by Charles Todd
“If there’s a Mass, there’s a priest,” Hamish told Rutledge as he walked back to the motorcar.
“Yes. I’d like to see who has been sent to conduct it.”
He turned the car and drove to St. Anne’s. The watery sunlight brightened.
Stopping in the drive beside the rectory, Rutledge sat back in his seat, trying to ease the tense muscles in his chest, massaging his upper arm near the shoulder, commanding it to relax. He’d nearly succeeded by the time the first of the parishioners came out of the service and walked away down the street.
Watching them, he wondered which had been under suspicion before Walsh had been taken into custody. Surely Blevins had considered a good many of them, before the investigation had widened.
In a few moments, Monsignor Holston stepped out of St. Anne’s and stood by the door, speaking to each family as they left the service. Rutledge, watching, could see that Monsignor Holston knew a number of them, and found a brief word even for those he didn’t. For a scholarly man, the priest had a remarkably affable manner with people. Inspector Blevins, in the middle of a group, stopped to make several remarks, and the priest’s face lighted a little. But there was doubt in his expression as he turned his head to follow Blevins and his family as they walked on. A trio of elderly women, dressed in black and very eager to take Monsignor Holston’s hand in their turn, brought up the rear of the procession of people. He reassured each woman, bending to hear what the eldest, stooped and leaning on a cane, had to say. But in the end he shook his head.
Hamish said, “He doesna’ know who will replace Father James.”
“I have a feeling the Bishop may wait until the police have finished their job.”
As the women moved off down the path, Monsignor Holston turned to go back into the sanctuary, and then saw Rutledge for the first time, hailing him.
Rutledge got out of the car and strode toward the church.
“Well met,” the priest said. “Come and talk to me while I change out of my robes.”
Rutledge joined him at the door. “I see you were sent here to conduct the service. Does this mean the Bishop has made no decision about Father James’s successor? Or are you taking up residence now?”
“The Bishop’s biding his time. I think he prefers to wait until there’s some news about the killer. Not wanting to be seen to be filling Father James’s shoes with unwarranted haste. But he can’t leave it much longer. There are needs here that I can’t meet, coming only for a day. And most of all it’s a need for continuity, a sense of order having been restored.”
They went into the sanctuary together and down an aisle. “This is a very lovely church, you know.” Monsignor Holston gestured to the stark simplicity surrounding them. “Father James used to say that it was stripped of all pretension, down to the bare bones of faith. Architecturally, that’s quite true. And I think he carried that message through into his pastoring here. But this is a dying parish; there’s no work for the young people here along the coast. The Bishop should find a young priest with energy and ideals to fill Father James’s shoes. One who might reach them before they wander off to work in Norwich or King’s Lynn or Peterborough. You could see for yourself how many of those present this morning were over forty.”
“Yes, I had noticed. Is this considered advice? Or an offering to the gods to keep you safely in Norwich?”
Opening the vestry door, Monsignor Holston smiled. “Yes, there’s that. I don’t mind coming here for the services. I just don’t have a fancy for staying.”
“I should think with Walsh’s capture that much of the strain would begin to dissipate.” To soften the remark, Rutledge added, “Although that will take time, I’m sure.”
Monsignor Holston shook his head. “There’s still something in that house”—he gestured toward the unseen rectory—“that would keep me awake at night!”
“The coffin door knocker, for one?” It was said lightly.
The smile returned. “That was a bit of whimsy on some Victorian priest’s part. A reminder that dust to dust is everyone’s fate.” He took off his robes and laid them carefully in the small black case on the table. After a moment he said, “I was surprised to see you still here, Inspector. I had thought you’d go back to London, duty done.”
“I had every intention of going,” Rutledge answered. “But Inspector Blevins has asked me to stay on a day or two. Until they are sure that this man Walsh is the one they want. They only brought him in yesterday, and there’s still a great deal to find out about his movements.”
