Watchers of Time ir-5

by Charles Todd

  “It’s possible,” Rutledge agreed. He saw again the hammer wound on the dead wife’s temple. All those years ago- Reaching into his experience and deeper into his intuition, he said, “When Matthew Walsh escaped from his cell, it was seen as an admission of guilt. If he was killed before he could be recaptured and tried, all the better. With his death, the investigation would be closed. As it has been! If he’d been retaken and sent to Norwich for trial, anything could have gone wrong.”

  “Insufficient evidence to convict him?” she asked, intrigued. “Then you’re saying that someone went after Walsh, and caught up with him not long after the mare cast her shoe-” Her face changed. “But, look here, if Walsh wasn’t riding it, he wouldn’t have been the one the mare kicked!”

  “Interesting, isn’t it?” Rutledge smiled. “After luncheon, I intend to pay a call on Lord Sedgwick.”

  Monsignor Hols on said, “Good God, are you telling me that his son Arthur is behind all this killing? I’ve met the man-you’ll never sell him to a jury as a cold-blooded murderer! Charming and very well liked.”

  “We were all searching for Walsh. And by sheer luck someone caught up with him. In my opinion that’s what happened. There’s a torn patch of grass, just a few feet from where the body lay. Some sort of struggle went on there. But no one’s going to tackle a man Walsh’s size, it would be suicide. Unless Walsh was on foot, and his killer was on the mare.”

  “Which brings us back to Lord Sedgwick. If he was at the rectory when Father James was killed,” May Trent said, “then he’d want Walsh dead.”

  Monsignor Holston said, “No. What I think Rutledge is saying is that just as Peter Henderson was a witness, so was Sedgwick. Without necessarily knowing the importance of what he saw.”

  May Trent’s eyes, on Rutledge and speculative, were skeptical.

  Rutledge looked at his watch. “We have five minutes before the dining room opens. I should go upstairs and change out of these wet clothes.”

  As he closed the lounge door behind him, he overheard Monsignor Holston commenting to May Trent, “When I asked my Bishop to send for the Yard, I thought I was doing something good. What have I unleashed? ”

  Luncheon passed in relative silence, each member of the small party lost in his or her own thoughts.

  Over the main course May Trent said suddenly, “I’m going with you. When you call on Lord Sedgwick.”

  “It’s not a very good idea,” Rutledge answered.

  “It probably isn’t,” she agreed. “All the same, I’m going.”

  But they were held up. A fire in one of the houses west of Water Street jammed the road with firefighters and a tangle of buckets, people, and frightened horses. The pouring rain, dropping out of a gray and light-absorbing sky, soon accomplished what the firefighters couldn’t, and the smoking, blackened rafters filled the air with the reek of burned wood as they loomed starkly against the clouds. But much of the house survived, and a great many of its contents had been saved.

  One of the men fighting the blaze was Edwin Sedgwick, sleeves rolled high, face smeared with sweat and soot. As Rutledge joined the line, passing buckets from the well, Edwin shouted orders and encouragement, taking charge as if by right, and showing unusual skill at coordinating the mob of people.

  Observing when he could, Rutledge saw that Edwin’s skill lay not so much in cajolery or good-humored bandinage but in the role of the local squire, the natural leader everyone turned to in time of trouble or danger. It was a role Edwin’s father played to the hilt, and the son had learned well. He took full advantage of it now.

  Hamish said, “He’s no’ sae overbearing as his father.”

  As Rutledge spelled an older man needing a breather, he agreed with Hamish. Command came more naturally to Edwin, as if by this generation it was bred in the bone, not learned.

  Edwin was everywhere at once, taking as many risks as the next man and not complaining about lending his weight where it was needed. A hand on a tired shoulder, a word of support, swift advice, a cry of warning.

  Hamish, whose independent Scottish spirit seldom allowed him to bow his neck to any man, commented, “He’s no’ the elder brother. He willna’ be the laird in his turn.”

  Rutledge cast a glance around, to find May Trent not in the motorcar watching from a safe distance but busy comforting the distraught woman lamenting the overturned lamp that had started the fire.

