Watchers of Time ir-5

by Charles Todd

  “I’ve had no complaint about the food here,” Rutledge agreed. “I don’t see how she manages the hotel without more help. I’ve seen a maid upstairs a time or two, and there’s someone in the kitchens to do the scullery work. But Mrs. Barnett appears to do most everything else. She’s a widow, I think?”

  “Her husband was quite a gifted man. He could turn his hand to anything-and it would flourish. But Barnett died just before the War, of a gangrenous wound. A horse stepped on his foot, and infection set in. They amputated the foot, then the leg, and in the end couldn’t do anything to save him. She watched him die by inches, and nursed him herself.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. He’d been hired by Father James for work on the rectory, and I’d approved the cost at the Bishop’s request. Barnett was working there when he was injured.”

  “You seem to know the parish here rather well. Are you equally knowledgeable about all of them?”

  “No more than most. Old churches and rectories require an enormous level of upkeep, and while the local priest does as much as he can, the diocese has to fund many of the major repairs. Which means that I inspect and report, approve agreements, and pay the workmen.” He grimaced. “A far cry from the office of priesthood I prefer. That’s why I’m under consideration for St. Anne’s, because I’ve asked to serve a church again.”

  Dishes of hot soup arrived on the tray Mrs. Barnett held aloft, and she set them before the two men with an unobtrusive grace. Vegetable, Rutledge decided, in a rich beef broth. He realized he was ravenous.

  Cutting through the crisp crust of the loaf of bread, Rutledge said, “Did Father James find his parish troublesome? That’s to say, the kinds of problems he had to deal with here? I should think it would vary from church to church.”

  “Human nature is human nature, everywhere. Still, this was once a rich parish, and now it’s not. The kinds of problems shift with the economic balance.”

  “Give me an example.”

  Monsignor Holston was suddenly uneasy. After some seconds, he began slowly, “A priest counsels broken marriages and intercedes in disputes. Sometimes he has to take sides, and that’s never simple. He tries to set the moral character of his parish; he keeps an eye on wayward children. God knows there are enough of those, thanks to the War.”

  “Which tells me he knows the secrets of dozens of people.”

  Monsignor Holston shook his head. “We’re not speaking of the confessional.”

  “Neither am I. Only of secrets that might be more important to someone than we realized.”

  “The Vicar at Holy Trinity can tell you much the same story, if you ask. Hardly the stuff of revenge, if that’s what you’re getting at. For instance, there was a youngster here in Osterley. Wild and heading for trouble. We discussed what to do about him. How best to redirect his energies. Father James discovered that the boy was interested in motorcars and aeroplanes, and was all for becoming a mechanic. His father was set on making him a farmer, like his forebears. It took some persuasion, but the father finally relented and let the lad learn a trade.” He smiled wryly. “It isn’t always quite that easy. But that’s more or less typical, all the same.”

  “Not as typical as telling a straying husband that he has to confess to his wife that there’s a child out of wedlock. Or telling a man angry with his neighbor that he has to apologize and make restitution for whatever he’s done. That’s more the stuff of revenge.” Leaving the thought lying there, Rutledge changed the subject. “Tell me about Father James’s interest in Titanic.”

  Surprised, Monsignor Holston stopped with his spoon in midair, staring at Rutledge. Then he said slowly, “I suppose he was overwhelmed by it, like the rest of us. And of course Lusitania as well. There’s great loss of life when a ship goes down. It’s almost incomprehensible.”

  Hamish said, “He willna’ gie ye a straight answer!”

  “There was a particular photograph Father James wished to bequeath to someone. The solicitor can’t find it. It wasn’t in his desk, where he’d indicated it would be found.” Rutledge broke off a piece of bread.

  Monsignor Holston put down his spoon. “Let me see. There were the usual photographs from seminary, quite a few of his family, that sort of thing. He liked Wales, he’d walked there a number of times on holiday. As I remember, he’d had a number of those framed, and of course a few from the Lake District, too. Speak to Ruth Wainer. She will know.”

