by Charles Todd
“Do you think this Iris Kenneth was his accomplice?”
“No. I’d say the shoe’s too large for a woman’s foot.”
“That’s probably true. But stuffed with rags, it would be the perfect blind, wouldn’t it? A man’s shoe. A woman’s foot.” He let the thought lie there.
Blevins said in resignation, watching his simple case grow to monstrous proportions, “I’ll see what London can find out about Iris Kenneth.”
The sky was clear now, the deeper blue of a storm passed and finer weather to come, and even the wind had dropped. The sun’s warmth was not August’s warmth, but it felt good on his face as Rutledge left the police station and walked down toward the hotel. On impulse he continued as far as the quay and stood there looking out across the marshes. He felt tired, deeply tired, and thought about a drink to ease his chest muscles and his arm. But he knew it was better to fight through the pain, if he could.
“You didna’ sleep verra’ well last night,” Hamish pointed out. “Guilty conscience, was it?”
“No.” Rutledge was too weary to enter into an argument with his tormentor.
Hamish said, “There’s more on your mind than Scotland. This murder—this marshy country—I canna’ see what it is that has made you a hollow man.”
It wasn’t a hollowness, Rutledge thought, that left him empty. It was too much, not too little—conflicting emotions, divided passions, an uncertainty he hadn’t felt since June, when he had walked into Warwickshire an exhausted, haunted man with no hope and no expectations, and a great fear of going mad.
It wasn’t madness now that he feared—though he knew that his mind teetered on the brink of self-destruction more often than he cared to admit.
But he was damned if he’d let Hamish pry and tear at him like a bird of prey, pulling out his soul to examine it like some rare specimen from the dark corners of the Congo. The question was, how to shut him out. Rutledge had never found a way.
Hamish had the last word—as he so often did. “It isna’ a matter of a night’s sleep, ye ken that. You willna’ sleep until you allow yoursel’ to live again!”
Trying to ignore him, Rutledge moved along the quay, to stand so that he could see the little stream where the boats came in to tie up. Wildfowl took off from the reeds and grasses, looking for their night’s roost. He watched them for a time, and the long shadows of the late afternoon falling across the marshes. They were golden in this light, or a deep rufous, or pale yellow, and when he stood very still, he thought he could hear breakers coming into the strand out beyond them.
“Tomorrow will be fair,” Hamish said, his countryman’s instincts strong.
“Yes.”
Rutledge turned back, walked to his car in the hotel’s walled courtyard next to a stand of late autumn flowers, and retrieved his luggage from the boot.
It was early in the dinner hour when Rutledge came down for the evening meal. Mrs. Barnett greeted him and led him to a table in the middle of the room under the softly lit chandeliers. With a smile she asked if he’d enjoyed his day, and with equal courtesy he agreed that he had.
Where he had eaten his luncheon, a man was dining alone, a heavy cane hooked over the back of the second chair.
Mrs. Barnett turned to hover over him solicitously as he finished his cheese, and Rutledge caught part of the conversation.
The man was saying, “. . . in Osterley. We’re a benighted lot here on the north coast.”
Mrs. Barnett smiled. “I saw Nurse Davies a time or two in the shops. It was always the rain she . . .”
The glass doors between the dining room and the reception hall had been left open. Sunday night, it appeared, was a popular time for local people to come in for their dinner, and there were already six or eight couples by the windows and two families at the larger tables along the wall beneath the sconces. Their quiet laughter and low-voiced conversation filled the spacious room with warmth and life. A far cry from that noon when it had seemed much too large for its only occupants: Rutledge and the woman guest.
But it appeared that she wasn’t dining in this evening.
Waiting for his soup, Rutledge unobtrusively studied the man by the window, the one Mrs. Barnett had spoken with.
There was something in the shape of his head that had caught Rutledge’s attention, the way his hair grew thickly from its part, and the line of his chin. He was young— perhaps thirty or thirty-two—but his face was lined with pain, aging it prematurely. A member of Lord Sedgwick’s family? The resemblance was there, but softer drawn, as if the bone structure was less formidable.
