by Charles Todd
Monsignor Holston, after much persuasion, agreed to return to Osterley with them and speak to Inspector Blevins.
It had been a heated argument “I can’t see that it will do much good. So much of it is speculation,” the priest protested. “Father James is dead, Baker is dead-for all we know, Mrs. Sedgwick is dead. All we may succeed in proving is that the chauffeur, Baker, was cajoled into letting his passenger flee her husband, there in King’s Lynn. And there’s no crime in that.”
Rutledge argued, “It isn’t a question of convincing Blevins. It’s a matter of strategy. If there is sufficient doubt, he must reopen his investigation.”
“How will you begin?” May Trent asked.
Turning to the Vicar, Rutledge asked him, “Think back. Herbert Baker was your sexton. Can you recall when Mrs. Baker was ill-enough to be placed in a sanitarium for her tuberculosis? You must have visited her then!”
Sims rubbed his eyes. “She was very ill in November 1911, I think, and they didn’t expect her to live through the winter. With sanitarium care, she did.”
“By the spring of 1912 then-when Mrs. Sedgwick went missing-Baker could see that continued care was essential to keeping his own wife alive?”
“He never expected miracles,” Sims corrected Rutledge. “She was dying.”
“Yes. She’d have been dead in November without that care. She survived two years with it. That mattered to a man who loved his wife very deeply.”
Sims responded, “Herbert Baker was a decent man- loyal.”
“How did he define loyalty?” Rutledge persisted. “If someone convinced him he was acting in Virginia Sedgwick’s best interests, would he shut his eyes?”
Sims said, “He’d never harm her!”
“But would Arthur Sedgwick feel the same way?”
The argument had ended there.
It was crowded in the car, and Hamish, in the rear seat with the two men, was restless and not in the best of moods.
Rutledge drove like an automaton, beyond exhaustion. May Trent sat in the seat beside him, head bowed, lost in her own thoughts. Once she turned to him and asked, “If Virginia Sedgwick was-simple-how did she manage to elude Baker, find her way to London, and arrange to sail on the next ship leaving for America?”
Sims answered, leaning forward with one hand on the back of her seat. “It’s what worried Father James. Why he feared she might be dead. God knows, Arthur received plenty of sympathy. He could have married again any time, an eligible young widower with more money than he knew what to do with, and no children to share in it? But he’d been burned once. He stayed clear of any entanglements.”
“And what did you think?” Rutledge asked him.
There was a long silence. “I thought perhaps Edwin Sedgwick had engineered her flight. I was jealous. I had wanted her to turn to me. I wanted to be the shining knight on the white horse who rescued her. I sat there alone in the vicarage and told myself that she’d been more clever than I knew. And I asked myself what she’d given Edwin in return. I’m not very proud of it. But it’s the truth.”
Monsignor Holston added unexpectedly, “She’s never been declared dead, you know. It was all kept very quiet. Father James wrote to her family in America. They swore Virginia hadn’t come home. They’d agreed with Lord Sedgwick’s decision to hire people to look for her and were satisfied that it was very possible she had been lost at sea. But Father James was convinced early on that if she had arrived safely, they would have sent her back.”
Hamish added, “It doesna’ seem that her ain family cares o’wer much what happened. They were eager enough to palm her off on an unsuspecting suitor.”
Sims swore. “To hurt her would be like hurting a child!”
May Trent said, “I shudder to think-it was so wild that night, when we went down. She’d have had no idea, what to do-” She stopped, waited until her voice was steady again, and went on. “But there had been a great deal of talk about the ship. She might have been attracted to the idea of sailing home on a famous ship. It would have made it easier for her to plan…”
“Then what did Herbert Baker Confess?” Rutledge asked. “If he’d only helped her to find a train to London, he didn’t share in the guilt of her death.”
Hamish said morosely, “We’re back to who paid for the care of his ill wife?”
Baker had even asked the Vicar if it was possible to love someone too much The question was, if one of the Sedgwicks had plotted Virginia’s disappearance, which one had it been? Arthur? Edwin? Or Lord Sedgwick himself?