  “I have. She doesn’t,” Rutledge said baldly, and paused, to let Monsignor Holston finish his soup. When the plates had been removed, he went on. “What did you know about Father James that frightens you so much? Did he have another side that we haven’t stumbled across? A secret life, perhaps.”

  An angry flush rose under the priest’s fair skin. “That’s ridiculous! You know it is!” He considered Rutledge for a moment and added more calmly, “I thought the matter was settled. That it was Walsh who’d done the murder!”

  “I have a feeling you aren’t satisfied with Walsh as the killer either. You wouldn’t still be afraid of that rectory, if you were. And it’s true-there are holes in the evidence against him. Even Inspector Blevins is aware of that. The question is where to look if Walsh is shown to be innocent. I have no allegiances here in Osterley, you see. Or to the church that Father James served. I’m not afraid to turn over stones and see what’s there… I think the time has come for you to tell me what’s behind your fear.”

  Monsignor Holston said earnestly, “Look. I’m in no position to tell you whether Walsh is guilty or not. What I can tell you is that Father James had no secret life-”

  “He was-apparently-fascinated by the Titanic disaster-”

  “So you say!” Monsignor Holston interrupted. “But he never told me the disaster fascinated him. For God’s sake, even priests have a life of their own. I know one who has written quite knowledgeably about butterflies. Another who collects front-edge paintings, and one who prides himself on having grown the finest marrows in Suffolk. I have an interest in grafting fruit trees. I can’t say that I talk about it very often. But it’s a way of relaxing, when I have the time.”

  Hamish said, “He’s a bloody master at shifting your questions… .”

  “Mrs. Wainer believes Father James was killed for revenge. Why would she tell me that, if he had no enemies?”

  “You’ll have to ask her!”

  “And there’s a Priscilla Connaught, who said that Father James ruined her life, and she hated him. It must have been true. I watched her eyes as she said the words. There’s a man called Peter Henderson, whose father disowned him, and Father James did his best to heal the breach, to the anger, apparently, of both parties. Failures, both of them! Potential murderers? Who knows?”

  Mrs. Barnett came with another tray laden with dishes. She took one look at Monsignor Holston’s stormy face, and at the coldness in Rutledge’s, and made no effort to talk to them as she deftly arranged the dishes of vegetables and roasted potatoes, then set in front of them the heavy platters of baked fish.

  When she had gone, Monsignor Holston tried to recover his equilibrium. Struggling with something he himself found it difficult to express, he made an effort to explain. “The boy who wanted to be a mechanic had secret dreams he couldn’t tell his own father. But he told Father James. People do confide in priests: their dearest hopes, darkest fears. But we aren’t perfect, and we aren’t always going to get it right. Failure means the person wasn’t ready to come to terms with a problem.”

  “Perhaps a comfortable conclusion to draw as an excuse to walk away.”

  “We can’t work miracles where none is wanted. And sometimes we can’t stand up in a court of law and tell the secrets of others-” The words had slipped out, and the priest’s eyes told Rutledge that he was instantly regretting them.

  “Are you trying to say that one of the secrets Father James kept had to do with breaking the law?”

  Monsignor Holston lifted his serviette
to his mouth, giving him time to find the words he wanted. “I’m telling you that Father James never led a double life. I would swear to that. In your courtroom. As for what his parishioners confided in him, Father James took his knowledge of that to the grave. I was never a party to it, unless there was some way in which I could help. Which is as it should be. What I don’t understand, if we’re getting down to bitter truth, is why you’re still asking me questions when there is already a man in a cell. If as you say, I have a feeling of dissatisfaction, how do you define your own persistence?” Monsignor Holston let that lie between them for a moment, then added, “You haven’t been exactly open with me, either, have you?”

  Hamish, who had been listening carefully, said to Rutledge, “He doesna’ want you to stop searching!”

  Rutledge didn’t answer, his eyes on Monsignor Holston’s face.

  “Did Father James ever speak of Matthew Walsh to you? During the War or after it?”