  Picking up the thread of Hamish’s remark again, he found it interesting. While Arthur had been buried in Yorkshire’s dales with his young wife or racing across France, Edwin’s had been the face that Osterley had seen most frequently.

  This presented a different aspect of the man Rutledge had encountered returning from boating in the marshes with his dog and drinking alone in the lounge bar of a tiny hotel outside Norwich. What had taken Edwin there?

  Hamish answered, “Mischief.” And perhaps there had been a woman with him that night.

  Their work done, the firefighters began the onerous task of cleaning up the muddy yard and trying to get the salvaged belongings under cover.

  Edwin Sedgwick accepted the gratitude of the householder as if it were his due, noblesse oblige, and to satisfy the general euphoria, he shook hands with all comers. When he reached Rutledge, he smiled and added, “Thanks for your help. We needed every man.” Treating him casually, as an outsider.

  Nothing in his demeanor indicated that he was aware of Rutledge’s close observation, but Rutledge had the feeling that Edwin Sedgwick, like his father, was a man used to battling the world and winning. He would be mindful of the smallest detail.

  As Rutledge turned to collect May Trent, Sedgwick retrieved a motorcycle from the side of a tree, and roared away toward East Sherham. In the distance, caught by the echoes of the rolling land, the sound dulled from thunder to a quiet chuckle.

  It was Hamish who called his attention to that.

  Rutledge spent what was left of the afternoon asleep in the chair in his bedchamber. He was awakened by Mrs. Barnett in time to arrange for Iris Kenneth to speak to Blevins again, and it was close to six when he saw her off to King’s Lynn in a lorry that had brought boxes of hams to the butcher in Osterley and as far east as Cley. He also made certain that she had money enough to make the journey in reasonable comfort, and she thanked him profusely.

  “Matthew wouldn’t have hurt anyone,” she said earnestly. “That Inspector Blevins won’t believe me, but I hope you will. I can’t say any fairer than that!”

  He helped her into the lorry. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, Miss Kenneth.”

  At the last moment she leaned down, speaking for his ears alone. “I owe you. And I pay my debts. A friend of mine did a bit of work once for a man in Norfolk. I never knew what village, but he was rich, and he paid her well to impersonate a lady. But she never did live to enjoy the money. I always thought he’d killed her. Two months later, they found her in the river, like that poor girl you thought was me. Naked as the day she was born, and drowned.”

  “When was this?” he asked, his curiosity aroused.

  “It was before the War. About two years before the War. I’d like to see you find the bastard yourself, and put that sanctimonious policeman’s nose out of joint. Serve him right to be made to look a fool! And a bit of his own back for Matthew.”

  And she was gone, the empty lorry lumbering down the road in the rain like a drunken walrus. May Trent, who had stepped out in the shelter of the hotel doorway, said, “She’ll manage, you know. Her kind always does. Somehow.”

  “We more frequently find them floating in the Thames. I hope to God she’s not taken out of the water one day soon.”

  Rutledge opened the umbrella and held it over her head as they walked to the yard, where the motorcar stood waiting. He was hearing Monsignor Holston’s admonition, offered quietly in the lobby of the hotel.

  “Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he said. “That’s what Father James did.”

  Hamish had sil
ently answered in Rutledge’s mind. “Aye. It’s worth heeding.”

  CHAPTER 28

  AS HE WAS ABOUT TO CRANK the motor, Rutledge said to May Trent, “I’ve just thought of something. I’ll be back shortly.”

  He turned and walked with long strides to The Pelican.

  Ten minutes later, he was back with Peter Henderson, who nodded at May Trent and climbed into the rear seat of the car without a word.

  Hamish was a hum of wordless admonition in Rutledge’s mind, reminding him that this night’s work could become a debacle.

  Dusk was falling quickly, the rain shifting for part of the way to a drizzle that seemed to coat the motorcar and its passengers in tiny drops of moisture. As they passed down the avenue of trees in East Sherham that led to the gates of the Sedgwick estate, Rutledge slowed to a walking pace. And Peter Henderson, like a wraith, was out of the car and gone in the mist before May Trent had even turned to see what was happening.

  The gatekeeper, reluctant to come out in the rain, called from his doorway, “Who’s there?”

