by Charles Todd
“And you blamed Father James for persuading him?”
She squeezed her eyes tightly to hold back the tears, as if on the back of the lids, the past was still vivid and clear. “He wasn’t a priest then. He was only John James. But he was Gerald’s best friend. I went to him and asked him to persuade Gerald not to do this. He told me the best thing I could do for Gerald if I loved him was to let him go. Let him enter the priesthood.”
The tears began to fall, but her eyes were shut still, closing Rutledge out. “So I let him go. I-I truly believed that once he had his way, once he’d embarked on his studies, he’d quickly discover that it wasn’t what he wanted after all. I was convinced that he loved me too much for this- this fancy -to last. I gave him my blessing and let him go!”
Rutledge waited in the bitter silence that followed, uncertain whether or not she had finished. He could imagine how she must have felt, abandoned for what-to a woman-seemed an inexplicable rejection of her and her love.
Finally she opened her eyes and looked across at him.
Her voice was shaking so much he wasn’t sure he heard her clearly. “In his last year before being ordained, Gerald killed himself. And neither God nor I had him, in the end. I couldn’t torment God. I tormented Father James instead. Gerald’s death lay at his door, and every time he looked at my face in his congregation, he was unable to forget how wrong he’d been, how he’d failed Gerald, and me-what, in his sanctimonious faith in his own judgment, he’d done to us. Just as I could never forget Gerald…”
Rutledge waited by the bedside until the sedative Mrs. Nutley had given her sent Priscilla Connaught into the comforting oblivion of sleep.
“Keep an eye on her, will you?” he asked as they left the room.
“You can depend on me, Inspector.”
As he walked on down the stairs to the door, the older woman, following, said quietly, “In my experience, it helps sometimes to unburden the heart.”
But he wasn’t convinced that confession would do much for the sleeping figure he’d left in the darkened bedroom.
The only certainty was that Priscilla Connaught’s secret had had nothing to do with the priest’s death.
Frederick Gifford’s house was set well back from the road, just past the school. It stood in a small park of old trees that reminded Rutledge of the vicarage at Holy Trinity. Driving through the gates and up to the door, he could see that the house was gabled and probably very old.
The maid who admitted Rutledge left him in the parlor. From another part of the house he could hear people talking, as if Gifford had guests.
Gifford came in with apologies. “A week ago, I’d invited friends to dine with me. We decided not to let the upheavals of last night affect our plans. Though to tell you the truth, no one is in a festive mood! What brings you here at this hour of the night? Shouldn’t you be in your bed? You look like death walking, man!”
Rutledge laughed. “I’ve heard that enough to believe it. I won’t keep you long. I need to learn who arranged for Mrs. Baker-Herbert Baker’s ill wife-to have the treatment she required for her consumption. It’s rather important.”
Surprised by the request, Gifford smoothed the line of his beard with the back of his fingers. “I don’t know. That is, I never knew. Nor did Dr. Stephenson. A bank in Norwich sent me a letter instructing me that an anonymous benefactor had requested a sum of money be set aside for the care of one Margaret Baker, wife of Herbert, of this town. I was to use it to pay any medical bills, as required by her doctors, associated with her illness.”
“Mrs. Baker wasn’t particularly well-known. Her illness wasn’t uncommon. Why should she be singled out by a Norwich bank for such a generous gesture?”
Gifford frowned. “I have no idea. I didn’t ask. I saw no reason to. The papers were in order-and Mrs. Baker was seriously ill. Stephenson told me later that better care extended her life by several years.”
“But surely you must have guessed who was behind this generosity. Baker’s employer, for one.”
“The thought crossed my mind. But I didn’t pursue it. Stephenson does what he can on his own, and there are other people in Norfolk who support a variety of charitable activities. The King has been known to act anonymously. And he knew the Sedgwick family.”
“I can’t imagine how the King discovered that an obscure coachman’s wife, living quietly in Osterley, was in need.”
