Watchers of Time

by Charles Todd

“Yes, I’d thought of that, too. My answer was, the metal could be melted down, if you knew where to go. The thief might not receive more than a portion of its real value, but it must surely come to a tidy sum. I find myself returning again and again to the fact that if he’d wanted only the money, he could have run out, shoving Father James out of his way, and taken the chance that in such a brief, unexpected encounter in a dark room, he might not be recognized. Better that than the sin of murder on his soul!”

  “He’s fearful,” Hamish interjected, “that he might ken the killer—”

  The door opened and Bryony came in with the tea tray, shadowed by a tiger-striped gray cat. Bryony set the tray onto the table close to the priest’s elbow, cast an eye over it, then left, the cat following at her heels with a smug air. Rutledge tried not to remember a white cat lying on a pillow in an empty room, looking for its owner to come again.

  “The rectory doesn’t own Bruce. The cat,” Monsignor Holston said in amusement, catching Rutledge’s eye on the animal. “He owns the rectory. If I understand his genealogy correctly, his great-great-grandmother was a resident here. That’s before the Bishop’s time, and mine.” He poured a cup of tea for Rutledge and then for himself, passed the pitcher of thick cream and the bowl of sugar. A plate of thin sandwiches and another of thin slices of cake followed.

  Rutledge was beginning to see a pattern in the dispassionate account Monsignor Holston had given. His reasoning had been easy to follow—someone who had no connection with the church might have considered the candlesticks and the crucifix an unexpected windfall. This thief hadn’t. But he’d known or guessed where to look for the money. As Holston had all but said, the evidence pointed directly to a member of the church. But was that his only deduction?

  There were shadows behind the priest’s eyes, worry more than mourning. Rutledge decided to bide his time.

  As Monsignor Holston settled to his tea, Rutledge asked, “Have the police interviewed members of St. Anne’s congregation? Surely they were most likely to know that the bazaar money was still in Father James’s hands. As well as where it was being kept.”

  “Oh, yes, that was done, and done again. There are, as in every parish, Catholic or Protestant, a few . . . er . . . black sheep. These were questioned a third time. But such men aren’t likely to commit murder—petty theft, perhaps. Even burglary, if pressed by circumstances. There were at least three needy parishioners who might well have talked their way out of trouble, if Father James caught them in his study. Ill wife in one case, and too many children to feed in another, and a third is known for his taste for the horses. In their straits, any sum might have been tempting. In Inspector Blevins’s opinion, none was likely to be a killer. He said not one of them had the stomach for it.”

  “Perhaps Inspector Blevins should be searching for a man who might have had one of the booths at the fair. Or had come to the fair for the express purpose of finding money somehow. And chosen to come back and try his luck at the rectory, when he had been unsuccessful anywhere else.”

  The cake was heavy with eggs and sultanas. Rutledge thought, Frances would tell me it’s strengthening. . . .

  “Yes, the local authorities have been quite thorough there also. They’re still searching for individuals who had set up a booth and any strangers who had drawn attention to themselves. Apparently it isn’t easy to trace their movements—this is a popular time of year for harvest fetes and bazaars. They could be in a dozen towns.”

  Rutledge finished his cake and set aside his plate. The thin man opposite him had consumed three helpings to his one. Filled with a nervous energy that demanded stoking, Monsignor Holston seemed not to notice the richness of the cake.

  “Let’s return to my earlier suggestion—and yours. What if we turn the tale around, and ask ourselves if the priest was killed—and the pittance taken to cover up the crime?” Rutledge asked.

  “The police also dismissed that theory. They reported to the Bishop that there is no reason to believe that Father James had enemies.” The blue eyes had become watchful.

  Policemen often interviewed witnesses and friends of a murder victim who felt a driving need to find explanations, to look for answers. But Rutledge had the strong impression that Monsignor Holston was trying to shape the thinking of this man from London, guiding it carefully toward an unclear goal.

