Watchers of Time

by Charles Todd

  A quarter of an hour later, he walked into the kitchen.

  Sims said, “If anyone came to the door and looked at the two of us, they would be ready to believe we’d had an all-night carousal. My head feels like it.” In the lamplight he was haggard, lines bracketing his mouth and heavy circles under his eyes. He had found yesterday unbearably difficult.

  “I sympathize.” Rutledge reached for the pot of tea, ready to pour the steaming liquid into his cup, and somewhere in the tangle of memories from the day before, one stood out clearly.

  There had been three cups on the table yesterday morning—

  He looked across at Sims, who was putting a rasher of bacon on a plate, while the toast browned.

  “Who keeps this house for you?”

  “I have a woman who comes in three times a week. Why?”

  “She wasn’t here yesterday.”

  “No. She’s coming around ten today. That’s why I woke you.”

  “Then who was here—besides yourself and Miss Trent?”

  The Vicar became very still. “You were here.” But his eyes swept down to the teacups and back to Rutledge. He didn’t lie well, as Hamish was busy noting.

  Rutledge hazarded a guess. “It was Peter Henderson, wasn’t it?”

  Sims said carefully, “Peter comes sometimes, yes. When he’s hungry. He often sleeps in the church if the weather’s foul. I don’t know where he sleeps the rest of the time, poor devil.”

  “A cold roof over his head, the church. With stone walls and stone flooring, he’d not be very warm.”

  “There’s a chest under the tower. I keep clean blankets there. He knows where to find them.” He paused. “The church has had a long history of offering sanctuary. I can do no less.”

  “Miss Trent and Mrs. Barnett tell me that he roams the night more often than not. I’ve seen him a number of times myself.”

  “Yes. I expect he does. Perhaps it’s easier for him, living in the dark. Fewer people to stare at him.”

  “What did he see, the night that Walsh escaped?” Rutledge insisted.

  Sims put down the plate and retrieved the burning toast from the stove.

  “You must ask him.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  Sims sat down, reached for the pot, and poured tea for himself. “Look. The man’s little more than a vagrant now. Living hand to mouth. Most of the townspeople have no use for him; they think he’s beyond the pale. His own father disowned him. I do what I can, and so did Father James. But changing attitudes is much harder than preaching profound sermons on a Sunday.”

  A silence followed; it was Sims who reluctantly broke it.

  “Peter was in the church that night. He wasn’t feeling well, and crept in to sleep for awhile. He was still in the church when Walsh came in to hammer off his chains. Henderson heard him dragging them; he didn’t know who or what was there. His tally of kills from the War, for all I know. It must have been rather appalling. He slipped into the choir—it’s quite dark in there, and no one was likely to find him crouched among the misericords. And he moves like a wraith when he wants to.”

  “Yes. That’s his training.”

  “When Walsh left, he was on foot. Henderson—who isn’t a fool, by any means—had worked out who was in the church and what it must have meant. He followed, and kept an eye on him from a distance. They walked through the woods and past the barn where Trinity Lane ends. Henderson stayed with him for nearly five miles.”

  “To Tom Randal’s farm.”

  “Walsh didn’t go anywhere near the Randal farm. Not according to Henderson. He was moving as swiftly and quietly as he could. Walsh, I mean. Covering the ground faster than most. Peter kept up with him until he was well beyond Osterley. Then he turned back, not wanting to be spotted.”

  Rutledge shook his head. “That can’t be true. The mare at the farm went missing in probably that same time frame. And it was her shoe that killed Walsh.”

  Sims said, “That’s why we didn’t tell you, May Trent and I. I’ve never known Peter to lie to me, but he was very cold and hungry, walking that far, and he might have made up a story in exchange for his breakfast. It seemed—a little less like begging, I suppose.”

  Rutledge got up and helped himself to the bacon and a slice of burned toast. Sims said, “There are boiled eggs in that covered dish.”

  Rutledge lifted the lid and set an egg on his plate, cracking it and spooning out the yolk. He said, “What else has Henderson seen, wandering around in the dark?”