“No, no, the King doesn’t handle such matters himself; you misunderstand,” Gifford answered. “But he has deep roots in Norfolk and apparently feels strongly about them. The staff at Sandringham raised a troop of their own, during the War. He and the Queen took a keen interest in the men. It’s not impossible that someone in the Household brought the Bakers to the attention of the staff.”
“Yes, I understand. But in my view, they’d be far more likely to have a word with Lord Sedgwick rather than go to the trouble of making arrangements with a bank in Norwich. Is there any way that this-kindness-could be traced through the paperwork?”
“I doubt it. Bankers are worse than stones when it comes to divulging information. Immovable.”
Rutledge thanked him and left. Stones could be moved. If Scotland Yard wanted the information badly enough…
Hamish said, “Even if his lairdship paid for the sanitarium, it willna’ prove much.”
“It proves that a debt existed between Herbert Baker and the Sedgwick family. The sort of debt that Baker would have gone to great lengths to repay. As he lay dying, he told the Vicar that he feared he’d loved his wife too much. He could easily have confessed to Father James how he’d demonstrated that love.”
“Aye. But yon Trent woman-she has depths you canna’ plumb. I wouldna’ count her out of the running. You canna’ know for certain if she abandoned an elderly woman when the ship was sinking, to save hersel’. She’d ha’ killed Father James if he came too close to her secret.”
Only a few days ago, when Rutledge had seen the connection between Father James and the Watchers of Time, Observers of Deeds, he had remarked that there were no bodies and therefore no murders that the priest could have uncovered.
Now there were two. The woman whom May Trent had accompanied as a companion. And Virginia Sedgwick, who was-possibly-also lost in the sea.
“Or,” Hamish interjected into Rutledge’s thoughts, “buried here in these marshes. I havena’ seen more likely ground for disposing of a corpse!”
On the way back to the hotel, Rutledge spotted a solitary figure walking among the trees just back from the road. As the headlamps of his motorcar flashed across the pale, expressionless face, he recognized Peter Henderson.
He was about to stop and offer the man a lift, and then Mrs. Barnett’s words made him drive on. “I leave him alone now.” Peter Henderson still had his pride.
Rutledge was so tired his eyes were playing tricks on him as the motorcar’s headlamps picked out the turning for Water Street, and he came close to swerving into the wall of a house.
He had done all he could this night, and he wanted his bed.
But as he neared the hotel, another thought struck him: May Trent and Monsignor Holston were staying there, too, and if they were waiting for him in the lounge, it would be at least another hour-or more-before he could walk away from them.
He passed the hotel, drove along the quay, and turned toward the main road, considering even a pew in the church as a better alternative. There was something that May Trent had said about a blanket kept there for Peter Henderson. It would do. Soldiers were used to sleeping rough.
But as he went up Trinity Lane, Hamish pointed out another choice, one where his presence might be gratefully accepted. Gratefully enough that no questions would be asked.
The vicarage.
Rutledge had to fight the wheel to turn in through the vicarage gates, like a drunk whose reflexes were starting to fail. He drew up in front of the house, his hands shaking as he switched off the motor.
It was a minute or two before he
could make it to the front door and lift the knocker.
After a long wait, the window above his head opened. The Vicar said, “Who is it?” in a flat voice.
“Rutledge. I don’t want to go back to the hotel. But I need to sleep. If I keep you company tonight, will you trade me a bed and no conversation?”
There was laughter from over his head. Bitter and without humor.
“I haven’t slept myself. All right, I’ll let you in. Wait there.”
Sims was still fully clothed when he unlocked the door and opened it to Rutledge. He smelled of whiskey. “I’m beginning to think about posting a sign: Rooms For Let,” he said. “You look like hell.”
Rutledge took a deep breath, unsteady on his feet. “As do you.”
“Have you been drinking?” Sims asked suspiciously.
“No. I’m cold sober. Just-nearly at the end of my tether.”
Five minutes later Rutledge was deeply asleep in the bedroom that May Trent had occupied only twenty-four hours before.