  “Inspector Rutledge. Lord Sedgwick is expecting me.”

  The man, a hood over his head, hurried to open the gate and let them through. Rutledge drove on. Halfway down the looping drive to the house, he said to his passenger, “If you’ve changed your mind, you can stay in the car. I don’t expect this to take very long.”

  “No. I have a stake in this. In a way.”

  “As you wish.” But he was not pleased with her answer.

  The house was in darkness, save for lights on the first floor and in the hall. He lifted the knocker on the door and let it fall. The two of them huddled under the umbrella as they waited. Hamish was a constant barrage now in the back of Rutledge’s mind, like very distant thunder, warning him to walk carefully.

  May Trent said, “I think it’s turning colder.” As if to prove her words, her breath came out in a small white puff. She shivered.

  The door opened, the housekeeper holding the lamp high to see their faces in the shadow of the umbrella.

  “Inspector Rutledge and Miss Trent. To see Lord Sedgwick,” he said briskly.

  She said, “It’s such a nasty night, isn’t it! Do come in. I’ll let His Lordship know you’re here.”

  They stepped into the hall, the umbrella dribbling a tiny stream of water across the floor as Rutledge furled it and left it outside. The housekeeper was gone only a few minutes. She led them to the salon, with its broad windows and the dark, wet sweep of the lawns beyond.

  Lord Sedgwick was sitting there, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He rose and greeted his guests with warmth.

  “Do sit down! You’ve come about the reward, have you? Has Blevins made up his mind who should have it?”

  “I rather think he’s leaving the decision to you. But I haven’t come about Walsh. I’m here about your late coachman, Herbert Baker.”

  Surprised, Sedgwick said, “Baker? What does he have to do with Walsh?”

  “Can you tell me who in your family made it possible for his wife to have the medical attention she required?” His expression gave away nothing but polite interest. “It must have cost more than Baker could afford in a lifetime.”

  “Baker’s wife? Ah. I have a feeling that must have been Virginia. My daughter-in-law. She no doubt arranged for money to be sent anonymously. Very much the sort of thing she would do.” There was a blandness in his voice that Rutledge found irritating.

  Even if she’d had no idea what she was signing, Virginia’s name would surely be there, in the bank’s file of correspondence. Because that’s when the planning must have begun.

  Rutledge’s glance crossed May Trent’s. She smiled pleasantly, as if they were discussing a mutual acquaintance. But her gloved hands gripped each other.

  “That brings me to the next question. In regard to your daughter-in-law-”

  This time Sedgwick’s eyebrows rose. “Virginia? You seem to have a great deal on your mind this evening! Baker and now Arthur’s late wife. I don’t see how you could have known either one of them.”

  “As a tangent to Inspector Blevins’s efforts to investigate Walsh’s role in Father James’s death, I’ve been looking into the priest’s background and interests. He did know Virginia Sedgwick, I’m told.”

  “Can I offer you something to drink? Tea? A little sherry for you, Miss Trent?”

  They politely declined.

  “Virginia was sweet-natured, and she had half of Norfolk at her feet. Father James was no exception, as I remember.” Sedgwick smiled indulgently. “She seemed to feel comfortable with older men. Baker. Myself.”

  “The priest was quite anxious about her when she disappeared.”

  Sedgwick crossed his legs and flicked a small bit of mud off his shoe. “Yes, his support meant more than we can say. A great kindness, that was! As soon as we’d learned what happened to her, I sent him word.”

  “As I understand it, she sailed on Titanic, ” Rutledge said.

  “It was some time before we realized that she was among the victims. It came as quite a shock.” His voice was heavy. “She’d had a quarrel with Arthur, you know- one of those things that happen in any marriage. Apparently she took it to heart. When she told him she wanted to go home, he told her not to be ridiculous, expecting it to blow over. Tragically, she left anyway.”

  “Her body was never recovered?”