  Sims buttered his own slice, frowning at the burnt taste. “He seldom talks about his life—or what he’s witnessed. I think the only reason he told me about his encounter with Walsh was his need for food and a little warmth.”

  “Yes, it may be true.” Rutledge added pensively, “I should have expected that between you, you and Father James could have found work for Henderson—doing the heavier labor for old Tom Randal, for instance. And Mrs. Barnett must need someone to help with upkeep at the hotel. It’s a barn of a place for a woman on her own.”

  “She doesn’t have the custom to hire anyone else, even for a pittance with room and board. Tom Randal refuses to consider help on the farm. No one else in Osterley needs Henderson. Too many people are out of work, that’s the trouble—the shopkeepers and farms can find help two a penny without turning to a man with Peter’s history. Lord Sedgwick hired him until Dick, Herbert Baker’s younger son, was fit again for light duties. The house in Yorkshire is closed while Arthur Sedgwick recovers from his own injuries—if he’s not in hospital, he’s here in Norfolk or in London. Edwin lives in London most of the year. I’ve been corresponding with a woman in Hunstanton who may take Henderson on. She and her husband own a small pub, and need an extra man. But he’s not local, you see—and she’s wary of that.” Sims said tentatively, “What are you going to do about Virginia Sedgwick? I don’t quite see Inspector Blevins rushing to find out the truth, most particularly if it involves the Sedgwick family. He won’t like that!”

  “He’s already seen to it that most of Osterley believes that Walsh has paid for what he did—that justice has been served. And he has to live here. I can’t fault him for trying to put as good a face on the situation as he can.” Rutledge grimaced. “The most direct course of action would be going to Lord Sedgwick himself.”

  “Good God, man, you can’t be serious?” Sims’s face was the picture of dismay. “I agreed—we all agreed—that it was worthwhile speaking to Blevins. Do you realize how powerful Sedgwick is? You’ll sink your own career, and possibly mine as well!”

  Rutledge considered him. “You still don’t wish to know what’s become of Virginia Sedgwick, do you? But Sedgwick’s son may well have committed murder, and I think it’s important to give him an opportunity to refute such a charge. He’ll be a worse enemy if half the town hears before he does.” He smiled. “Thank you for breakfast— and a night’s sleep. I needed both rather badly.”

  As he went to find his coat, Sims followed him to the hall. “I’m grateful for what you’re trying to do. It’s just— I’m not sure that I want to stop thinking about her being alive. I—it’s given me a kind of hope. . . .” He shrugged, as if embarrassed by the admission. “It’s hard to explain.”

  But Rutledge understood what he was trying to say. He himself had never looked over his own shoulder to find out once and for all if Hamish was there. He didn’t want to know—he didn’t want to see what was there. And as long as he didn’t, he was safe.

  As he buttoned his coat against the rain, he said, “What if, against all expectations, we should find that Virginia Sedgwick left her husband of her own accord and is happily settled in a cottage in Ireland, living a life she much prefers to her role as Arthur’s wife. Would he welcome her back, do you think?”

  “I—don’t know. It would depend on the scandal, to a large extent.” Sims looked out at the rain and the wet trees overhanging the drive. “The Sedgwicks came from trade— they aren’t able to weather the
scandals that established families can. They’ve climbed the social ladder as high as possible in three generations. But they aren’t at the top. They’ve given money generously where it would do the most good. Full acceptance, marrying into the best families, eludes them. Arthur might have, if he hadn’t foolishly fallen in love with a cousin. He might still, as a widower. I’m not sure he wouldn’t prefer to learn that she’s dead.”

  “Father James pursued her disappearance with unexpected fervor.”

  “No, not if you’d known him. He had a great capacity for caring. He told me once that every time he looked out at his congregation, he knew that he was not the man they believed him to be. It drove him to strive for a level of service that few of us can ever hope to emulate.”

  As Rutledge thanked Sims again and walked out into the rain, Hamish said, “Aye, Priscilla Connaught’s shadow fell across the priest’s pulpit every time he stepped into it.”

  “A pity he never told her,” Rutledge answered silently.