“I canna’ see it mysel’,” Hamish said. “He’s no’ as large framed.”
It was true. Unless illness had whittled away the muscle and brawn. And certainly this man appeared to be taller, longer limbed.
Later, as Rutledge finished his soup, he saw the man by the window fold his serviette and set it by his plate, his expression relaxed, as if he’d enjoyed his meal. But he lingered, as if reluctant to push back his chair and retire to the lounge for his tea.
And then Mrs. Barnett came in from the kitchen, as if alert to his needs, and handed the man his cane. He grasped the ivory handle and rose with visible effort, his weight heavy on the thick shaft. He straightened, pausing to catch his breath. Rutledge looked away, but not before he saw the sharp sadness in Mrs. Barnett’s face.
After a friendly exchange with Mrs. Barnett, the man walked on toward the lobby with only a slight limp, as if sitting had left him quite stiff and motion improved the ability of his muscles to function. He went on into the lounge to take his tea.
Mrs. Barnett came to remove Rutledge’s soup plate and set the roast veal in front of him, and he said quietly, “The man with the cane. Is he related to Lord Sedgwick?”
She nodded. “Arthur. His elder son. His back was so severely injured in the War that they didn’t expect him to live. And now he’s walking again. It’s quite a miracle. But it’s hard to keep help. His last nurse was a London girl, not used to the country.”
“I should think,” Rutledge said lightly, “that the Sedgwick family paid well enough to overcome even that reservation.”
Mrs. Barnett smiled but shook her head. “Ordinarily they probably would. But Arthur Sedgwick doesn’t live in East Sherham with his father, although when he requires more surgery or physical rehabilitation, he often comes to stay. His home is in Yorkshire, and I’m told that compared to the Dales, Osterley is second only to Paris!”
Rutledge had nearly finished his meal when a woman came striding through the outer doors and walked up to Reception, where Mrs. Barnett was adding up figures. By this time most of the diners had retired to the lounge, and it appeared at first that the newcomer was going to ask if the dining room was still open. Instead she leaned over rather imperiously to touch Mrs. Barnett’s arm, interrupting her to ask a question.
Mrs. Barnett’s eyebrows went up, and she turned to look at Rutledge through the open doors.
Hamish said, “It appears the news has got around that ye’re a policeman.”
The woman, turning her head, followed Mrs. Barnett’s glance, thanked her, and came through to the dining room.
She stopped in front of Rutledge’s table and said, keeping her voice low, “Are you the man from London? Scotland Yard?”
Rutledge, standing now, his serviette in his hand, replied, “Yes. Inspector Rutledge. And you are—?”
“My name is Priscilla Connaught. Please—sit down and finish your meal! But if I may ask you to meet me in the lounge—it’s down the passage, beyond the stairs— afterward? I won’t keep you long, I promise!” Her voice was almost pleading, as if she feared he’d refuse her.
Hamish said, “She’s verra’ agitated!”
Rutledge was already answering, “Yes, I shan’t be more than a few minutes. Would you prefer to join me—?”
“No! Thank you, no, this is a very—private matter.” Glancing around the room at the remaining diners, she shook her head, a
s if to reinforce her refusal.
“Then I’ll join you shortly.”
“Thank you!” she said again, and turning, walked swiftly out to the lobby, in the direction of the lounge.
Rutledge resumed his seat as Hamish said, “It’s no’ a name you ken?”
“No. But if she’s already learned that I’m from the Yard, she must live here in Osterley.”
Finishing his trifle quickly, Rutledge left the dining room and went down the passage to the lounge.
But it was empty, except for one of the families who had dined at the hotel.
“She hasna’ waited,” Hamish pointed out. “A woman will change her mind, if she canna’ be sure she’s doing what’s best.”
Rutledge turned back to the dining room and met Mrs. Barnett coming through the glass doors. “Oh—there you are! I put Miss Connaught in the small parlor, just there—” She pointed to a closed door beyond the lounge. “There will be other guests having their tea in the lounge. I thought you might prefer a little privacy.”