Rutledge could feel the weariness that dragged at him like an anchor.
When the story got out that Herbert Baker had sent for a priest as well as the Vicar, had someone been terrified that the past would come back to life if the priest delved too deeply in it?
It was a strong enough motive for murder. If you’d killed before.
When they neared Osterley, a low mist hung over the marshes and the dips and twists of the road, the verges vanishing and reappearing like links in a chain. The dampness in the air sometimes produced a passing squall.
Rutledge stopped again at the Randal farm, unwilling to leave that loose end unraveled. Over the protests of his weary passengers, he got out and went to hammer on the door.
A ragged and battered figure came stomping around the corner of the house, yelling obscenities.
Rutledge stared.
Randal was bloody from a dozen cuts and scratches on his face and hands. Bruises marked his jawline and his left arm was held close to his body.
“The mare’s run into the ground, damn you, and that bitch done her best to kill me! I’m flipping lucky to be able to walk!” The farmer’s anger was a live thing, too long pent up. He kicked out at the corner of the house, then kicked again. “I’ll be seeing that solicitor in the town. I’ll be wanting somebody to pay for last night’s piece of work!”
Rutledge said, “Walsh is dead. The mare killed him.”
“Good on her! So the constable told me when I rode home by way of West Sherham. It serves the bastard right, and I hope he rots in hell where he belongs, the son-”
He looked up and saw the woman in the car in the drive. “Is that the bitch-” He started forward.
Rutledge in three long strides caught Tom Randal’s arm and held him back. “No. It’s someone else. The Vicar is with her.”
Randal peered at the motorcar. “That ’ee, Vicar?” he called.
“Yes, hello, Tom. What’s happened to you, man!”
Randal shook his head. “I was run down by a crazed woman in a motorcar, that’s what happened! Damned near killed me, she did, and of a purpose, too! Drove straight over me, after frightening the gelding half to death! It took me a quarter of an hour to catch him!”
He turned back to Rutledge, still furious. “I’m in no fit state to ride into Osterley. I’d take it as a favor if you’d see that a constable pays me a call out here. You owe me that. I’ve a claim to lay against the police and against that bitch. And I’ll be calling on the solicitor in the morning!”
“You ought to see Dr. Stephenson-”
“I’ll live. And you can tell that damned fool Blevins if he’d been better at his job, I wouldn’t have two horses in my stable that aren’t fit for work and won’t be for another week! Who’s going to help me do mine, I ask you!”
He turned and kicked savagely at the house a third time before stalking around the corner, muttering imprecations under his breath.
It was hard to feel sorry for the old curmudgeon, but Rutledge could sympathize. Tom Randal had been caught up in something over which he had no control, and Priscilla Connaught had shown him no mercy.
He walked back to the car. It would be just as well to send Dr. Stephenson out to make a call, he thought. When the fury and the sense of being wronged faded, Randal would be hurting rather badly.
At least, he thought, bending to turn the crank, Priscilla Connaught hadn’t killed the man.
Rutledge left the Vica
r at his front door. Sims looked up at the dark shadows of his house, and turned, as if half afraid to go in. Then, with resolution, he unlocked the door and closed it behind him.
Holston, on the other hand, refused to spend the night in St. Anne’s rectory. “It’s bad enough by daylight, but with the mists swirling about it and the churchyard, I’d just as soon be in a well-lighted hotel!” he said wryly.
And so Rutledge pulled into the hotel yard and delivered the remainder of his passengers into the care of Mrs. Barnett, who welcomed them with the news that dinner could be warmed if they cared to dine.
Rutledge, standing in the dark outside the door, could feel the fatigue moving through him like a sluggish stream. But he turned and went instead to The Pelican for his meal.
Betsy, the barmaid, who came to ask what he’d have as Rutledge took the last seat in the crowded common room, was buoyant. “We’re doing a fine business tonight,” she informed him. “Everyone slept away the day, and now they’re eager for company and gossip.” She looked around her, pleased, then remembered what the cause of her good fortune was. Her mood shifted. “They tell me, though, that the man is dead. Still, it’s a swifter way to go than a hanging, any day!”