Monsignor Holston nodded. “Blevins spoke to the Bishop last night. ‘Early days’ was what he said, but I think he’s very hopeful. Bishop Cunningham asked to be kept informed.”
“Blevins would also like to see this ended.” Rutledge paused, watching Monsignor Holston as he added the consecrated wafers to his case and closed the lid. As they walked out the vestry door into a spreading patch of sunlight, he said, “I’m just going to the hotel to see about a room. Will you join me for lunch?”
Monsignor Holston sighed. “I’d like that very much. But I have to be back in Norwich for a service tonight. If you’re here next Sunday, I’ll accept.”
“If I’m still here,” Rutledge agreed. “Where did you leave your motorcar?”
“Behind the rectory. Look, if you are staying on here, will you keep me apprised of the situation? I’m sure Inspector Blevins will have his hands full. And—I’d appreciate it.”
“Yes, I will.”
And Monsignor Holston was gone, hurrying around the apse into the churchyard, lifting a hand in farewell as he disappeared in the direction of the rectory.
Hamish said, “He left with indecent haste.”
“Yes. I don’t know what he’s afraid of, but Monsignor Holston is a man looking over his shoulder. He wanted me to come inside with him because he didn’t want to be in that church alone. At a guess I’d say he’s not sure the evidence against Walsh will stand.”
“Aye,” Hamish said thoughtfully. “There’re ghosts there. But of his making or are they real?”
“I wish I knew!” Rutledge answered, walking back to his own motorcar.
The Osterley Hotel had once been grander, when the town was closer to the sea. Now it offered comfort to what travelers there were and to families and merchants staying for market day. Rutledge thought it might also be the only lodging within several miles where townspeople could put up guests.
The hotel stood on Water Street, where the road ran along the quay, and was built of the ubiquitous flint, three stories with windows looking out over the marshes or onto a courtyard at the side of the building, where carriages and motorcars could be left.
The woman who came to the desk as he entered was nearing fifty, he thought, her graying hair tidily pulled back into a soft knot at the nape of her neck. Clear gray eyes met his when he asked for a room. “For the night?”
“For several days,” he said.
She nodded, pleased. “There’s a nice view of the sea from number seventeen. If you have keen eyesight,” she added with a smile. “What brings you to Osterley? We don’t get many holiday-makers this time of year.”
“A matter of business,” he said pleasantly. “When did the sea recede?”
“Not in my lifetime. The early years of the last century. Though they say that the storms since 1900 are eroding the beaches again, and we might see the water return within the next ten or twenty years. That would be nice!” There was more hope than certainty in her voice. “We serve breakfast at seven, later if you prefer it. And if you’ll be in to luncheon, we’d like to know. It’s generally served at half past twelve. Dinner is from seven to nine. Then the cook wants to go home. You can also find a meal at The Pelican when we’re closed. That’s the pub at the end of the quay.”
She was leading him up stairs that had been painted a soft green to match the carpet running down the center of the first-floor passage. A line of photographs in gold-trimmed oak frames had been hung a
long the walls, and he saw that they were early photographs showing Osterley when it still managed to attract a few bathers. Dark and faded, but fascinating as history: Victorian women in black silk gowns and bonnets strolling by the sea with black silk parasols shading their faces from the sun; small boats coming in to the quay in deeper water than existed now; and a fisherman proudly displaying his catch, his cap at a jaunty angle. There was a very early photograph of a coaster unloading freight, boxes and bales and barrels, just beyond The Pelican. And next to that, children forming a ring of curious faces around a pair of seals on the strand, their sleek, wet heads cocked in wary uncertainty. In this one, the marshes were a thickening line of reeds and grasses, more prominent to the east, leaving the western side of the narrowing harbor as a last sacrifice to the encroaching silt.
Noticing Rutledge’s interest, she said, “My grandfather took those. Avid photographer with a keen eye for such things. He was lucky with the seals—they don’t come this far south very often.” She stopped before number seventeen and opened the door.