  Rutledge said, “I think it might be time for you to give me the whole of the story.”

  Monsignor Holston smiled. “Do you usually have so little faith in the things you’re told, Inspector?”

  “Which is another way of saying, perhaps, that I believe you yourself have not yet come to face the truth.”

  The priest sighed.

  “It isn’t a matter of truth,” he replied, turning for a moment to look out the window at the rain. “It’s a matter of faith. Sometimes there’s a feeling one can’t shake off. Have you ever experienced such a thing?” When Rutledge nodded, he went on, “Try as hard as I will, I can’t ignore that primeval response—that sense of danger—of fear for myself, as well as for Father James. I asked the Bishop to send for Scotland Yard because my instincts tell me it was the right thing to do. What if there is more here than meets the eye? What if this murder is beyond the experience and training of the local people to investigate fully? What if the killer is able to outwit them, and we see no one brought to justice?” He paused, then said in a strained voice, “It’s likely that I’ll be sent as the interim pastor at St. Anne’s, until a replacement can be found. I don’t want to be the next victim!”

  CHAPTER 4

  RUTLEDGE STARED AT THE PRIEST, HIS mind working swiftly as he weighed what had been said—and what had not.

  “You’ve been afraid from the beginning, haven’t you, that Father James was not killed for money? For the sake of argument, what if you’re right? What if the theft was no more than a cloud of confusion, to mislead the police? If you’re worried about being the next victim, the only conclusion I can draw is that you’ve been told something—”

  Monsignor Holston interrupted, his voice earnest. “I was in that room, before they’d taken Father James away. And there was violence in the presence of his body. Violence that went unexplained. And it spilled over on me! Do you understand what I am trying to say? What if this murderer isn’t satisfied that it’s finished? Or has your profession inured you to death, Inspector? Perhaps it’s out of fashion—after the slaughter of thousands in the War— to put the death of any man—even a priest!—down to an unspeakable act?”

  “They are both unspeakable acts, murder and war,” Rutledge answered grimly. “I haven’t become inured to either of them. You’re describing the force of the crime, I think, not the motivation.”

  Monsignor Holston shook his head. “No. It was something in that room. The policemen were about, the lamps lit, the spirit of the man long since departed, the body cold, even—but the lingering sense of violence was frightful.” He paused. “As a priest I have no key to unlock the mind of this murderer. But I fear it, and in doing so, I fail the man who has just taken a life. And in failing him, I have failed God.” He set his teacup aside.

  Rutledge said, “If you’ve sent for Scotland Yard to restore your faith in your God, we aren’t trained for that.”

  “No, it isn’t what I need from you. I need your intelligence and your knowledge of how or why such a crime is committed. I want to be sure that the man the police take into custody this week—next week—next year—is the culprit. It will be easy, I think, to find people who might have been needy enough to steal. And put the blame on them. I want to be absolutely sure it isn’t misplaced!”

  The priest had failed to answer the question directly.

  “He’s as slippery as a fish,” Hamish warned.

  “You’re a trained and intelligent man yourself, Monsignor. Surely you’ve taken the question a step further. If it wasn’t something Father James knew—or had told you— then it must be something in that rectory that the killer was searching fo
r. And if he failed to find it, you must feel fairly certain that he’ll come back to try again. If you’re there, he won’t let your presence stand in his way, just as he didn’t spare Father James. What in heaven’s name could Father James have kept there that would be worth one priest’s life, and perhaps two? What could have put him at such risk?”

  “If I knew the answer to that,” Monsignor Holston said in resignation, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I’d have told Inspector Blevins at once!”

  “Then I’m left with the original police supposition that this was a breaking-and-entering gone wrong. And the people in Osterley can handle that. If I’m to present a case to my superiors that calls for the Yard’s intervention, I’ve got to persuade them that there is very good reason to think the Yard’s time is well spent here. Yes, the fact that the victim is a priest naturally weighs with them, or I wouldn’t have been sent to Norwich in the first place. But the rule of thumb is that the local constabulary often knows more about the people they need to interview than an outsider could, and are therefore more likely to spot the killer.”

