Watchers of Time

by Charles Todd

  Why—when he could have given it to her on the same day he’d brought that carefully crafted paragraph into the solicitor’s office and asked to add a codicil to his Will?

  The wain reached the turning for Gull Street and the Sherham Road and began to swing wide to plod around the sharp corner. Abruptly—without any warning— Rutledge found himself locked in an angry exchange with Hamish.

  It had nothing to do with the discussion in the rectory kitchen. Not directly. It was instead an accusing and angry personal indictment.

  “I canna’ ken why ye’re sae keen on proving yon Inspector wrong! Are you sae certain the Strong Man is innocent? When you walk away fra’ this town, you’ll leave behind raw wounds that willna’ heal as swiftly as yon hole in your chest! It’s a cruel thing, to stir up secrets to no purpose! Ye were sae set on Herbert Baker’s Confession as the key to this death, and now the auld woman has explained why it wasna’ any sich thing!”

  “There are too many questions about Walsh. If he killed the priest, it had nothing to do with the bazaar money. I’d wager a month’s pay on that! And I can’t go over Blevins’s head and ask the War Office for information about where Walsh served. But that will have to be dealt with one way or another, before we can discuss guilt or innocence.”

  “I canna’ see how a photograph is important.”

  “It may not be. That’s a part of police work, too—to eliminate the variables.”

  “And when the photograph also turns into a wild-goose chase, ye’ll go back to London?”

  Rutledge said nothing. The wain lumbered into the turn, top-heavy and awkward. Two young boys along the road shouted at the driver, and began to run after him, as if trying to overtake the wain, their laughter spilling out like silver threads. The team of great Norfolk horses pulling the wain ignored the rowdy pair, heads down and shoulders into their harness. Rutledge watched them, concentrating on shutting out the voice in his head.

  But Hamish was not to be put off.

  “You willna’ see it, but ye’re running from yoursel’. You couldna’ find peace in your sister’s house, you couldna’ find peace in your flat, and then you couldna’ find peace at the Yard. And ye willna’ leave Norfolk, because there’s nowhere else to go. You’re afraid because in hospital you discovered a fierce will to live—”

  Rutledge answered grimly, “I’ve been shot before—”

  “Aye, that’s as may be! Piddling wounds that didna’ require more than bandaging at the aid station or a dram of whiskey! This was verra’ different. It left its mark. Why are ye sae afraid of living?”

  Rutledge realized that the motorcar had not moved, and the wain was nearly out of sight down the Sherham Road. He drove on past the intersection and pulled into a tiny lane that ran between two houses. There he put the gears in neutral, set the brake, and leaned back to rub his hands over his face as if to erase the emotion there.

  It was something he had tried to shut out from Hamish. But the Scot, used to burrowing deep into his secrets, had ferreted it out.

  In truth, it had little to do with Scotland. . . .

  On the night of his second surgery, he had heard the doctors telling Frances that the odds were against him; he might not survive going under the knife. “Too close to be sure,” one of them had said, and he had listened to Frances’s voice in his drugged state halfway between consciousness and sleep.

  “He won’t leave me alone,” she said fiercely. “He won’t.”

  And then someone had leaned over his bed, hovering in what appeared to be a mist but was only the anesthetic taking hold. At the time it had given the white hair and the kind face an insubstantial air, as if half dreamed.

  “There’s nothing to fear, son. Whatever happens. But if you want to live—He’ll listen. Be sure of it.” The South Country voice speaking softly in Rutledge’s ear was confident, serene.

  After that, the darkness had come down, and there had been no pain, only peace. It was not until many hours later that Rutledge had come back, in worse pain, to wakefulness.

  It had startled him, to find himself alive. And he had been terrified that he’d begged to live, when he had no right . . . no right at all.

  Much later, Frances had brought the corpulent little clergyman in to meet him. The doctors, Rutledge learned, had sent for the man to offer comfort to her if her brother died. In the light of day, Mr. Crosson was neither insubstantial nor half dreamed, but a practical and straightforward rector who regarded the patient with sharp blue eyes and said, “Well, then, Mr. Rutledge. I’m glad to see you know your own mind!”

