Watchers of Time (30 page)

Stephenson took a deep breath and studied the ceiling. “There had been an emergency on one of the farms around five that same morning—I was tired. And Blevins was taking it hard—he was one of Father James’s flock, as you probably know. I saw no reason to doubt what he was telling me.”

“How did Blevins look to you?”

“He was extremely angry, but his face was pale, his hands shaking. I thought it likely that he’d just vomited from the shock. He said two or three times, ‘I can’t understand killing a priest for a few pounds—I didn’t think we held life as cheaply here as in London.’ Or words to that effect.”

“Tell me about the room.”

“It’d been ransacked. You must know that. I could hardly set a foot down without tramping on papers or books and the like. I looked for evidence of a struggle, but didn’t find any. I said something to Blevins about that, as I remember. I’d always had the feeling that Father James could look after himself. I’d see him on the road on that bicycle of his at any hour of the day or night, and in any weather. I was surprised that he hadn’t made any effort to defend himself. Of course, that was before Blevins brought in Walsh.”

“Aye,” Hamish reminded Rutledge, “it’s a question you raised, yoursel’.”

Stephenson looked at the pen on his blotter. “I couldn’t find any scratches on the hands, nothing under the nails. No marks on the face. Rigor was present, and I was fairly sure he’d been dead for more than twelve hours.”

His eyes came back to Rutledge’s face, as if the medical details were more comfortable than speculation. “The back of his skull was crushed and that large crucifix lay on the floor near the body. I could see hair and blood on it quite clearly. I knelt on my handkerchief and someone held a lamp for me, so that I might examine the wound better. There had been at least three blows—I could identify the shape of the square base at three different points. I would say that the first blow stunned him, the second one killed him, and the third would most certainly have made it impossible to survive. Each blow was delivered with considerable force, judging from the compression of the skull.”

“Which confirms,” Rutledge said, “that the priest was standing, his back to the killer?”

“That’s true. I was told later that there were no fingerprints on the crucifix where it must have been gripped for leverage—either it was wiped clean or the killer wore gloves.”

“Women wear gloves,” Rutledge said thoughtfully, thinking of Priscilla Connaught, who was tall for a woman.

“I won’t tell you that it couldn’t have been a woman,” Stephenson answered, “but I find it hard to believe a woman would have struck more than twice.” He shrugged. “Still, it would depend on her state of mind. This was a bloody wound, and in my experience, few women are willing to splatter themselves with bone and blood and brain tissue, no matter how angry or brave they are. It’s not medical opinion, of course, but as a rule, women avoid that sort of unpleasantness. I pronounced him dead, and called it what it was: murder.”

Rutledge mused, “I come back to the question, what would I do if I walked in on a thief?”

“I’ve never faced an intruder in my house, Inspector. I’d feel violated, walking in on such wanton destruction—I know that—and damned angry as well. If I recognized the person, I’d tell him to stop making an ass of himself and get the hell out of my house, if he wanted to escape charges. I’d be in no mood to be charitable. And probably get myself killed for it. I’d be more wary of a stranger, not knowing what he was capable of, but I’d still go after him. But then I’m not trained as a priest. It would make a difference.”

Hamish said, “He was in the War, Father James. Would he turn the other cheek?”

As if he had heard Hamish’s comment as clearly as Rutledge did, Stephenson straightened the folder on his desk to march with the right margin of the blotter and added with an odd tension in his face, “If there was no thief—if it wasn’t Walsh—then Father James was confronted by an enemy.”

Rutledge said nothing.

Stephenson moved uneasily in his chair. “No, disregard that, if you will. Blevins is a good policeman—he wouldn’t have got it wrong!”

Again Rutledge let the comment stand. Instead he asked, “Did you know much about Father James’s past?”

