by Charles Todd
Rutledge rejoined peaceably, “Yes, I can see that. You seem to have the investigation well in hand. Bishop Cunningham was alarmed enough to ask the Yard to see if there was anything we could do. Monsignor Holston will be glad of the news that someone’s in custody.”
“I suppose he will.” Blevins rubbed his eyes tiredly. “He was a friend of Father James’s. Do you want the truth? This is the first reasonable lead we’ve found. And if he didn’t kill the priest—Walsh, I mean—why did he put up such a fight? Here and in Swaffham!”
Because, Hamish pointed out, the man might well have other secrets to keep, unrelated to murder.
Rutledge said, “Then you don’t want me underfoot. I’ll return to London and leave you to it.” He had already been planning to do just that, but now there was an unexpected sense that he had somehow failed the people who had turned to him for answers. This arrest wouldn’t bring them peace. . . .
Hamish said, “They were wrong—Bryony and Mrs. Wainer and Monsignor Holston. It wasna’ a Greek tragedy that brought Walsh here. Only a new cart.”
Blevins was staring thoughtfully at Rutledge, debating something on his mind. Then, to Rutledge’s surprise, he said, “I’d take it as a favor, Inspector, if you stayed on. A day or two. At least until we’ve had an opportunity to look into Matthew Walsh. The Strong Man.” He used the words with irony, then meticulously straightened the stained green blotter before adding, “I’ve felt a good deal of anger over this business. I was one of Father James’s parishioners, you see. I’m not certain I’m detached enough to do my job properly. To judge Walsh’s innocence as well as his guilt.”
“Have you spoken to the Chief Constable—?”
“He tells me that it isn’t a question of my feelings,” Blevins interrupted. “It’s a simple matter of the facts. Well, I ask you, how am I to judge the ‘facts’ in this murder case when I’d cheerfully watch the bastard who did it hanged?”
“You must have known Father James fairly well. What was he like?”
“Middle-aged, but he went out to France. All through the Somme, he was there, ministering to any man who needed him. Of any faith. Even Hindus, for all I know. You could come and sit down in his tent and talk. I mean—talk.” He considered Rutledge. “In the War, were you?”
Rutledge nodded.
“I wondered, when I saw you flinch just now. Thought it might be an old wound caught wrong. Well, then, you know what I’m trying to say. Half of us were scared of dying, and the other half knew we were already dead—there was no hope of getting through it. But I never once heard Father James say it was ‘duty.’ What we owed to England. Or any of that other—” He broke off and grinned sheepishly as he remembered where he was. “He never treated us like fools. Instead he’d help us pray for courage. I was never much of a praying man until the Somme. No more than was required of me, at any rate. Father James taught us to pray for strength to see us through whatever came our way. It was all that saved me sometimes, walking into No Man’s Land in a hail of fire. My guts would turn to water, I’d shake so the rifle jerked in my hands. And I’d pray loud enough to hear myself. I wasn’t the only one, either.”
“No.” Rutledge had heard men pray in such straits. An odd mixture of pleading and defiance sometimes, trying to bargain for their lives. He’d done it himself, until the prayer had turned to begging for release.
Blevins shook his head. “Well, that’s the kind of man Father James was. And some bloody coward strikes him down for a few pounds. All that good—all that kindness and compassion—wiped out for a bloody handful of coins!” He waited for a response, watching Rutledge. There was nothing in his face to show how he felt, but his eyes pleaded.
Hamish observed, “Yon’s a worried man . . .”
“I don’t see why I shouldn’t stay. Until you’re satisfied,” Rutledge answered slowly. Bowles had, after all, given him a few days in which to carry out his original orders. And the Bishop would never complain of thoroughness. . . .
“There’s a hotel here in Osterley. Not up to London standards, perhaps, but it’ll suit you well enough. The woman who runs it is pleasant, and the food is good. I’ll call round later to see if you need anything. Best to let Walsh calm down before we try to talk to him.”