It was a bright room, flooded with light from a double pair of windows. Large, well furnished with a bedstead of mahogany wood, a dresser with a mirror, and a clothespress that matched. A painted washstand stood in the corner. Two comfortable chairs framed a table under the first pair of windows, and a desk was set under the second.
“The finest room in the house,” Hamish murmured.
“I’m Mrs. Barnett,” she told Rutledge. “If I’m not in the office, I’m in the kitchen or out to do the marketing. Leave a note if you can’t find me.”
“I will. Thank you.”
“Do you care for luncheon today? As it’s Sunday, The Pelican is closed. You’ll have to drive inland some distance.”
“If that’s no trouble.”
“We have one other guest at the moment, and she’s staying in. Not a very agreeable morning for exploring the countryside! But I think it will clear by afternoon.”
She cast one last glance around the room, nodded, and closed the door.
Rutledge went to the windows and looked out. From the first floor he could indeed see the water, a thin line of waves curling in, gleaming dully, and a flight of birds rising from the shingle strand. The hummocky, marshy ground filling the harbor from the headland to his left as far as the great hook of land that served as a natural breakwater on his right appeared to be threaded with foot-wide rivulets of no great depth, as well as the little stream that was all that remained of the harbor.
Having seen the photographs in the passage, he realized that the buildings that had once served the sea—shops selling ship’s stores, fish markets, taverns, yards—had long since been turned to other uses. He had noticed one sporting a sign proclaiming a branch of the wildfowl trust. Another had become a smithy-cum-garage.
Hamish said, “I ken the sea taking a man’s livelihood. Storms scour the coast of Scotland. Men drown, ships are lost. It’s a hard life. But here . . .”
“They turned their hands to other things, I expect. Norfolk is sheep country. Or people simply moved on, those with a skill to offer somewhere else.”
For a time he stood there simply enjoying the view, his windows open to the cry of the seagulls and the light breeze that was rapidly clearing the rain out. But the air here was fresh and clean, a tang of salt in it; the houses and shops seemed richly colored in the warming sunlight, their flint and brick walls holding the very character of Norfolk. Many of the streets of this village now looked inland, as if growing accustomed to accommodating the missing sea, but Water Street still ran toward it and then turned when it reached the quay. The pale line of water out beyond the ridges of grass seemed to lack the energy to find a way back, a wan lover with no real passion for a reunion.
Hamish said, “No one remembers when the storms brought the sea inland. I wouldna’ hae wanted to live here then!”
Which was, Rutledge thought, a perceptive remark. He noticed an elderly man in a small boat rowing up the stream, heading in to Osterley. He rowed smoothly, back bent, arms moving from long practice in the even, easy strokes of someone brought up on the water. Muscles bulged where the sleeves of his darned sweater had been rolled back to the elbows, and the heavy corduroys he wore were well worn. Watching him pull for the quay, Rutledge realized suddenly that he envied the man, drawn to the water as he himself was.
Though the harbor had vanished—even most of the little boats themselves—the gulls, ever hopeful, could be heard heading toward the lonely rower or wheeling just out of sight above the hotel—as if searching the marshy silt for the next wave. Lacking a boat, he wondered if it was safe to walk down to the distant beach, or if there was a track he could follow.
He straightened, and brought his mind back to the present. His suitcase was in the boot; he would have to fetch it. The tips of the fingers on one hand absently massaged his chest. Too much driving had aggravated the blow he’d received yesterday. Damn the man Walsh! But it hadn’t been his fault. Rutledge had been in the wrong place.
Looking at his watch, Rutledge realized that it was nearly twenty-five after twelve. His baggage could wait. He washed his hands in the basin and dried them on a towel embroidered with an OH—Osterley Hotel—ringed with blue forget-me-nots. The room was scrupulously clean and in good order. Mrs. Barnett was conscientious about her guests’ comfort.
Down the passage he heard another door open and then close. The carpet muffled footsteps. The other guest? He wasn’t in the mood for conversation. . . .