“That’s the trouble with you people from London! You don’t live here, you don’t understand the people here. You look for complexity, and these are not complex people.” Rutledge started to speak, but Stephenson said, “No, let me finish! Some twenty years ago, we had discussions to see if anything could be done to bring back the port. Experts from London preferred to keep the marshes as a sanctuary for birds. We said, What about the needs of the families who had to scratch a living here? But nobody listened. This was a good place for marshes, and marshes we would keep,” he said with growing heat. “Well, I’m the man who sees the cost of the struggle to make a living out here. I knew that Romney Marsh had been drained to make it fit for sheep grazing, and we could do the same here, along with dredging the port, making it safe for small boats and a holiday place for people who haven’t the resources to travel to the southern beaches. The experts would have none of it. You’re the expert here; you want to find something to blame Father James for, something to excuse the time and money the Yard has spent in sending you here. Well, it won’t wash. I knew the man. You didn’t.”

“He’s avoiding the question, ye ken,” Hamish pointed out.

Rutledge said without rancor, “I’m not suggesting that Blevins is wrong. Or that Father James was guilty of some unspeakable crime. But none of us is perfect—and people will kill for reasons that you and I couldn’t comprehend. One of the worst murders I’ve ever seen had to do with a simple boundary dispute, where a hedge ran over the line. Hardly a case for violence, but it ended in one man taking the shears to the other.”

Dr. Stephenson looked at him for a long moment. Then, as if against his will, growing out of some inner need he couldn’t silence, he said, “In all my personal and professional encounters with Father James, I never felt any doubt about his integrity or his honor.”

A
but
hung in the air between them, like a shout that couldn’t be ignored. Rutledge waited, silent.

And as if goaded by that, the doctor said, “Damn you! I don’t know why I’m telling you this. But there was something years ago that puzzled me, and I suppose that’s why I couldn’t put it out of my mind. It had to do with the sinking of
Titanic
. Once when I walked in on him—this was several months afterward—there was a great pile of articles spread out across Father James’s desk. A hundred or more cuttings, with notes in ink in the margins, and even photographs of passengers and recovered bodies. He saw me looking down at them, and before I could say a word, he’d gathered up the lot and swept it out of sight into a drawer, as if it were somehow . . . obscene material. I made some remark about the disaster, and his interest, and he said, ‘No, that’s nothing to do with me.’ It was odd, to hear a priest lie, and about something so—
ordinary
.” Dr. Stephenson frowned. “He never spoke of it again, and nor did I. But the lie never set well with me. I— In some fashion it altered my view of the man.”

He studied Rutledge’s face.

Rutledge said. “Perhaps he knew someone who had sailed on her.”

“I wondered about that, but people in Osterley seldom travel beyond Norwich or King’s Lynn. They most certainly don’t have the money for passage on a ship like that. I myself know of only one person who sailed on
Titanic,
and she didn’t live here at all. I can’t believe that Father James had more than a passing acquaintance with her.”

“Who was she?”

Stephenson answered testily, “Lord Sedgwick’s daughter-in-law. His son Arthur’s wife. An American. It was hushed up at the time—she’d left her husband and sailed for New York without a by-your-leave. Sedgwick and young Arthur had searched everywhere, they’d no idea where she went or why. She simply vanished. Until the ship went down, and someone found her maiden name in the passenger list. Terrible shock to the family.”

“Was her body retrieved?”

“I believe it was. The family held a private service on the estate. Look, I should never have spoken of this. For all I know, Fa her James had dreamed of running away to sea as a boy!
Titanic
was a marvel; she caught the fancy of the entire country. He was probably embarrassed to admit to sharing that excitement.” Stephenson took out his watch. “I’ve three more patients to see before I can go home for my dinner. Is there anything else you want to know?”

He made it sound as if Rutledge had been prying, vulgar curiosity driving him.

Rutledge rose and thanked him for his time.

He reached the door and was just putting his hand on the knob when the doctor said swiftly, for a second time, “Look, forget what I just told you.” There was a harsh expression on Stephenson’s face, a fierce desire to recall his words, and a strong dislike of the man who’d heard them.