“Yes, thank you,” he said. “Could you bring us tea in about five minutes?”
“I’ll be happy to, Inspector.” Her voice held a cooler note.
Hamish said, “Aye, they know now who you are.”
His anonymity—his role as a man with no ties to the problems of Osterley—had been stripped from him. There had been a new reserve in Mrs. Barnett’s manner. And it would soon be reflected in that of other people. His questions would be met with reticence.
Rutledge walked on to open the door Mrs. Barnett had indicated.
Priscilla Connaught was sitting by the small hearth, staring at the empty grate. She rose as Rutledge entered the room, facing him as if uncertain whether or not she really wanted to speak to him. Frowning, she gnawed her lip.
She was tall, rather slim, with dark hair showing only the first hints of graying, but her face was that of someone who suffers constant pain. Not lined so much as the planes worn down to bone, giving them a severity that was not unattractive.
Over the dark gray dress she was wearing was a matching coat with a lovely little gold pin at her lapel, stylish but somehow conveying a sense of mourning in the austerity of the cut. Her hat was a softer shade of gray with a small bunch of white feathers where the brim lifted on the left side.
A woman who would stand out wherever she was.
Hamish murmured something, but Rutledge didn’t quite catch it, only the words “. . . a fierce pride . . .”
Miss Connaught was saying, “I hope you didn’t rush your meal on my account—” Her voice was strained.
“Not at all,” he replied with a smile. “I did take the liberty of asking Mrs. Barnett to bring us tea.” In an effort to put her more at ease, he asked, “Do you live here in Osterley, Miss Connaught?” He indicated her chair, and after she sat down stiffly, her back ramrod-straight, he took the one on the other side of the hearth.
“Yes—yes, I do. I’m—not a native of Norfolk. My family is from Hampshire.”
“I was surprised to find the harbor has all but vanished.”
“I—it has been silting up for well over a century, I believe—”
A silence fell. The room, small but comfortably furnished, seemed to stifle her. She looked at the chairs and tables, the magazines on a low stand, the several pieces of Staffordshire porcelain on the mantel—anywhere but at Rutledge’s face.
The door opened and Mrs. Barnett came in with their tea. Miss Connaught seemed almost relieved at the interruption, her eyes following the settling of the heavy tray on a table at her elbow.
Rutledge thanked Mrs. Barnett, and when she had gone, he said, “Would you rather I poured?”
Priscilla Connaught looked up at him, startled. “Yes. Would you? I—” She smiled for the first time, giving her face a little color. “I really think I’d drop the pot!”
He filled their cups, asked her her taste in sugar and cream, and handed her one of them.
She sat back, seeming to draw comfort from the warmth between her two hands. After a silence, she said, “I’ve come to ask you something that matters very much to me. I went to see Inspector Blevins, but the constable on duty tells me he’s gone home and I didn’t want to disturb him there. I’m not on the best of terms with his wife.”
“I don’t know that I can help you—” Rutledge began.
“It isn’t a state secret!” she said abruptly. “Surely not. I need to know, you see—I need to know if the man they have at the police station is the person who killed Father James. The constable suggested that I speak to you.”
Ah! Rutledge thought. Aloud he said, “Inspector Blevins believes that the man is the murderer. Yes.”
“And what do you think?”
Parrying the question, he asked, “Do you know Matthew Walsh?”
Surprised, she said, “Is that his name? No, I have no idea who he is.”
“He came to the bazaar. He was the Strong Man.”
“Oh. I do remember seeing him. He was quite a spectacle, actually. Why do they think he killed Father James?” She sipped her tea, and he thought for an instant that she was going to spill it—the contents seemed to move in tiny waves, in concert with her nervousness.
“Why are you so concerned for him?” Rutledge asked.
“Concerned?” she repeated, as if bewildered. “For him? No—I have no interest in him at all. I want to know who killed Father James. It’s very important to me to know! That’s why I’ve asked about this man.”