  It was far from the solace that Mr. Crosson had intended. Instead it had shaken Rutledge as deeply as the lines of sleeplessness on Frances’s face. And it confused him as well; all his energies for so very long had been concentrated on dying and to live was something he wasn’t— couldn’t be—prepared for.

  “Oh, aye, was that it, then?” Hamish asked derisively. “Most men would ha’ been glad to live to see an end to the case. You went to hospital and buried your head in sand! You went back to work to bury your head in sand. And you stay here in Norfolk to bury it again.”

  “What do you want from me?” Rutledge said tiredly. Listening to gulls call from the direction of the harbor, he tried to defend his answer. But their wild laughter distracted him. “You know that Blevins needs to sort out this murder.”

  “Oh, aye, a training program for the local constabulary, is it?”

  Rutledge nearly lost his temper, but Hamish got there before him.

  “Ye’re the man with a fine understanding of people, they say. Can ye no’ understand yoursel’? D’ye think I wanted ye to die? No, like yon Connaught woman, I havena’ any wish for you to die. No’ until I’m ready! In France God wouldna’ have you, and He doesna’ want you now. But I do!”

  Had he wanted to live? Rutledge asked himself, as he put the motorcar into gear once more and took off the brake.

  There was no honest answer to that.

  There hadn’t been for three weeks.

  And Hamish fell ominously silent as they passed the turning for Water Street and slowed for Trinity Lane.

  Rutledge made the turn into Trinity Lane, and pulled the motorcar into the web of shadows cast by a tree just by the churchyard wall. Switching off the motor, he sat back against his seat for a moment before stepping out into the light breeze that tempered the sun’s warmth.

  From the churchyard where he walked, deep in thought, he could just catch the glimmer of the sea, struck by the sun and bright enough to hurt the eyes. Seagulls were wheeling above the tower, like white rooks, their hoarse cries almost human. He found he was listening to them instead, not wanting to think, not wanting to feel.

  And then a woman called to him from the north porch of the church. “There you are, Inspector,” she said, as if she had waited there for half an hour or more for him to arrive. “I thought you’d forgotten!”

  He turned toward the church, where May Trent was crossing the grassy churchyard toward him. “You had said something this morning about wanting to speak with me—”

  Rutledge had said nothing of the sort. But as she moved away from the north porch, a man followed her out of the church. It was Edwin Sedgwick.

  Her face was toward Rutledge, and there was a pleading smile on it. It made her look young and vulnerable.

  “Yes, I have to apologize for being late,” Rutledge said immediately, removing his hat and standing there by the first row of gravestones, penitent.

  Edwin Sedgwick moved gracefully in Miss Trent’s wake and she turned slightly to introduce the two men.

  They shook hands. Sedgwick was saying, “I’d heard that you’re assisting Inspector Blevins. Any luck with the investigation into Walsh’s background? I had to drive my brother to London yesterday; I haven’t heard the latest news.”

  “We’ve come up with a few pieces of information that seem to point in his direction,” Rutledge responded. “You knew Father James, I think?”

/>   “We weren’t congregants at St. Anne’s, but of course everyone came to the bazaar. My father was offering a prize in the children’s games. Looking back on it, it seems to me that Walsh was affable enough, minding his own business and something of a success with the ladies. Hard to believe he was the sort to come back later and murder anyone, much less Father James.”

  The sun was in his face, the cold gray eyes warmed by concern.

  “Was there anyone else there that day who might have had words with the priest? Or showed any signs of unusual interest in the rectory?”

  “On the contrary, as far as I could tell it was an orderly crowd, and the amusements seemed to keep them entertained. The afternoon appeared to be very busy, and I think Father James was pleased.” He frowned as he tried to remember. “There was one skinned knee, as I recall, when some boys ran out to play among the graves. My father quickly put a stop to that, and Mrs. Wainer bound up the wound. My brother was in some pain because of his back, and shortly after that, he asked my father to drive him home. I left with them.” He turned to May Trent. “The famous bidding war began just after that.”