As Rutledge walked down Water Street, he found himself wondering if indeed Father James had lied to the doctor. It was a small lie, of no great importance. Unless it was nested in a pattern of lies? This was perhaps what lay at the center of the doctor’s unease.

In the hotel lobby, Monsignor Holston rose from one of the chairs there and said, “I’ve come for lunch. Will you join me?”

It was an unexpected invitation. Rutledge said, “Yes. Let me wash up first, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.”

Rutledge took the stairs two at a time, wondering what had brought the priest here from Norwich.

“He canna’ stay away, for a man who doesna’ wish to stay here,” Hamish commented dryly.

Busy with that question, Rutledge reached the head of the stairs, turned toward his room, and in the narrow passage nearly collided with his fellow guest coming the other way.

“I beg your pardon!” he said, catching her arm to steady her. “I was in too much of a hurry.”

Startled by his sudden appearance, May Trent said hesitantly, “It was my fault as well. I had just knocked at your door. Today in the churchyard I should have apologized for last evening. You were trying to help, and I turned on you like a termagant. It was rude and ungrateful of me!” There was a rueful smile in her eyes.

“Not at all,” he said lightly. “You had no reason to believe my methods would work.”

“I had no cause not to believe in them. But I have a way of collecting lost sheep, and then defending them from imaginary wolves. When I returned to my table, my friends had a few pithy comments to make. You may consider me chastised and properly chastened.”

Rutledge laughed, and received a deeper smile in return. He noticed a flicker of a dimple in one cheek, and on the spur of the moment said, “I have a friend who has come to take lunch with me. He’s a priest, and should know more than most about the old churches in this part of Norfolk. If Mrs. Barnett can accommodate us, would you care to join us?”

Hamish grumbled that it was unwise.

For an instant Rutledge could see that she was tempted, but she shook her head. “That’s kind of you. My friends are leaving for London tonight, and asked me to come with them as far as King’s Lynn. I’ve promised.”

She started past him, to the top of the stairs, but he put out a hand to stop her. “Miss Trent, I need to ask—it’s a matter of police business. Are you aware that Father James has left a bequest to you in his Will?”

“Bequest? There must be some mistake.”

“His solicitor has had some difficulty carrying out Father James’s wishes, because neither he nor the housekeeper has been able to find the item—”

Miss Trent shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve heard nothing of this—and I know of nothing that Father James might wish me to have.” She was clearly mystified, and a little apprehensive.

“It was a photograph. It was kept in the drawer of his desk, but apparently it isn’t there any longer. Did he by any chance give it to you himself?” And perhaps hadn’t got around to rescinding the codicil. . . .

She said, “No. He gave me nothing, and he said nothing about a bequest. Are you quite certain—why should he leave me a photograph?”

“Perhaps you should speak to the solicitor about it. The name in the Will is Marianna Trent, of London.”

“But I haven’t used Marianna since I was a child. Everyone calls me May. Marianna was also my aunt’s name, you see, and perhaps he meant her? Although he never said anything to me about knowing her—” The confusion in her face seemed genuine.

“Did he ever show you a particular photograph? Of himself, of his family, possibly of someone who was in some fashion dear to him? Someone he discovered you had known as well?”

The confusion cleared, but a frown took its place, as if the reminder was not welcome. “I think—it’s possible I know what you mean. But I haven’t the time to discuss it now. I’m already late; my friends will be waiting. When I come back to Osterley tomorrow? Will that do?”

He wanted to tell her that it wouldn’t. But she was eager to be gone, and he had no choice but to step aside and let her pass. She went quickly down the stairs, her heels clicking softly in the carpeting, and he heard the door to the street open and close behind her.

Hamish said, “It doesna’ seem to be of importance to her, this photograph.”

“On the contrary,” Rutledge answered thoughtfully. “I believe she would much prefer not to talk about it at all.”