  CHAPTER 27

  HAMISH SAID, AS RUTLEDGE CLIMBED BEHIND the wheel, “If it wasna’ Walsh who killed the priest, you’re up against a canny murderer. He kens how to cover his tracks.”

  “No loose ends to stumble over,” Rutledge agreed. “When Blevins allowed himself to be blinded by anger, he tied his own hands. He went looking for a monster.” Rutledge turned out of the vicarage gates. “And he found himself one.”

  Hamish answered, “It willna’ be to your credit if you fail.”

  “I won’t fail,” Rutledge answered grimly. “Sedgwick should have destroyed that Egyptian bas-relief instead of moving it out to the gardens. It gave me the key to Father James’s actions—a Watcher. After that, it was only a matter of time before the rest made sense.”

  A milk wagon lumbered by on the main road. In the rain the backs of the horses were burnished copper.

  Rutledge braked. “In this weather—”

  He reversed the motorcar, backing as far as the gate to Holy Trinity. The grass under his feet as he crossed the churchyard to the north porch door was heavy with rain, and his shoulders were soaked by the time he reached the shelter of the church door. Opening it, he brushed the water from his face before he stepped inside.

  “Henderson? Inspector Rutledge. I’d like to speak with you, if you’re here.”

  His voice echoed in the silence, almost an obscenity in the peace of the nave and the soft patter of rain against the stained glass. This morning, dark as it was, the colors were deeper and richer, but without life.

  Rutledge waited.

  Then he heard someone near the choir. “I’m here. Give me a minute.”

  Peter Henderson, rising from a pew, tried to straighten his coat and brushed a hand over his hair before walking toward Rutledge. “What do you want?”

  “Verification. That’s all. The Vicar tells me that you saw Walsh the night he came in here to hammer off his chains.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you follow him, when he left?”

  “I knew who he was. I’d seen him at the fair at St. Anne’s. I thought it best.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Up the lane, into that copse of trees. Past the houses. He was bearing west, and south. It’s the direction I’d have taken, in his shoes. It’s mostly pasturage, beyond the houses, and easy walking.”

  “He never turned east, while you were following him?”

  “No. Why should he? It would be going into a box.”

  Rutledge nodded. He looked down at Peter Henderson’s shoes. They were old. Worn . . .

  He said, “Walsh stole a mare from a farmer just east of Osterley. Why would he turn back on himself to do that?”

  Henderson shrugged. “I’ve told you what I saw. I can’t tell you what he did after I broke off and walked back to Osterley.” He had an odd dignity, standing there in his creased and worn clothes. A man shunned by others because he happened to be very good at killing from ambush. It wasn’t deserved, the judgment local people had inflicted upon him. And yet this was his home, and villagers were often tied, emotionally if not financially, to their roots. The money in the tin box at the rectory would have been a treasure trove to him. He could have gone anywhere with ten or fifteen pounds in his pocket. Had it been tempting?

  Hamish said, “I canna’ believe it. Nor do you. It was a rifle he used in the War. Distant killing, that.”

  “Fair enough, then. Henderson—” Rutledge paused. “Were you at the rectory, the day Father James was killed? Waiting to see him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I’d heard of work in Wells. I wanted to ask him to write a letter for me.”

  “Had he written letters before?”

  “Once. The Vicar has written them, too.”

  “Where did you wait?”

  “Mrs. Wainer was just leaving. It was growing dark by then. I stood by those overgrown bushes, so as not to frighten her. Someone else came looking for Father James. I left then, not wanting to push myself forward.”

  He’d stood in the lilacs—“those overgrown bushes.” It wasn’t one of Walsh’s cronies acting as lookout, after all; it was a man wanting help to find a job. Rutledge said, “Who came?”

  “Mrs. Barnett, from the hotel, but she only tapped at the door. When Mrs. Wainer didn’t answer, she stepped into the kitchen and called, then closed the door and left.”

  “Mrs. Barnett never went beyond the kitchen?”

  “Not as far as I could tell. She wasn’t there much above a minute.”

  “Was there anyone else?”

  Henderson said reluctantly, “Yes. Lord Sedgwick came to the front door and knocked.”

