This arrest wouldn’t bring them peace. . . .

Hamish said, “They were wrong—Bryony and Mrs. Wainer and Monsignor Holston. It wasna’ a Greek tragedy that brought Walsh here. Only a new cart.”

Blevins was staring thoughtfully at Rutledge, debating something on his mind. Then, to Rutledge’s surprise, he said, “I’d take it as a favor, Inspector, if you stayed on. A day or two. At least until we’ve had an opportunity to look into Matthew Walsh. The Strong Man.” He used the words with irony, then meticulously straightened the stained green blotter before adding, “I’ve felt a good deal of anger over this business. I was one of Father James’s parishioners, you see. I’m not certain I’m detached enough to do my job properly. To judge Walsh’s innocence as well as his guilt.”

“Have you spoken to the Chief Constable—?”

“He tells me that it isn’t a question of my feelings,” Blevins interrupted. “It’s a simple matter of the facts. Well, I ask you, how am I to judge the ‘facts’ in this murder case when I’d cheerfully watch the bastard who did it hanged?”

“You must have known Father James fairly well. What was he like?”

“Middle-aged, but he went out to France. All through the Somme, he was there, ministering to any man who needed him. Of any faith. Even Hindus, for all I know. You could come and sit down in his tent and talk. I mean—
talk
.” He considered Rutledge. “In the War, were you?”