  “That’s the name of the man Blevins brought in, isn’t it? No. Should he have?”

  “Just closing a circle.” And then Rutledge changed the subject entirely to something more pleasant. But he’d learned what he wanted to know. Not even for the deep friendship that had existed between the two priests was Monsignor Holston willing to break whatever rules bound him. Or it could be that he suspected that something had disturbed Father James over the same period during which Mrs. Wainer had noticed a similar uneasiness, and was afraid to speculate aloud on the reason for it, because if he was wrong, he might reveal matters best left hidden.

  “Aye, he canna’ tell you the lot, and let you sort through them!” Hamish agreed.

  If the murderer was afraid that what one priest knew, he might pass on to another, surely that pointed away from a parishioner at St. Anne’s? And toward someone who wasn’t clear on how the priesthood worked.

  It was an interesting avenue to explore. Rutledge had a sudden feeling that Blevins was right about one thing- that it wasn’t the collar that had made Father James a victim.

  For the remainder of the meal, Monsignor Holston appeared to be distracted, as if behind the now ordinary conversation he was conducting with Rutledge, he was weighing what he had said earlier-and what conclusions the man from London would have drawn from his words.

  As they rose to leave the dining room, the Monsignor paused on the threshold to the lobby, his eyes heavy with a personal guilt. “I’m a clever man when it comes to the faith I uphold. I understand the nuances of Church Law, and the responsibilities I’ve undertaken. Father James was a man who carried that a step further. He was deeply involved with the needs of people. That’s why he was still a parish priest, while I had moved higher in the Church hierarchy. If he hadn’t been a priest, I think he would have been a teacher. Please keep that in mind as you go digging through his life. You could do a great deal of harm, without ever intending to do it.”

  Rutledge understood what he was trying to say-that it was important to exercise discretion in what was brought out into the open.

  Monsignor Holston went on wearily, “I’m not sure what I believe anymore. Whether there was a sense of evil in that study or not. I could have imagined it, just as you suggested the first day we talked. I could have been searching for a way to explain the death of a friend. I don’t even know how I feel about Walsh, whether I have compassion for him or not. In the days just after the murder, I was haunted by the need for action, for answers, for proof that this death mattered to the authorities, that out of the shame of it would come some meaning, a memorial to a good man.”

  Rutledge said, “I don’t believe you were necessarily wrong about the sense of evil there in the study. My only question from the beginning has been, why should evil reach out to touch a parish priest in a small town, hardly more than a village, on a bleak and marshy stretch of coast? That’s the answer I have to find.”

  Monsignor Holston started to say something, then bit back the words. Instead he reached out and clapped a hand on Rutledge’s shoulder. “I’ll make a bargain with you-with the devil, as it were. If you come to me with the truth, and I recognize it, I’ll tell you so.”

  And with that he was gone, leaving behind an air of contradiction that was the closest this Norwich priest could come to openness.

  CHAPTER 16

  NEEDING AIR TO CLEAR HIS MIND, Rutledge walked as far as the quay. He was trying to pin down what it was that disturbed him about Monsignor Holston’s vehement defense of his dead colleague and friend.

  It was the subtle way in which the investigation was being manipulated.

  Don’t look here-don’t look there. He didn’t do anything wrong, you needn’t explore that. Like a puppet master trying to untangle the strings of an obstreperous character who wouldn’t play his role properly.

  If it wasn’t the church-if it wasn’t the man-if it wasn’t the parish-if it was not a fall from moral grace- then the only explanation left was a theft.

  Or another crime that had been committed and that had never been exposed…

  Hamish said, “Whatever it was that worried Father James, it couldna’ ha’ been a murder-there hasna’ been one!”

  “Yes,” Rutledge said slowly. “All right, what if it’s true that the priest knew of a crime?” He remembered the Egyptian bas-relief at East Sherham Manor. The Watchers of Time. The baboons who saw all that men and the gods did, witnesses-but without the power to condemn or judge.