  “Sadly, she wasn’t identified when the bodies were brought in. We didn’t know, you see, that she’d even sailed. Not until after the fact. Arthur was the one I worried about-he was frantic. When the police failed to find any trace, we worked through private sources. And in the end, Arthur went straight to Ireland. I’d have accompanied him if I’d realized he was going to be subjected to those pathetic photographs of the dead-imagine, if you will, trying to see a resemblance to someone you loved! But money has its uses. In the end, she came home to us. So many of the dead couldn’t be identified. It was-rather horrible to think about them.” He set down his drink, unfinished. “For a time, I was afraid I’d lose my son as well. I’ve tried for five years now to persuade him to put her death behind him and marry again. He won’t hear of it.”

  “There’s another school of thought,” Rutledge said quietly. “That she never sailed at all. That somewhere between her home in Yorkshire and King’s Lynn, where she intended to plan a party, she was murdered.”

  Sedgwick sat forward, his face a picture of dismay. “Good God, man, where did you hear that wild tale! She was recognized in King’s Lynn!”

  “No, she was seen. A woman in a veiled hat? It could have been anyone.” Remembering Iris Kenneth’s parting words, Rutledge improvised. “It could even have been a hired impostor. A shopkeeper might be pleased to say your family patronized his business, whether you did or not. But no one who knew her well ever came forward.”

  Sedgwick looked over Rutledge’s head. He said quietly, “You’d better fetch your brother, Edwin.”

  Rutledge turned to find Edwin Sedgwick just walking out of the room behind him. Hamish asked, “How much did he hear?”

  “Enough,” Rutledge answered. “I expected one of them to be listening.”

  In a moment or two, Edwin returned with his elder brother, the family resemblance between them strong, although Arthur was still quite thin and walked with a distinctly stiff back, as if he wore a brace tonight. He came in and sat down gingerly, as Sedgwick made the introductions.

  “You ought to hear this, Arthur,” he concluded.

  Rutledge said, “This isn’t my fancy, Lord Sedgwick.” And then to Arthur, he began mildly, “Someone in this family paid for the care of Herbert Baker’s ill wife, and he was deeply indebted to you. I can prove that. And you used him in return. After a fashion, I can prove that as well. In the early spring of 1912 you sent him to Yorkshire to fetch Mrs. Sedgwick for a journey to East Sherham. She enjoyed being driven by Baker, I think, with his old-fashioned manners. He didn’t know that he was going to be a witness to a staged even
t: her disappearance. Whatever it was that happened, he was led to believe it was what she wanted, and so he agreed. But he was rather a simple man, and it went against his conscience to wreck a marriage. He got drunk when he was supposed to be waiting for Mrs. Sedgwick to return from her marketing. He knew she wasn’t going to be meeting him. We can prove that as well.”

  Arthur Sedgwick nodded. “You’ve got your facts straight, actually. It’s the interpretation that’s wrong. Virginia did want to help Baker’s ill wife, and the bank can show you the letter she wrote asking for sums to be made available anonymously. And we’ve believed from the beginning that she cajoled Baker into turning his back while she made good her escape. We couldn’t blame him-he punished himself enough as it was.”

  Hamish said, “A jury would believe this man…”

  It was true. But it wasn’t a jury that Rutledge wanted to reach just now.

  “The only wrong assumption that Baker made in this affair,” Rutledge told Arthur, “was believing that your wife was the instigator of these arrangements. You’d been planning her death since the November before, hadn’t you? And quite cleverly. When Virginia Sedgwick vanished, Baker was hamstrung. His own wife was still in the sanitarium, and he refused to put her at risk by asking questions. After that one bout of drunkenness, he lived an exemplary life until he died of natural causes.”

  “Yes, we went to the services,” Sedgwick put in. Noblesse oblige. ..

  “Which brings me to the services for Virginia, Mrs. Sedgwick. I can order the exhumation of her coffin, you see. To discover if there’s a corpse inside. But I rather think it’s empty. When Titanic went down, it provided the most unexpected windfall-a marvelous explanation for the disappearance of your wife. You’re right, money has its uses, including bribing London clerks and Irish gravediggers. No one would ask a grief-stricken family for proof! And if a coffin silenced Father James and Herbert Baker, who meant well but were persistent in asking for news, then it must have been worth every penny. The scandal of a possible runaway wife allowed you to use great discretion in suppressing the whole story.”