Rutledge heard dismissal in Blevins’s voice. The Inspector also needed to calm down, Rutledge thought. Hamish, agreeing, said, “He’s no’ a bad policeman, if he sees his own weakness.”
Standing, Rutledge said, “I left my luggage in Norwich. I’ll go back there tonight, and drive up tomorrow. I’d also like to have a look at Father James’s study, if you don’t mind. Before we talk to Walsh.”
“Mrs. Wainer will see to it. I don’t think she’s opened that door twice since it happened. No doubt pretends the study and the bedroom don’t exist anymore. She took it very hard, Father James’s death. Blamed herself for not staying on until he’d come back for his dinner. But that’s always the way, isn’t it?”
“Hindsight. Yes, it’s common enough.” Rutledge thanked him and left.
He drove back to the outskirts of Norwich, to the hotel there, and left a message with Sergeant Gibson at the Yard that he was staying over. Within half an hour Frances telephoned him to see how he was managing and to pass on the good news that a mutual friend had just given birth to a daughter, mother and child doing well, father recovering.
She had always managed to pry information out of Gibson. The crusty old Sergeant was apparently water in her hands.
There was still an hour before dinner, and Rutledge sat down in the most comfortable chair in his room and shut his eyes against the lamplight.
His chest ached with a vengeance, and he could feel the waves of exhaustion that swept him, too strong to allow him peace. Too much driving, too much strain on the still-healing flesh. But it had been worth it. Away from London, he found he was free of that obsessive need to appear to be unchanged by what had happened to him in Scotland. Here, no one knew his past, or cared about his future.
Rest seemed to elude him, his body tense with pain.
And yet at some point he slept, the quiet in the room giving way to the sound of battle, the distant roar of artillery, the chatter of machine guns cutting down the men struggling across No Man’s Land. The rain that beat against the windows in a sudden squall became mud underfoot, slippery, black. He went down, unsure whether he’d been shot or lost his footing. He lay there, unable to find the will to rise again, hoping he was dying. Corporal MacLeod’s voice was shouting at him, asking if he’d been hit. He scrambled to his feet, wondering why his chest felt heavy, wondering when there had been time to bandage it. It was hard to breathe as he ran, calling to his men, his eye on the barricaded hole where the Hun gunners lay hidden. He could hear the thump of bullets all around him, the screams of the wounded, the prayers and cries of angry, terrified men. His men. He couldn’t reach the gunners, he couldn’t get within range—the spotters had given him the wrong coordinates, it was a slaughter, and he couldn’t get to the gunners—!
And then a well-hidden sniper’s rifle fired, and somehow he heard it over the din of battle, and it fired again, and at the third shot, for a mercy the machine gun nest fell silent—
CHAPTER 7
RUTLEDGE ATE DINNER IN THE QUIET little restaurant attached to the hotel. Most of the other diners were local people, and he belatedly remembered, thinking about it, that it was Saturday evening. The hats of the ladies lacked style but were worn with pride, and the suits of the younger men were pre-War, ill-fitting, as if the weight lost in whatever theater they’d served hadn’t been regained. Couples chatted self-consciously, keeping their voices low and falling silent from time to time as though they had no idea what to say to each other. Four–five years of war left gaps in their lives that would be slow to mend.
He wondered what Jean had to say to her Canadian diplomat. How long, even, she had known him. Not that it mattered . . .
As the door from the lounge bar opened, Rutledge looked u
p. In that brief instant he thought he recognized the man standing by the hearth drinking down what appeared to be a Scotch and water. But when the door opened again the man was gone.
It was the same man he’d seen bringing in the boat at the Osterley quay, he was nearly sure of it. Edwin, his name was. . . .
The hotel’s food was simple but well cooked: carrot soup, roast mutton and potatoes, with a side dish of cabbage and onions, and an apple tart to finish. With only Hamish for company, Rutledge’s mind, unbidden, returned to the murder of Father James.
