Watchers of Time (29 page)

“I never believed he was,” Rutledge answered coldly. “And as for any favors he might do me, I choose my own friends and pick my own enemies.” He let the words lie there, a challenge.

Blevins looked at him again. “There was a rumor. The Chief Constable had heard that you came back from the War a broken man. Half the policeman you were. If that.”

Unspoken was the rest of what Blevins wanted to say. “You might be in need of patronage . . .” But the words hung in the very air between the two men, accusatory and damning.

Hamish was saying something, but Rutledge was intent on fighting his own battle.

“I came back from the War broken by the waste of it,” he told Blevins, his voice harsh. “It
was
a bloody waste of lives and we brought home nothing—
nothing!
—to show for four years of dying in trenches not fit for swine. I asked no favors from anyone, and I received none. I did my job as well as I knew how, just as every other man back from the Front tried to do his. No one gave me back my past, and no one will hand me my future. Whatever your grievance is with me now, it has nothing to do with the War, and nothing to do with my skills as a
policeman
!”

Blevins stared at him, and then looked away, surprise in his eyes. Behind the thin face and the polite manner was a will stronger than he’d believed. “All right. I apologize.” He took a deep breath. “I’m at my wits’ end, that’s what it is. Look, I have to put together—and damned soon!—a sound enough case against Walsh that I can take to trial. Otherwise I have to let him go. We can’t hold him forever on suspicion. And right now,
that’s all I’ve got!
” Blevins took two quick steps away, and then turned back to Rutledge. “It’s like chasing wraiths, nothing can be nailed
down
!”

“Have you told him about Iris Kenneth’s death?”

“No. I find I can’t stand the sight of the man. He’s taken to sitting there smirking, like a damned gargoyle. One of my constables swears he’ll choke Walsh into confessing.” A twisted smile crossed his face. “Damned fool is half Walsh’s weight!”

“Let me be the one to break the news.”

Blevins considered the offer. “All right. Come and talk to him, then. Nothing else is working. This is worth trying.”

They walked in silence back to the police station. There, Blevins gave the key to Rutledge and gestured in the direction of the small cell.

When Rutledge unlocked the door, Walsh was sitting on the bed, a smile pinned to his face. That changed when he saw that it was not Blevins or one of his constables. A shadow of concern took its place.

“What are you doing, standing there in the doorway, like the Trumpet of God?” Bravado in a deep voice.

Hamish said, “He thinks you’ve come to take him to Norwich. Or London.”

It was a sharp observation.

Rutledge said, “There’s been an interesting development in your case.”

Walsh shoved himself to his feet, a big man with hands twice the size of Rutledge’s. “And what might that be?”

“Iris Kenneth.”

Surprise swept over Walsh’s face. “What’s she got to do with anything?”

“We thought she might have been the person you left on watch under the lilacs. That clump of bushes is out of sight of the neighbors’ windows. A clever place to stand and watch, in my opinion.”

“She never stood there! Because
I
wasn’t there. And if she told you she was, it’s out of malice. She’s a
bitch
! She’s got it in for me because I didn’t keep her on, that’s what it is! I could wring her neck!”

Rutledge waited to a count of ten, watching the man’s face. It was a thinking face, but not a cunning one. The Strong Man wasn’t just muscle and brawn; he was capable of working out the ramifications of his position and dealing with the reality it represented. But he didn’t appear to have that extra measure of slyness that sometimes cropped up in people of his ilk.

As if in agreement, Hamish observed, “He’s no’ one to lurk about in the shadows. He’s been larger than most men, all his life.” And it was true. Walsh had probably never feared anyone or anything. Unlike a small man, whose wits were all that stood between him and a bullying, Walsh had never needed to bluster or bargain. His arrogance grew out of his certainty about himself in the scheme of things.

Rutledge let his silence draw attention to itself. When something changed in Walsh’s manner, less belligerent and more wary, he finally said, “Iris Kenneth is dead. Did you kill her, too?”

The shock was real. Walsh sucked in his breath, and there was a sudden tightness around his mouth, an incredulity that left him shaken with a realization that he might have fallen into a trap.

“You’re lying to me!” he said, the deep bass voice rolling around the walls of the small cell like thunder overhead.

“Why should I lie? I can take you to London tonight and show you her corpse. If it hasn’t already been turned into a pauper’s grave.”

“She’s
not
dead! Iris had a way about her, a lively way. But she kept her wits about her, and she
never
—I don’t believe you!”

With a shrug, Rutledge turned to leave. “I don’t really care whether you believe me or not. I’m not lying to you. She’s dead.”

“How? By what means!” Walsh asked quickly, taking a step forward as if to stop Rutledge from leaving.

“Drowning,” Rutledge said coldly. “Not a pleasant way to go, surely?”

And he walked out of the cell, shutting the door behind him.

Walsh was there as he turned the key in the lock. His fists pounded furiously against the door. “Damn you!
Come back here—!
”

But Rutledge walked away down the passage to Blevins’s office, to the drumbeat of Walsh’s fists battering on the door.

As Rutledge walked into the office and dropped the key on the desk, Blevins said, “What’s that in aid of?” He inclined his head toward the savage pounding. “I don’t see you’ve gained much of anything!”

Rutledge sat down in the chair across the cluttered desk from Blevins. “I don’t know who killed Iris Kenneth,” he said. “But I’d give you heavy odds that it wasn’t Walsh.” He could feel the weariness building up in him, the strain across his shoulders that came from depression and stress. “Not that it matters. We’re far from proving she was on the scene, the night of the priest’s murder.”

“He had the opportunity, surely? We didn’t pick him up until after the woman went into the river, from what you’ve told me of the timing. He had a reason to want her silenced. He could have taken a train to London, finished her off, and taken the next one back to Norfolk!”