“Are you a parishioner at St. Anne’s?”
“I attend Mass there. But you’re not answering my question directly. Have the police found Father James’s murderer or haven’t they?”
“We aren’t sure,” he said. Something in her face shifted. Disappointment? Was that what she felt? He couldn’t be certain. “There appear to be very good reasons to believe that this man could have committed the crime. But there are also some unexplained problems. The courts may have to sort it out.”
“I need to know!” she said again, her voice harsh with that need. “I can’t wait until the courts do their work.”
“Why?” he asked bluntly. “Did you care so much for the priest?”
“I hated him!” Priscilla Connaught said roughly.
For an instant Rutledge was reminded of what Mrs. Wainer had told him. That Father James had been killed for revenge.
“That’s a very strong word, hate,” he told her. “And if you did hate him, why should you care whether his killer is found or not?”
“Because whoever killed Father James has cheated me!” she cried, her voice trembling. “And I want to see him hang for that!”
Looking back on the encounter, Rutledge realized that his face must have reflected his shock. Priscilla Connaught set her cup on the tray with a clatter that sent tea over the lip of the saucer and onto the shining silver surface.
“I shouldn’t have come,” she said, rising to her feet. “I didn’t mean a word of what I’ve just said. I’m upset, that’s all. Everyone in Osterley is upset by this murder. Frightened by it. It’s late, I must go—!”
Rutledge stood also. “No, I think you’ve told me the truth. And in my opinion, you owe me some explanation—”
“I just want the killer found, that’s all! That part is true enough. And I wanted to know if that man—what did you say his name was?”
“Walsh. Matthew Walsh.”
“Yes. If that man Walsh was likely to be the murderer. And you won’t tell me straight out whether you believe he is or not!”
She was flushed, and Rutledge thought she was close to tears. Suddenly he felt a wave of pity.
“We don’t have enough proof to charge him yet. It’s circumstantial evidence at the moment. But Inspector Blevins is waiting for information that might give us the answer to your question. And as a precaution he’s holding Walsh until it arrives.”
“Oh, God.” Her face seemed to close in on itself, the features tightening as if the muscles
were pinched together. “Well, at least that’s honest.” She glanced around, searching for her purse, found it on the floor by her chair, and stooped to pick it up. “I’m sorry I interrupted your meal, Inspector. But I live alone; there’s no one to talk to about this. I sometimes think I’ve lost my perspective.”
“I wish you would be as honest with me,” Rutledge answered. “Why did you hate Father James?”
She sighed in resignation, brushing the edge of her hand across her forehead. “It was a very long time ago. Well in the past, and nothing to do with the police. It was before he became a priest. I went to him for advice, and he gave it to me. I followed it because I trusted him. And it ruined my life. It destroyed everything I believed in and loved and cared about. And this man who was so wise and compassionate and understanding became a priest. I have often wondered just how many other lives he ruined in his righteous belief in his own infallibility. But as long as I could hate him, I had something to live for, you see! And now that’s been taken away from me. And I really have nothing left. When that man killed Father James, he might as well have killed me, too!”
She swept past him, and out the door. Rutledge, staring at her stiff and uncompromising back, let her go.
Rutledge was halfway up the stairs when he thought about Monsignor Holston. He went down again to the lobby, found the telephone in the little alcove behind the desk, and put in a call to Norwich.
Eventually the priest answered, sounding out of breath. Rutledge identified himself.
“Sorry, I had to make a dash to answer the phone. Is there more news?”
“No, I’m afraid not. But I do have a small mystery on my hands. Tell me, do you know anyone called Priscilla Connaught?”
Monsignor Holston considered the question. “Connaught? No, I can’t place her.”
“She’s a parishioner here at St. Anne’s.”
“Was she at Mass this morning?”
“I didn’t see her. Tall, slim, graying dark hair.”
“No. I can’t put a face to the name. Does it matter? You could speak to Mrs. Wainer. She’d be able to tell you, surely?”