Her scent still lingered in the room.
Rutledge awoke in the dark, startled by a figure walking close by the bed.
“Who is it?” he managed to ask coherently, after clearing his throat.
“Sims. It’s after nine. I brought hot water for shaving, a razor, and a clean shirt. Breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes, if you’re hungry.”
“Thanks.” Rutledge lay there, an arm flung across his eyes, stunned by exhaustion, his mind working slowly. After several minutes he forced himself out of the bed and across the room to draw open the draperies.
It was pouring rain out of heavy black clouds, a sky that seemed to absorb all light. No wonder he’d thought it was still the middle of the night.
Hamish scolded, “There’s no’ any need for haste, if you’re no’ clear-headed.”
Rutledge went to the washstand and looked at his face in the mirror, shadowed by beard and the dreary light coming in the windows behind him. It was not a face he was particularly fond of. Lighting the lamp, he set about shaving and dressing.
A quarter of an hour later, he walked into the kitchen.
Sims said, “If anyone came to the door and looked at the two of us, they would be ready to believe we’d had an all-night carousal. My head feels like it.” In the lamplight he was haggard, lines bracketing his mouth and heavy circles under his eyes. He had found yesterday unbearably difficult.
“I sympathize.” Rutledge reached for the pot of tea, ready to pour the steaming liquid into his cup, and somewhere in the tangle of memories from the day before, one stood out clearly.
There had been three cups on the table yesterday morning He looked across at Sims, who was putting a rasher of bacon on a plate, while the toast browned.
“Who keeps this house for you?”
“I have a woman who comes in three times a week. Why?”
“She wasn’t here yesterday.”
“No. She’s coming around ten today. That’s why I woke you.”
“Then who was here-besides yourself and Miss Trent?”
The Vicar became very still. “You were here.” But his eyes swept down to the teacups and back to Rutledge. He didn’t lie well, as Hamish was busy noting.
Rutledge hazarded a guess. “It was Peter Henderson, wasn’t it?”
Sims said carefully, “Peter comes sometimes, yes. When he’s hungry. He often sleeps in the church if the weather’s foul. I don’t know where he sleeps the rest of the time, poor devil.”
“A cold roof over his head, the church. With stone walls and stone flooring, he’d not be very warm.”
“There’s a chest under the tower. I keep clean blankets there. He knows where to find them.” He paused. “The church has had a long history of offering sanctuary. I can do no less.”
“Miss Trent and Mrs. Barnett tell me that he roams the night more often than not. I’ve seen him a number of times myself.”
“Yes. I expect he does. Perhaps it’s easier for him, living in the dark. Fewer people to stare at him.”
“What did he see, the night that Walsh escaped?” Rutledge insisted.
Sims put down the plate and retrieved the burning toast from the stove.
“You must ask him.”
“I’m asking you.”
Sims sat down, reached for the pot, and poured tea for himself. “Look. The man’s little more than a vagrant now. Living hand to mouth. Most of the townspeople have no use for him; they think he’s beyond the pale. His own father disowned him. I do what I can, and so did Father James. But changing attitudes is much harder than preaching profound sermons on a Sunday.”
A silence followed; it was Sims who reluctantly broke it.
“Peter was in the church that night. He wasn’t feeling well, and crept in to sleep for awhile. He was still in the church when Walsh came in to hammer off his chains. Henderson heard him dragging them; he didn’t know who or what was there. His tally of kills from the War, for all I know. It must have been rather appalling. He slipped into the choir-it’s quite dark in there, and no one was likely to find him crouched among the misericords. And he moves like a wraith when he wants to.”
“Yes. That’s his training.”
“When Walsh left, he was on foot. Henderson-who isn’t a fool, by any means-had worked out who was in the church and what it must have meant. He followed, and kept an eye on him from a distance. They walked through the woods and past the barn where Trinity Lane ends. Henderson stayed with him for nearly five miles.”