“And left his cart and his equipment with the scissors sharpener?”

“That’s possible! We should look into the trains. A man the size of Walsh would stand out. Other passengers might remember seeing him.”

“It’s best to be thorough,” Rutledge agreed. Then he added, choosing his words, “Something was said earlier about having to release Walsh, if you didn’t have incontrovertible proof. Perhaps—as a precaution—we might be well advised to look at other suspects.”

Warily, Blevins asked, “Starting where?”

“I was about to ask you that.”

“I’ve told you, no one in Osterley had a reason to murder Father James!”

“We won’t know that with any certainty until Walsh is found guilty.”

Disconcerted, Blevins studied the Londoner. “Do you really believe I’m wrong about Walsh?”

Rutledge answered indirectly. “If you’re forced to let Walsh walk out of here, will you still be convinced he was guilty?”

Blevins looked away, a long sigh expressing his frustration and uncertainty. His fingers toyed with the edge of the blotter, worrying a small tear in the corner. He was reluctant to give up any part of his authority—and equally reluctant to exercise it. This was his village, his people. To be seen rigorously investigating the private lives of those he lived with on a daily basis would bring their wrath down on his head. To let Rutledge usurp his position was an admission that he was not prepared to do it himself. For whatever reasons.

Finally he told Rutledge, “I don’t want to know what you’re doing. Not at first. But when you think you’ve got something I should hear, then I want to hear it. However unpleasant it might be. Do you understand me?”

Rutledge agreed with grace, knowing that Blevins had crossed a line that would come back to haunt him. Hamish, in the back of Rutledge’s mind, added silently, “If the killer is no’ the Strong Man, you’ve made an enemy.”

And that was equally true.

Down the passage the pounding had stopped, and Rutledge found the silence disturbed him.

Blevins waited until Rutledge had reached the door to the street before asking, “Where will you begin?”

After a moment, Rutledge answered, “Where death begins. With the doctor who examined the body.”

As Rutledge stepped out into the hazy sunshine of the October morning, he heard Hamish clearly, as if the voice had just walked out of the police station at his heels, no more than two steps behind his left shoulder.

“There’s no turning back,” Hamish warned. “If you’re wrong, he willna’ let you live it down!”

But Rutledge answered, unaware that he’d spoken aloud, “So be it.”

CHAPTER 15

RUTLEDGE WAITED NEARLY TWENTY MINUTES IN Dr. Stephenson’s surgery before the nurse, Connie, summoned him and led the way to the small private office in the rear.

Stephenson, looking at Rutledge over the tops of his glasses, said, “I’d heard you went back to London.” He collected the sheets of paper he’d been reading and set them in a folder. “Blevins is a capable man. I can’t quite see the need of someone from London looking over his shoulder. Most of the town feels satisfied that Walsh killed Father James, and if there’s been any evidence to the contrary, I haven’t heard about it.”

“When a man travels the country as frequently as Matthew Walsh did, his movements aren’t always easy to follow. And the timing on a given date can be critical,” Rutledge answered without rancor, waiting to be offered the chair on his side of the desk.

Stephenson nodded toward it, and Rutledge sat down. “Then what brings you here today?”

“Walk lightly!” Hamish warned.

“I wasn’t present when the body was found. I’d like to hear what you saw and noted at the scene.”

“I wrote everything down for Blevins. The next morning, in fact.”

“That’s the official report. Well-considered medical opinions designed to stand up in court. What I’d like is your personal opinion—whatever you felt and saw and thought, whether you could support it with fact or not.”

Stephenson leaned back in his chair. “I can’t think why! It was a clear-cut case of violent death. No question about that.”

Rutledge rejoined mildly, “Still, you might provide a small piece of the puzzle that’s been overlooked.”

Stephenson, a man used to judging people and tracking down the site of illness from small signs, considered Rutledge more sharply, his mind working swiftly behind the shield of his glasses. “You aren’t suggesting that someone in Osterley—”

Rutledge cut across what he was about to say. “For instance, Monsignor Holston tells me he was disturbed by the presence of something malignant and evil in that room. Mrs. Wainer on the other hand believes that the murder was motivated by revenge. But neither of them would write such impressions in an official report. Nor would you.”

Hamish was saying something, but Rutledge listened to the silence instead.

Stephenson scratched his jaw, a rasping sound in the quiet of the room. “I can’t say that I had an initial reaction. Unless it was disbelief. The constable who came to fetch me told me that Father James was dead. I was short with him, saying that it was my business, not his, to make that determination. After we got to the rectory, I remember thinking that this vigorous, intelligent man seemed smaller in death than he was in life. But we were standing over Father James rather than looking him in the eye as we usually did, which probably explained why he seemed— diminished. There were half a dozen people in the room and I could hear a woman sobbing somewhere down the passage. Mrs. Wainer, that was. After that I was too busy to do more than note the circumstances.” He stopped, looking back at the scene imprinted on his memory.

Rutledge said, “Go on.”

“He was lying by the window, facing it and partly on his left side, his left hand outflung and open, and I remember thinking that he couldn’t have seen the attack coming. But Blevins was pointing out the destruction in the study— chairs overturned, papers and books scattered about—and suggesting that Father James had walked in on this confusion and then gone to the window to call for help. That’s an old house, but the sashes work smoothly; I tested them myself. Still, even if Father James had been successful in attracting attention, it would have been too late. The bastard had found the opportunity he was looking for and struck hard. Nevertheless, the victim
was
facing the windows, and Blevins knows his business better than I do. Mine was to examine the body.”

Hamish said, “It wasna’ proper, surely, to influence the doctor’s view!”

“It’s done often enough. Setting the scene, as it were,” Rutledge silently responded. “Human nature to pay heed to it.”