Why is it, he found himself thinking, that there has to be meaning in an unforeseen death? All of nature kills without compunction. Why should Everyman die with a fanfare of trumpets, like another Hamlet? In London he, Rutledge, had seen his share of wanton murder, where life had been snuffed out callously. And yet Father James’s friends had searched for purpose in his death, as if this somehow provided a legacy. . . .
Hamish, with relish, reminded him that there was no longer a case. “If yon Strong Man is the murderer, it’s no’ your duty to finish the investigation.”
Rutledge heard him, and even agreed. But he was not satisfied.
If he was guilty, Walsh’s motive had been theft. To pay for his new cart. And Father James most certainly would have recognized him. Even in a dark room, the sheer size of the man would have given him away. That alone might have turned Father James toward the window to call for help. On the other side of the coin, if Walsh had been startled to find someone walking into the study, he couldn’t have guessed that the priest was not likely to press charges. Cornered, he would have tried to protect himself as best he could, and once the crucifix was in his hand, it was a very small, frantic step to using it. A frightened man, looking for a way out . . .
What would Mrs. Wainer have to say to that? Or Monsignor Holston?
Even Inspector Blevins, with his man apparently safely tucked away in a cell, had asked Rutledge to stay on in Osterley.
Why?
By the time Rutledge had reached his dessert, he had come to realize that each of Father James’s defenders had spread over the indignity and degradation of murder a cloak of tragedy. But even their vision of that cloak was different.
What was it about this priest’s death that made everyone wary of the simple truth? Or made the simple truth a very odd choice? What had they failed to tell their visitor from Scotland Yard?
Hamish interrupted him to ask why a Protestant in apparently good standing with his own pastor would suddenly demand to see a different one—and one outside his own faith? It was not something that set well with his Covenanter’s view of things. Come to that, he persisted, why would Father James feel concerned about that dying Protestant’s mental stability?
Rutledge was moving on to the lounge for his tea. In a quiet corner, where the bay window looked out over the dark gardens, he discovered that he was staring at his own reflection in the uneven, two-hundred-year-old glass. It distorted his features, giving him a sinister look. But mercifully, the chair had been set at an angle, the reflection of Rutledge’s right shoulder masked by the shadows of the velvet drapes, and there was no way to tell if there was anyone standing behind him— A shiver ran through him and he turned away from the window. Even the teacup in his hands couldn’t warm the coldness that had touched him—what if the chair had been placed only another few inches one way or the other, and he had stared without warning into a bloody and accusing face?
Hamish prodded again, the voice just out of Rutledge’s line of sight. Still shaken, it took him several minutes to answer.
Confession was a sacrament in the Catholic Church. . . . The stricture on silence was not as strong in the Church of England.
If there had been something on the old man’s conscience, something serious enough for confession to ease his dying, he might well have chosen not to tell his own Vicar. As Dr. Stephenson himself had pointed out, Sims knew the family—the wife, if there was one, the children. Instead Baker might have turned to a priest who not only was bound by secrecy but had no close ties with the survivors.
“I canna’ see it makes sae great a difference! Unless the truth would prevent Baker from lying in consecrated ground.”
That was something Rutledge hadn’t considered.
“He wouldna’ fash himsel’ o’er small sins,” Hamish continued. “And I canna’ think whatever it was weighed sae heavily on his conscience, if he carried it about wi’ him to auld age!”
Rutledge agreed. Nothing so common as infidelity or an unpaid debt would send Father James to the doctor to ask questions about Baker’s sanity. And a man confessing to a sin, even to a crime long forgotten by everyone else, would present no question of conscience for the priest. A dying man was past trying in a court of law. Justice, after a fashion, had been done.
Father James had spoken of the dead man’s Will . . .
What if one of the inheriting children had no right to the family name?
“Aye. That,” Hamish answered his thought, “would be a serious matter.”
Or had another name that had been kept hidden for a lifetime—
Was that the secret the dying man wanted to impart to Father James? To leave behind a record of a child’s true heritage?