He waited for a count of twenty, opened then shut his own door, and followed down the passage and the stairs. The French doors to the right of the lobby stood open now, and there was a long dining room with some twenty tables covered in white cloths with green serviettes. But only two by the long windows had been set for the meal. Farther down the room, a woman with a book open in front of her was already spooning her soup. All he could see was the top of her dark head.
Rutledge took his own place, with his back to her, and looked out the windows. Here there was no verandah with white painted chairs, waiting for people to sit in them and watch the water. Those belonged to the south coast of England, where the sun shone with more warmth and regularity. Flowers, nearly withered in the October winds, stood in boxes by the door. A few were still colorful in the brief shelter of the wall.
The dining room with its ornate glass chandeliers was very pleasant. Once it must have been filled with guests, with a large staff to see to them. Now it appeared to be only Mrs. Barnett who served the meals. She came through the swinging doors from the kitchen carrying a tray with his soup on it and a basket of fresh bread.
With a smile she served him and was gone, not lingering to talk. It was excellent soup, a mutton stock with vegetables and barley. He ate with relish, feeling hungry. Hamish, at the back of his mind, was occupied with the street outside.
There were quite a few people about, their shadows barely visible in the pale sunlight. But there was a patch of blue sky to the north, growing steadily larger. Rutledge saw Blevins walk past, lifting his hat to a young woman who held a shy little girl by the hand. A heavy-shouldered man, who looked more like a blacksmith than a farmer or fisherman, his hands gnarled and ingrained permanently with black, was talking to a thin man with the pale face of a schoolmaster. Three laborers, awkward in their Sunday best and deep in conversation, made way for a dray pulled by a farm gray. It passed them in a rumble of wheels, and disappeared around the bend.
A well-dressed man about sixty-five years of age passed through the outer door and opened the inner door to the lobby. His footsteps could be heard approaching the dining room, and he came through the French doors with an air of command that matched the craggy power of his face.
“Susan?” he called.
After a moment Mrs. Barnett appeared in the kitchen doorway, and something in her eyes instantly altered as she saw who had come to dine. She walked forward slowly, her expression a careful blank. Rutledge, keeping his attention f
ixed on the last of his soup, couldn’t avoid hearing the ensuing exchange.
“I’m in town for the afternoon and felt sure you could accommodate me for luncheon today.”
“My lord, it isn’t possible—there’s no table made up.”
“Yes, yes, I know, I should have called ahead. But I didn’t expect to be delayed beyond an hour. Now I’ll be lucky to get away in three.” He looked around. “I’ll join that gentleman by the window, shall I, and save you the fuss of preparing a place for me.” His eyes swept the room again, empty but for the two hotel guests, and then came back to Rutledge. Crossing to the table, he said, “May I join you, sir? It would spare Mrs. Barnett a good deal of inconvenience if you allowed me to share your table.”
Behind his broad back, Mrs. Barnett grimaced. Rutledge said, “The question, I think, is whether Mrs. Barnett can manage in the kitchen. If she can, then I shall be happy to have you join me.”
“Susan?” She nodded with what grace she could muster. Rutledge wondered if it was her own luncheon that would appear on the extra plate. “That’s settled then,” the man declared. As she went to fetch plates and cutlery, he pulled out the chair opposite Rutledge and said, “Sedgwick is my name. I live in East Sherham, not far from Osterley. But a long way to drive home for my lunch. A guest here, are you?”
He settled heavily in his chair.
“Rutledge.” They shook hands over the silver salt and pepper shakers. “For a few days. On a private matter.”
“Yes, that’s what brings most of our visitors these days. Business, not pleasure. I understand the town was once quite famous for fish and the fine bathing.” He looked up as Mrs. Barnett set his place and then brought his bowl of soup from the tray. “Thank you, my dear! And don’t stand on ceremony. Mr. Rutledge has finished his soup; he’s ready for the next course.”
As she set the bowl in front of Sedgwick, her eyes met Rutledge’s. He had the distinct impression that she would have enjoyed nothing more than pouring the lot over Sedgwick’s head.