  She laughed. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Gardiner and Mrs. Cullen saw a pitcher at the White Elephant Booth at exactly the same time. Father James finally had to ask them to draw lots. I thought it was clever of him.”

  Sedgwick looked at his watch. “I must be going. Evans is waiting for me at the hotel. Inspector.” He smiled at Miss Trent. “I’ll speak to you another time.”

  “Yes, indeed.” She watched him stride briskly down the walk and turn toward Osterley as he went through the gates. Then she quietly apologized to Rutledge. “I’m so sorry! I was nearly desperate, and you came along just when I needed rescue!”

  “What happened?”

  “He came looking for me in the church and asked me to have dinner with him in King’s Lynn. I told him I had other plans for this evening, and he was just about to ask me about tomorrow night, when I saw you out here. He’s an attractive man, and probably not used to rejection, but I’m—I’d rather not establish a precedent by accepting his invitations. It was such a relief to see you! Do you mind very much?”

  “Not at all. But surely you could have managed, if I hadn’t come along.”

  With a lift of her chin, she said, “Yes, of course. But you see, Peter Henderson wasn’t feeling well, and he was resting in one of the pews down by the altar screen, where it was cool. Wrapped in a blanket that the Vicar keeps there for him. I didn’t want Edwin Sedgwick to jump to conclusions—” Her face turned a becoming shade of pink.

  Rutledge smiled, and it lighted his eyes. “I understand. Is there anything I can do for Henderson?”

  “If you could drop me at Dr. Stephenson’s surgery, I’d be grateful. A headache powder would probably help him. He doesn’t eat regularly, I’m afraid, in spite of our efforts to see that he does, and I suspect that’s the root of the problem.”

  “I’ll take you and then bring you back.”

  “No, please. Peter sometimes uses the church as sanctuary, when it’s cold or wet. He knows I go there often; it doesn’t seem to bother him. But if you came in—”

  “Whatever seems best,” he told her.

  They walked together toward the motorcar, and she said, apropos of nothing, “You don’t believe Matthew Walsh killed Father James, do you? I wonder why.”

  He studied her face. “Why should you think that?”

  “A woman’s intuition, I suppose. And the way you go on asking questions. As if you seem to be waiting for something. A mistake. A false step. I don’t know. I have this rather uncomfortable feeling that one day quite soon, you’ll pounce!”

  It was a very different attitude from Hamish’s.

  And it made Rutledge feel ashamed.

  How did one touch the spirit to test its scars? The reasons a man did things, the unconscious pressures behind ordinary decisions . . .

  As he opened the door for her and went to crank the engine, Rutledge realized that he’d missed his chance to ask her about the photograph.

  Outside Dr. Stephenson’s surgery, Rutledge stopped long enough for Miss Trent to thank him again and then disappear through the waiting room door.

  He pulled out again in the wake of a milk wagon, and was halfway down Water Street when he saw Blevins walking in the same direction.

  Blevins turned at the sound of a motor and recognized Rutledge at the wheel. He called out curtly, “You’re a hard man to find when wanted!”

  “I’ve been to speak to Mrs. Wainer again.”

  A greengrocer’s cart came up behind the motorcar, the horse snorting uneasily at the smell and noise of the vehicle. Blevins said, “Don’t clog traffic. I’ll meet you on the quay.”

  Rutledge nodded. He left the motorcar in the hotel yard and walked out to the quay. Inspector Blevins was already standing there, staring down at the water. Sun streaked it as the tide trickled in. It was moving the narrow stream sluggishly now, but would do so with more method later.

  Blevins’s shoulders were stiff, angry.

  Rutledge said, coming up to the other man, “What’s happened?”

  The Inspector turned, looking around to see if they could be overheard.

  “I hear you’ve been hobnobbing with the gentry.” There was cold fury behind the words.

  “Lord Sedgwick? He invited me to lunch. I was interested in knowing why.”

  “Did you find out?”