Was it that responsibility that had kept the priest pacing the rectory floor at night? Surely he might have felt he owed some duty there.
If it was a Confession, Father James wouldn’t have spoken of it to Monsignor Holston. He was bound by his vows not to tell anyone, even another priest. Or even to seek comfort in his own quandary. But Monsignor Holston might have been aware of some distraction, of a heavy burden that was never brought into the open. . . .
It was an interesting dilemma, what to do about a Confessed sin.
And where there was a Will, there was a solicitor who had drawn it up. If there were dark secrets in the Baker family, perhaps he would also have a few of the answers. If there were none to be found . . .
“We’re back again to the War,” Hamish said without enthusiasm. “You ken, better than most, what secrets soldiers bring home with them. Or what secrets a man might confess before battle, no’ expecting to survive it!”
And how to find such a needle in a haystack of returned veterans?
Yet that same needle might have found Father James, nearly a year after the War had ended. . . .
Because he’d come to a bazaar?
The next morning Rutledge left the Norwich hotel and drove back to Osterley, Hamish battering at the back of his mind.
Rutledge hadn’t slept deeply the night before, unable to find a comfortable position. His chest had throbbed relentlessly, torn muscle overtired from fighting the wheel (Frances would have had his head if she’d known) and refusing to be eased.
Consequently he’d been subjected to a long and unpleasant interlude every time he’d roused enough to turn over. Hamish, for one reason or another, had taken a dislike to the damp, dreary weather and was in full form.
If he wasn’t comparing the rounded green land of this part of Norfolk to the great barren mountains and long glens of Scotland, he was reviewing the circumstances surrounding the death of Father James or mulling over the conversation with Monsignor Holston or Inspector Blevins. Awake, Rutledge was unable to let down his guard. Asleep, pain found him again in an endless, restive circle.
Hamish, Rutledge discovered he was thinking at some point, was a malevolent spirit with no need for sleep.
This morning, fighting a headache from the unpredictable shifts in subjects, some of them seeming to lie in wait for him and aimed with a deadly accuracy, others following the unsettled state of his own thoughts, Rutledge was glad to see a modicum of sunlight sifting through the overcast. It seemed to foretell a lifting of the clouds in his mind.
Hamish seemed to find it more to his liking as well. As the land changed a little, announcing their approach to the sea, Hamish unexpectedly said, “It isna’ a verra’ pleasant thought, returning to London. I canna�
� ken why people live in cities, jammed cheek by jowl like so many sheep off to market!”
Rutledge agreed. His cluttered office was claustrophobic when rain ran down the soot-blackened windows, shutting him in with the lamplight and the musty smell of cigar smoke and wet wool. When it rained, Old Bowels’s moods were as unpredictable as the shifts in Hamish’s trains of thought.
Nor was he eager to return to Frances’s watchful care. His sister was a master at concealing her worry behind a light facade of humor, but he knew her too well to be taken in by it. He said aloud, in the silence of the motorcar—a habit he found nearly impossible to break— “I’ll be here at least one more day. It will do no harm.”
A lorry, bound from King’s Lynn to Norwich, sent an arc of muddy water across Rutledge’s bonnet as it passed in the southbound lane. He blinked as the spray washed the windscreen and left behind a dark and odiferous residue that slowly vanished in the drizzle that had resumed, swallowing up the sun.
As he drove into the town, Rutledge saw people hurrying toward Holy Trinity, bound for the service. He recognized a few of the faces from his brief visit on Saturday— the farmer and his sons who had successfully purchased the prize ram, the young woman he’d seen earlier in the churchyard, the barmaid at The Pelican, and two of the children who had been playing in Water Street. The familiar habit of Sunday worship comfortably being followed: occasionally greeting a friend, often looking up at the great tower that marked their destination as if already focused on the service. There was something very English about it.
He had the odd feeling that he had come home.
The constable on duty in the police station informed him that Inspector Blevins was at Mass, and had left word that he would expect his London counterpart after lunch.