  “You saw his car?”

  “No, I never did.” His voice was level, a soldier reporting to his commanding officer. “But I saw him walk up the drive. Then he came round to the back. Along the far side of the house, not close to where I was standing. He was looking up at the windows of the conservatory next door. They were dark. Then he went in through the kitchen, calling to Father James. He must have gone on to the parlor, to wait. Or leave a note. That’s when I left.”

  “And you never saw Father James that night?”

  “Well, yes, I did. He was on his bicycle, riding back to the rectory. He waved, and I walked on.”

  “You didn’t tell him he had a visitor?”

  “It wasn’t my place.”

  Hamish said, “Blevins wouldna’ believe it was a local man there in the shrubs. He wished it to be Bolton, the scissor sharpener. Or Iris Kenneth.”

  Rutledge said, “I’m driving to The Pelican. Would you like a lift?”

  Henderson’s face brightened. “Give me five minutes. To clear up.”

  “I’ll wait in the car.”

  Rutledge turned and walked back to the motorcar, hardly noticing the rain.

  Once he’d dropped off Henderson, Rutledge drove back to the hotel, retrieved his umbrella from his room, and walking briskly, went directly to the police station.

  He found that he was not the only visitor.

  A youngish woman in a black coat over a green traveling dress was sitting in front of the Sergeant’s desk, her face buried in an overlarge handkerchief, supplied by a red-faced Blevins across the desk from her.

  The Inspector looked up as Rutledge came through the door. “Whatever it is, it can wait.” He gestured toward his visitor. “This is Iris Kenneth. She traveled up from London to—er—see Walsh. I’ve just given her the news.”

  Iris Kenneth raised her face from the handkerchief, her eyes watery and red-rimmed, turning to stare at the newcomer.

  Blevins said, “This is Inspector Rutledge, from Scotland Yard.”

  She nodded a faint acknowledgment and said to Blevins, as if she had been interrupted in the middle of her grief, “I was so angry with him! Matthew. For sacking me. But I decided that if I stood by him now, he might take me on again, aft
er. He wasn’t a bad man to work for. He enjoyed posing in his costume and being admired. I was jealous.”

  “He wasn’t likely to be taking on a helper ever again,” Blevins said. He cast a wary glance at Rutledge. “He was more likely to find himself waiting for the hangman.”

  Fierce in Walsh’s defense, Iris Kenneth cried, “But I told you, Matthew wasn’t a murderer! He wasn’t a bully, he didn’t have a temper!”

  “Yes, I know, Miss Kenneth. Several times.”

  She began to cry again. Rutledge, standing by the door, could read the embarrassment in Blevins’s face. Over the woman’s head, the Inspector shot him a pleading glance for help. “I don’t know what you want me to do, Miss Kenneth,” he said plaintively. “I can’t tell you what the arrangements are for a funeral. Not just at the moment. But if you’d like to take a room—”

  She glared at him through her tears. “I don’t have the money to stay—or to bury Matthew. I spent nearly every penny coming here—I’ve barely enough to see me back to London!”

  Hamish said, “He’s no’ a man for the ladies. He doesna’ ken that it’s no’ so much Walsh’s dying as it is the disappointment of her expectations. She canna’ face what to do now.”

  Rutledge stepped toward her chair. “Miss Kenneth, it’s been a very difficult morning for you. A cup of tea and an hour’s rest at the hotel will help. I’m sure Inspector Blevins will meet with you in the afternoon.”

  Blevins glowered at him, and she caught it.

  Iris Kenneth’s shoulders slumped. “I could use a cup of tea,” she said. “This has been a terrible shock—!”

  “I’m sure it has. Mrs. Barnett, at the hotel, is very kind. She’ll see that you’re taken care of.”

  She looked more closely at the tall man by the door. He could read her eyes as they swept over his face and across his shoulders, and back again.

  With the resourcefulness of her class, she recognized that she would make no headway with the stolid man behind the desk. And she was desperate, willing to try any port in the unsettled climate of her life just now. She got to her feet with some grace and said, “You’re very kind. If the Inspector here—” She groped for a name.