  “I have given you all the information that it’s in my power to give you,” Monsignor Holston replied, his austere face clouded with doubt. “I can’t tell you more than that—I wish I knew more! And I won’t lie to you, either. I will say this: Father James was a very good man. Sober and hardworking. A man of faith and deep convictions. I have a duty to him. If his murderer can be found, I want him found.”

  Hamish said, “A priest could be killed for what he knows.”

  It was true. . . .

  Rutledge, finishing his tea, shook his head as he was offered more and set his empty cup on the tray. “There’s another avenue we haven’t really explored. A clergyman learns to cope with a variety of responsibilities, some of them rather onerous. There’s always the chance that what happened to Father James is in some way related to his duties. And in taking them over, you may put yourself at risk as well. Someone may believe you will come to know more than you safely should.”

  “It’s always possible, of course. The truth is, a clergyman can often make quite good guesses about what’s going on in his parish. And he’s often privy to confidences—never mind what he’s told in the confessional. But in that confessional, he may learn the whole story. A husband is unfaithful to his wife, a clerk has cheated his employer, someone has spread a lie that hurt others, a child was not fathered by the man who believes it’s his. That’s the reason the words uttered in the confessional are a sacred trust. It must be a place where a person tells the truth and unburdens his soul before God. We believe in this sacrament, and we protect it with our silence. Father James wouldn’t have broken that vow.”

  “And if a man or a woman tells the priest something, and later regrets that confidence?”

  “He or she may regret having spoken. But God knew long before he or she stepped into the confessional. And the priest is sworn to silence.”

  “That’s not always the practical answer,” Rutledge told him.

  Monsignor Holston removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “No, it isn’t. The practical answer is, that man or that woman may simply move to another parish, leaving behind the priest who knows the truth and finding another one who will accept this newest member of his flock at face value. One doesn’t murder the priest for the secrets of the confessional. It would have changed the face of the Church hundreds of years ago if that had become the common practice.” He restored his glasses to their proper place, settling them into the deep indentations on either side of his nose, then tried to smile. And failed. “Were you told that Father James was a chaplain in the first two years of the War, until he was sent home with severe dysentery in 1917? Who can be sure that the truth doesn’t lie there? In the War?” Monsignor Holston turned his head again to look out at the garden, as if he half expected to find the answer he wanted in the grassy paths and the shrubbery. Or half expected to find someone standing there.

  Hamish said, “He fidgets like a man with an uneasy conscience!”

  Rutledge answered silently, “Uneasy? Or uncertain?” Aloud he said, “In that event, I see no reason why you should feel that you’re in any particular danger.”

  Monsignor Holston turned from the window to Rutledge. “I have told you. It’s primitive—the hair rising on the back of my neck in a dark corner of my church, or coming down the passage here in the house when it’s late and I’m alone. Sitting in a lighted room when the windows are dark and the drapes haven’t been drawn, and looking up suddenly to see if someone is out there, staring in at me. It isn’t real, it’s all imagination. And I’m not by nature easily frightened. Now I am.”

  “Did you serve with the same units that Father James did?”

  “I never went to France. I worked among the wounded here in England as they were being sorted out when the ships came in. Most of them were in too much pain to do more than accept a cigarette and a little compassion, some reassurance that God was still watching over them.” Monsignor Holston shook his head. “You’re probably right, I’m not thinking very logically about any of this. But somewhere in this muddle there must be an explanation for Father James’s murder and my own strange sense that something’s wrong.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. You’re a very clever man, Inspector Rutledge. You’ll sort it out. I am reassured that Scotland Yard has sent us its best.”

  And that was all that Monsignor Holston was prepared to say.