“What are people saying about Walsh? Do they believe he killed Father James?” Rutledge asked, curious.
“Well, of course, he must have done! He escaped, didn’t he? Inspector Blevins was here no more than half an hour ago, and saying that he’d spoken to the Chief Constable in Norwich. Everyone’s relieved that the police have done their best. Even though there’s to be no trial.”
Looking around her once more, she waited expectantly for his order.
The death of Walsh, he thought, had been papered over. Justice had been served. Perhaps it was true. He was beyond caring. He ordered an ale and a serving of the stew, and Betsy brought him a covered dish of warmed bread from this morning’s baking and a slab of butter.
Hamish said, “Ye ken, you’ll no’ make any headway against what Blevins has been saying. And they’re eager to believe him. There’s the sticking point. It was no’ one of his friends or neighbors who killed the priest, and no’ one of theirs. That’s what matters. They can go to bed this night and no’ be worried about being murdered in their sleep.”
There was an outburst of laughter from a group by the window. Every head turned to look. Rutledge could see the general mood was relief, and it bordered on the hysterical.
Hamish was right. Order had been restored, their own sturdy faith that no one from Osterley could be guilty of such a heinous crime had been upheld. But a stubborn refusal to go against his own better judgment made Rutledge argue with his nemesis.
“The priest kept working toward a solution to Virginia Sedgwick’s disappearance. The story about two priests at one deathbed was bound to get out, and someone began to worry. I don’t think Father James expected to be attacked. Perhaps his visit to Norwich was the last straw. Even the appearance of having confided in his fellow clergymen would have aroused unwelcome suspicion.”
“Aye, that’s possible. But it doesna’ signify! Truth is no more than what people want to believe.”
Rutledge answered, “Or what they fear.”
“And ye’re as gullible as any man. You canna’ face the question about yon Englishwoman’s guilt!”
“I haven’t forgotten May Trent. But if she killed Father James, there won’t be another victim. If it was one of the Sedgwicks, what’s to stop the murderer from biding his time until it’s safe to kill again? He may already be suspicious of Sims-Holston-or even Miss Trent. Where is my duty toward them?”
“Aye, duty, that’s all verra’ fine. Ye did your duty in France, too. And I’m dead for it!”
CHAPTER 26
FINISHING HIS MEAL AS QUICKLY AS he could, Rutledge paid his bill and then walked toward the hotel.
His fatigue had passed the need for sleep. As he had so many times at the Front, he’d ignored it and pushed his body and his mind to their limits-and then pushed both beyond that.
Retrieving his motorcar, he drove to the police station. There, he asked the sleepy constable on duty how to find two people, and left word for Blevins requesting that someone be sent around to speak to the old farmer in the morning.
The constable grimaced. “A year or two back, a lorry hit one of his piglets, out on the road. Odd place for a piglet to be wandering, you’d think, and the Inspector was of the opinion the sow had rolled over on it. But Randal swore it was a lorry. It was three months before we could satisfy him!”
“He has a better claim this time,” Rutledge warned, and left.
Dr. Stephenson lived on the main road, toward Hunstanton, in a well-kept three-story house that backed up to the marshes. Rutledge turned into the yard, where a gate led into the flint-walled garden with its flagstone walk up to the door. A black spaniel, waiting on the step to be let in again, greeted him effusively, trying to lick his hand. When the housekeeper answered the knocker’s dull thunk, the little dog darted past her crisp skirts and disappeared into the hall beyond.
The middle-aged woman, regarding Rutledge with unconcealed interest, as if his reputation had preceded him, warned him that he had interrupted the doctor at his dinner. Stephenson himself, coming out to speak to Rutledge, told him to make his call brief.
“It’s brief enough. Tom Randal was bruised in a fall from his horse. It might be best to find out if he’s more seriously hurt. I shouldn’t be surprised if he’ll be more grateful than he’ll care to admit. By tomorrow morning, he’ll be stiff as a board.”