  “No. At least—I’m not sure,” Rutledge answered truthfully.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Rutledge held on to his temper. “Look, I don’t know these people the way you do. I couldn’t. I haven’t lived here all my life. I have to depend on instinct to hear what lies behind their words. You never warned me off Sedgwick. Or anyone else.”

  “Sedgwick put up the reward for Father James’s killer. Did he tell you?”

  “Yes. He did. What difference does that make? Does it remove him from suspicion?”

  Blevins turned back to look at the marshes. His profile was set, hard. “I had asked the Chief Constable to speak to the Yard about keeping you on here, and a Chief Superintendent by the name of Bowles agreed to it. Now I’m not sure I did the right thing.”

  Suddenly Rutledge could see through Blevins’s fury. He resented the fact that the man from London, with his polished airs, had been treated with noticeable favoritism by the local gentry when he himself never had. . . .

  “Sedgwick won’t make any friends for you. I can tell you that,” Blevins went on. “And if you have ambitions in London, he won’t do you any good. He’s not old money.”

  “I never believed he was,” Rutledge answered coldly. “And as for any favors he might do me, I choose my own friends and pick my own enemies.” He let the words lie there, a challenge.

  Blevins looked at him again. “There was a rumor. The Chief Constable had heard that you came back from the War a broken man. Half the policeman you were. If that.”

  Unspoken was the rest of what Blevins wanted to say. “You might be in need of patronage . . .” But the words hung in the very air between the two men, accusatory and damning.

  Hamish was saying something, but Rutledge was intent on fighting his own battle.

  “I came back from the War broken by the waste of it,” he told Blevins, his voice harsh. “It was a bloody waste of lives and we brought home nothing—nothing!—to show for four years of dying in trenches not fit for swine. I asked no favors from anyone, and I received none. I did my job as well as I knew how, just as every other man back from the Front tried to do his. No one gave me back my past, and no one will hand me my future. Whatever your grievance is with me now, it has nothing to do with the War, and nothing to do with my skills as a policeman!”

  Blevins stared at him, and then looked away, surprise in his eyes. Behind the thin face and the polite manner was a will stronger than he’d believed. “All right. I apologize.” He took a deep breath. “I’m at my wits’ end, that
’s what it is. Look, I have to put together—and damned soon!—a sound enough case against Walsh that I can take to trial. Otherwise I have to let him go. We can’t hold him forever on suspicion. And right now, that’s all I’ve got!” Blevins took two quick steps away, and then turned back to Rutledge. “It’s like chasing wraiths, nothing can be nailed down!”

  “Have you told him about Iris Kenneth’s death?”

  “No. I find I can’t stand the sight of the man. He’s taken to sitting there smirking, like a damned gargoyle. One of my constables swears he’ll choke Walsh into confessing.” A twisted smile crossed his face. “Damned fool is half Walsh’s weight!”

  “Let me be the one to break the news.”

  Blevins considered the offer. “All right. Come and talk to him, then. Nothing else is working. This is worth trying.”

  They walked in silence back to the police station. There, Blevins gave the key to Rutledge and gestured in the direction of the small cell.

  When Rutledge unlocked the door, Walsh was sitting on the bed, a smile pinned to his face. That changed when he saw that it was not Blevins or one of his constables. A shadow of concern took its place.

  “What are you doing, standing there in the doorway, like the Trumpet of God?” Bravado in a deep voice.

  Hamish said, “He thinks you’ve come to take him to Norwich. Or London.”

  It was a sharp observation.

  Rutledge said, “There’s been an interesting development in your case.”

  Walsh shoved himself to his feet, a big man with hands twice the size of Rutledge’s. “And what might that be?”

  “Iris Kenneth.”

  Surprise swept over Walsh’s face. “What’s she got to do with anything?”

  “We thought she might have been the person you left on watch under the lilacs. That clump of bushes is out of sight of the neighbors’ windows. A clever place to stand and watch, in my opinion.”

  “She never stood there! Because I wasn’t there. And if she told you she was, it’s out of malice. She’s a bitch! She’s got it in for me because I didn’t keep her on, that’s what it is! I could wring her neck!”