  Leaving the rectory, Rutledge paused to speak to Bryony as she showed him to the door. Around them the house was silent, shutting out the sound of the rain and the echo of shovels scraping against stone out in the street. “I understand that Father James was well thought of.”

  “Now there was a black day, when Father was killed! I’ve not got over the shock of it. Well thought of? Of course he was, and well loved, well respected, too!” She took Rutledge’s hat and coat from the chair beside the door and held them to her as if they offered comfort. “You can ask anyone.”

  “People always speak well of the dead,” he told her gently. “Even a priest is human, and sometimes frail.”

  “As to that, I wouldn’t know! I’m not one to go around looking for failings. I can tell you Father James was a patient man, and generous. If someone had come to him with a tale of hard luck, he’d have given them the money, they needn’t have killed him for it! It’ll turn out to be a stranger, mark my words. A cruel and ungodly man with no regard for his own soul.” Her eyes remained on his, as if expecting him to make a pronouncement that would set her mind at rest.

  “A non-Catholic? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Neither Protestant nor Catholic, in my view—no churchgoing man would murder a clergyman, would he? I’m saying that whoever it was killed Father James wasn’t hungry or in debt. He was calculating and self-serving, with a devil in him. Or her. Women can be terrible cruel sometimes. Are there so many of those walking about that it takes all this time for the police to track down the right one? It’s been days now since Father’s death, and what have the police got to show for it? I call it a crying shame!”

  “Surely they’ve tried.”

  “Oh, as to trying, now, I’d agree with you there. They’ve tried. But they’re not what I’d call clever men.” She moved to open the door for him, letting in the damp and the reek of the filthy mud being piled high at the roadside. “Housebreaking and petty theft, fire-setting or assault—they’ll find the culprit, because chances are he’s done it before. But that’s not clever, is it? It’s only a matter of knowing where to look!”

  “And in this case, perhaps only a matter of finding out who has extra money jangling in his pocket, the money he stole from Father James,” Rutledge responded reasonably. “Six of one—”

  “Is it, now?” She tilted her head to look up at him. “Father James was a family man, did they tell you? This past August his sister presented her husband with three little ones, and Father James was always helping
out with the babes. What’s she to do now, with winter coming on and no one to come and stay a few days, when one’s sick of the croup and she’s up all the night? You might speak to Mrs. Wainer. She was Father James’s housekeeper, and a more decent woman you’ll never meet. Ask her about walking into the study and finding him there stiff and cold, blood all over the place. And for all she knew, the killer lurking in the bedroom, ready to strike her down as well! If you’ve set Monsignor’s mind at rest just now, it would be a kindness to reassure her, too. And only a few hours out of your way, mind!”

  “Where will I find her?” He stepped through the doorway as she handed him his coat and hat. He could feel the blowing mist on his face, fine as silk against his skin.

  “She’s at the rectory still, though I don’t know for the life of me how the poor woman can walk through the door. It’s her duty to be there, she says. Every day. Just as if Father James was still alive. Osterley is the name of the town. Surely they told you that in London? It’s closer to the sea in the north, and easy enough to get to from here.” Her eyes were shrewd. “Easier, of course, to go back to London satisfied you’ve done your duty by us. There’s many would do that. Somehow I don’t think you’re one of them!”

  And with that she bade him a good day and closed the door.

  Rutledge turned the crank and got into his motorcar, out of the rain. And then he surprised himself by sitting there, considering what Bryony had said, the motor idling under his gloved hands as they rested on the wheel.

  He hadn’t anticipated being drawn into the life or the death of this man. It wasn’t the task that had been set him. . . .

  Go to Norfolk to reassure the Bishop that the police are doing their job properly.

  And instead he’d been expected, he thought wryly, to perform a small miracle or two. Find a true explanation for the murder of the priest—and then track down the killer.

  He didn’t envy the local man, Blevins, struggling to conduct an investigation in a climate of disbelief that refused to accept simple murder for what it really was, a commonplace calamity, not the stuff of legends.