“I’ve been trying to persuade him to hire a couple to cook for him and help with the farm. He may listen now, but he’s as independent and stubborn as they come.” Stephenson, his serviette in his hand, sighed. “All right, yes, as soon as I’ve finished my dinner. And I’ll take someone along who can stay the night and see that he has a decent breakfast in the morning. Was it Randal that Priscilla Connaught thought she’d killed?”
“I have every reason to believe it is. Tom Randal is damned lucky to be alive. She was in no state to think clearly about what she was trying to do.”
“And whose fault is that?” Hamish asked in condemnation.
Rutledge ignored his voice. “How is she?”
“I’ve kept her sedated. Mrs. Nutley is staying the night with her.”
“I’ll look in there on my way.”
“Do you have any idea how tired you are? You’re slurring your words, man, you ought to be in your bed. Or I’ll have a new patient on my hands!”
“Good advice. I’ll take it shortly.”
Rutledge said good night and strode down the dark path to the road. As he cranked the engine, his chest protested in fiery wires spreading deep.
Ignoring that, too, Rutledge drove next to Priscilla Connaught’s house. He was surprised to find that she was awake, drinking a mutton broth that Mrs. Nutley had made.
The nurse had explained to Rutledge on their way up the stairs, “An empty stomach sees nothing good. I always feed my patients before the next dose of medicines.”
Priscilla, wearing a very fetching lavender dressing gown, smiled at him as he walked through the door, but obediently drank most of the broth before saying, “You’re here to arrest me.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, but her expression bleak behind the smile. “I’d warned Mrs. Nutley the police would come for me soon.”
“No.” He pulled a chair to the bed and sat down, wondering if he’d be able to get out of it again. “The man you thought you killed is alive, though bruised and bloody. And furious. He must have gone through a hedge headfirst. Still, I’d accept that as very good news if I were you. Nor was it Walsh. Again, good news from your perspective.”
“Dear God!” She set the bowl on her tray and stared at him. “Oh, gentle God!”
“There’s nothing you can do about Mr. Randal tonight. Except to sleep and regain your good sense.”
She said faintly, “You look like a dead man yourself.”<
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“Yes, I rather feel like one.” He smiled. “Don’t you think it’s time you told me what lay between you and Father James?”
Biting her lip, she turned away. “I told you once before. It doesn’t have anything to do with his death. Only with mine.”
“What did he ask you to do? What ruined your life?” he pressed her.
It was unfair to force her in her present state-as Hamish was pointing out-but he was afraid that when she regained her strength, she would be more than a match for the police.
She glanced at Mrs. Nutley. “I’m half drunk with whatever it is she’s made me swallow. I can’t keep my mind clear!”
He could see it in the pupils of her eyes. Mrs. Nutley, her hands folded in her apron, was unruffled. “It’s only what the doctor instructed me to give her.”
“I understand.” To the patient he added, “Would you like Mrs. Nutley to leave the room? I’m sure she’ll be glad to give us a moment.”
“Yes. No.” Priscilla Connaught fell silent, closing her eyes against his inspection. And then unexpectedly she opened them and said in a despairing voice, “It was so long ago. Nobody cares, nobody remembers. Not anymore. But that doesn’t make the hurt go away!”
He could see the pain in her face, stripping away what was left of her youth, and turning her almost as he watched into a very different woman. “Do you know what loneliness is, Inspector?”
He answered quietly, “I’m afraid I do. It’s how I live.”
She embraced herself with her arms, drawing them across her chest as if they offered a measure of comfort, leaning into them as if desperate for human warmth. “I loved a very fine man. We were to be married. I was over the moon with joy.”
He knew what she meant. He’d watched the same joy wash over Jean when he’d asked her to marry him. On Saturday next she’d be married to someone else. He didn’t want to be in London then Priscilla Connaught’s voice startled him, stronger now and thick with grief. “And then one day Gerald came to me to say that he had had an-epiphany-of sorts. A revelation. I asked him what it was, and he said he had always been drawn to the Church, and now he knew that that was where he ought to be. It was what God wanted him to do. I told him if this was what he wanted, of course he should follow his vision. We could marry when he finished his studies. But he explained that he wanted to become a Catholic priest. There couldn’t be any marriage, now or later. He broke off our engagement.”