“To Tom Randal’s farm.”
“Walsh didn’t go anywhere near the Randal farm. Not according to Henderson. He was moving as swiftly and quietly as he could. Walsh, I mean. Covering the ground faster than most. Peter kept up with him until he was well beyond Osterley. Then he turned back, not wanting to be spotted.”
Rutledge shook his head. “That can’t be true. The mare at the farm went missing in probably that same time frame. And it was her shoe that killed Walsh.”
Sims said, “That’s why we didn’t tell you, May Trent and I. I’ve never known Peter to lie to me, but he was very cold and hungry, walking that far, and he might have made up a story in exchange for his breakfast. It seemed-a little less like begging, I suppose.”
Rutledge got up and helped himself to the bacon and a slice of burned toast. Sims said, “There are boiled eggs in that covered dish.”
Rutledge lifted the lid and set an egg on his plate, cracking it and spooning out the yolk. He said, “What else has Henderson seen, wandering around in the dark?”
Sims buttered his own slice, frowning at the burnt taste. “He seldom talks about his life-or what he’s witnessed. I think the only reason he told me about his encounter with Walsh was his need for food and a little warmth.”
“Yes, it may be true.” Rutledge added pensively, “I should have expected that between you, you and Father James could have found work for Henderson-doing the heavier labor for old Tom Randal, for instance. And Mrs. Barnett must need someone to help with upkeep at the hotel. It’s a barn of a place for a woman on her own.”
“She doesn’t have the custom to hire anyone else, even for a pittance with room and board. Tom Randal refuses to consider help on the farm. No one else in Osterley needs Henderson. Too many people are out of work, that’s the trouble-the shopkeepers and farms can find help two a penny without turning to a man with Peter’s history. Lord Sedgwick hired him until Dick, Herbert Baker’s younger son, was fit again for light duties. The house in Yorkshire is closed while Arthur Sedgwick recovers from his own injuries-if he’s not in hospital, he’s here in Norfolk or in London. Edwin lives in London most of the year. I’ve been corresponding with a woman in Hunstanton who may take Henderson on. She and her husband own a small pub, and need an extra man. But he’s not local, you see-and she’s wary of that.” Sims said tentatively, “What are you going to do about Virginia Sedgwick? I don’t quite see Inspector Blevins rushing to find out the truth, most particularly if it involve
s the Sedgwick family. He won’t like that!”
“He’s already seen to it that most of Osterley believes that Walsh has paid for what he did-that justice has been served. And he has to live here. I can’t fault him for trying to put as good a face on the situation as he can.” Rutledge grimaced. “The most direct course of action would be going to Lord Sedgwick himself.”
“Good God, man, you can’t be serious?” Sims’s face was the picture of dismay. “I agreed-we all agreed-that it was worthwhile speaking to Blevins. Do you realize how powerful Sedgwick is? You’ll sink your own career, and possibly mine as well!”
Rutledge considered him. “You still don’t wish to know what’s become of Virginia Sedgwick, do you? But Sedgwick’s son may well have committed murder, and I think it’s important to give him an opportunity to refute such a charge. He’ll be a worse enemy if half the town hears before he does.” He smiled. “Thank you for breakfastand a night’s sleep. I needed both rather badly.”
As he went to find his coat, Sims followed him to the hall. “I’m grateful for what you’re trying to do. It’s just- I’m not sure that I want to stop thinking about her being alive. I-it’s given me a kind of hope…” He shrugged, as if embarrassed by the admission. “It’s hard to explain.”
But Rutledge understood what he was trying to say. He himself had never looked over his own shoulder to find out once and for all if Hamish was there. He didn’t want to know-he didn’t want to see what was there. And as long as he didn’t, he was safe.
As he buttoned his coat against the rain, he said, “What if, against all expectations, we should find that Virginia Sedgwick left her husband of her own accord and is happily settled in a cottage in Ireland, living a life she much prefers to her role as Arthur’s wife. Would he welcome her back, do you think?”