  What if the priest had become just such a witness? What if he had heard something that, bit by bit, had led him to knowledge that was dangerous? Like a bobby who walked the London streets, a priest knew his parishioners by name and face and nature. He knew the good in each person; he knew the temptations they faced. The needs and passions and hungers, the envy that drove some and the greed that drove others. He knew what they confessed to him, and what by observation he had grown to understand about them.

  It was an intriguing possibility-and for the first time, it brought together a good many of the seemingly disparate facts.

  Father James’s noticeable uneasiness before the murder, the unexplained sequence of actions in the priest’s study, and the seeming difficulty in finding a connection with anyone who might have a personal reason for killing him.

  “If he didna’ have any proof of what had been done, whatever the crime was, then he couldna’ go to the Inspector with suspicion. But someone might ha’ feared he would.”

  “Yes. Especially since Blevins was a member of his church. Secrets have more than one kind of power…”

  A very clever piecing together of a puzzle-that had destroyed Father James, in the end.

  The only question was: What crime had Father James stumbled over, and if the evidence of it had died with him, then where were the small signs of his knowledge that must surely have existed somewhere?

  Or had the killer found them when he overturned the study, and taken them away along with the bazaar funds that were kept in the desk?

  A few pounds that provided an apparent motive-but were just an opportune shield for the real motive.

  Hamish reminded him: The theft had sent Inspector Blevins off on a wild-goose chase that had yielded a suspect.

  “And Walsh could still be the man we’re after…”

  That would be irony, if he was.

  But how long had it taken Father James to weave together the strands of truth that had turned into knowledge?

  Begin with the bazaar, Hamish advised.

  “No, I’m going back to the study,” Rutledge told him.

  He set out for the police station to ask permission of Inspector Blevins.

  As before, Mrs. Wainer had no wish to accompany Rutledge upstairs.

  “I’ve come to believe that Inspector Blevins has found the man who did this terrible murder. He told me himself that the proof was clear, and I’ve had time now to think about it a little. I ought to admit that I was wrong about the revenge; it’s just prolonging the pain, and taking me nowhere. And so I’ve begun
to box up Father James’s belongings, to send to his sister. If the Bishop names a new priest soon, the rectory should be ready for him. It’s my duty!”

  Rutledge glanced around the parlor. It seemed unchanged from his last visit. “What have you removed?”

  She looked down at her hands, her face torn. “I started with his old things in the garden shed, and then the kitchen entry. I find it hard to think about touching this parlor-or facing the upstairs-but I’ll manage. It’s the last task I’ll ever perform for him, you know. And I want to do it right.”

  “I do understand, Mrs. Wainer. I shan’t keep you long. I’d like to have a look at the framed photographs if I may, and I need to ask you if Father James stored any of his private papers in some other room of the house.”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” she answered doubtfully. “There’s the study and the bedroom, and a room just down the passage that’s always been used to hold parish books and the like. Accounts, for one thing, and the church records-baptisms, deaths, marriages. There’s a grand number of them now; the books fill two shelves.” It was said with pride.

  But these would be passed on to the incoming man. The public duty, and not the private life. “I’m sure they do. Can we begin with the parlor, perhaps? Show me, if you will, what belonged to Father James personally.”

  She began by the windows, picking up each photograph. “That’s the little house in Cumberland, over near Keswick, where he spent an entire week just before the War. It poured cats and ducks, and he couldn’t set foot out the door without a thorough drenching. He played backgammon until he was blind, he said. And here’s the young priest who was ordained with him. Father Austin. He died of the gassing in the War, poor soul…”

  Each of the photographs had a story, but none of them appeared to have special significance. Mrs. Wainer moved on to the small treasures. “He liked pipes, although he never smoked, and he collected more than a dozen,” she reminisced as she touched each one. “And over there is the walking stick, in that Chinese umbrella stand, that he carried with him to Wales and the Lake District. Westmorland. The stand belonged to a great-aunt, it was a wedding gift to her, and I’ll be shipping that along to his sister. And the clock on the mantel there-”