by Charles Todd
“He’s fishing,” Hamish warned.
Rutledge, accustomed now to offering a placating sentence or two, answered, “Father James’s Bishop was concerned enough to speak to the Chief Constable about the case. The Yard, as a courtesy, sent me to reassure him that all that it is possible to do was being done.”
“It has most certainly borne fruit!” As if satisfied that Rutledge’s credentials were in order, Gifford went on. “Well, as to the Will. There was nothing extraordinary in it. Father James didn’t leave a large estate, and what there is goes to his only surviving relative, a sister with a very young family. There’s a suitable bequest to Mrs. Wainer, for her years of service as housekeeper, and a small sum for the church fund. Not, I’m sure, as generous as Father James had hoped it might be, in the fullness of time!” His eyes watched Rutledge behind the pedantic mask of solicitor.
“He couldn’t have foreseen an early death,” Rutledge agreed. He had chosen the words carefully, for there seemed to be something more and the solicitor was biding his time. Hamish, at the back of Rutledge’s mind, was also advocating caution. “Of course it’s too soon to be absolutely certain we have the right man. Inspector Blevins strikes me as thorough and experienced. He won’t be satisfied until he’s found the proof he needs. It does no harm to keep the broader picture in mind, meanwhile.”
There was a subtle change in Gifford’s manner, as though he had been waiting for a sign that Rutledge, the outsider, was not usurping the local man’s position. Villagers looked after their own. . . .
“Yes, well, we don’t have many murders in Osterley, thank God! But Blevins is a good man. We went to school together, the three of us—Blevins, my late brother, and I. He followed his father into the constabulary, and we went on to take up law. Two sides of the same coin, in many ways.”
Rutledge acknowledged the connection, saying lightly, “Unless you’re arguing for the defense.”
“True enough.” Gifford’s smile gave his face an unexpected strength. Reaching into a drawer of his desk, he extricated a sheaf of papers. He looked through them and selected one. “There was a codicil added to Father James’s Last Will and Testament some three or four days before he was killed. I haven’t been able to carry out his instructions, as the piece of property he’d specified has been mislaid.” He stared at the sheet before him, as if refreshing his memory, but Rutledge had the feeling he could have quoted the short paragraph from memory. “ ‘I leave the framed photograph in the bottom drawer of my desk to Marianna Elizabeth Trent, in the hope that one day she will have the courage to pursue the obligation that I must now entrust to her.’ ”
“A photograph,” Rutledge repeated, as Hamish echoed the words in his head.
“And an obligation. Yes. It was clearly of paramount importance to him, because he had written it out, to be certain I’d got it right.” Gifford frowned. “As a rule, a bequest is rather simple: a pair of garnet earrings to a favorite niece, or a collection of books to a cousin. That sort of thing. People generally want to ensure that a particular possession ends up in proper hands.”
“What did you make of this?”
“It isn’t my role to question, only to see that everything is regular as far as the law is concerned.”
“You’ve already contrasted Father James’s bequest with that of a pair of garnet earrings,” Rutledge pointed out quietly.
“True enough. When we’d finished, the codicil witnessed properly and so forth, he told me that it was a debt he owed, and wished to see paid. If I thought anything— and I’m not admitting that I did—it was that Father James wished to handle the matter discreetly, whatever it was. Rather than ask his sister to act for him. Or it may be that it was a kinder way of returning a photograph he valued, through a mutual friend.”
“Or—unfinished business of some sort,” Rutledge said, Priscilla Connaught coming to mind again. Was Marianna Elizabeth Trent another failure on the priest’s conscience? “A task he preferred not to ask you, as his solicitor, to perform for him. And using Miss Trent as the intermediary, the gift remains anonymous.”
Gifford stirred uneasily. “Perhaps Miss Trent knows this person. And could be depended on to break the news gently. Or in the right circumstances.”
“But this photograph has been mislaid, you said?”
“As Blevins must have told you, the desk was ransacked. Mrs. Wainer tried to put everything back, poor woman. As far as she remembers, there wasn’t a photograph among the contents, at least not a framed one. I myself looked, and there were no photographs at all in any of the drawers. It could very well be that Father James simply hadn’t gotten around to putting it in the desk. And Mrs. Wainer can’t be sure which of the photographs on display he had in mind, because apparently he never spoke to her about the bequest. Needless to say, I’ve been reluctant to make an issue of it. Nor have I contacted Miss Trent, since it’s rather awkward to admit we can’t put our hands on it.”
“She might know which it is.”
“I’d thought of that. But the Will is under probate, and there’s still time to find it. Early days!” Gifford restored the papers to his drawer. “A single photograph is not often the subject of a codicil, but there’s nothing wrong in it. And as long as the request is legal and reasonable, we are required to honor it.”
Hamish repeated something Rutledge had said earlier: “He couldna’ know he would be killed.”
Which was true. It might have been years before the priest’s Will was executed.
“Ye ken this photograph might be for a child?” Hamish demanded, following Rutledge’s thoughts. “And too young yet to be told who her mother is—or her father.”
Rutledge answered him silently, “And that will bear looking into.” Aloud he added to Gifford, “Will you leave a message for me at the Osterley Hotel, if you locate the photograph? I don’t suppose it will matter to Blevins’s investigation, but at this stage, who can say?”
“Yes, I’ll be happy to do that,” Gifford said, jotting down a few lines in a small leather-bound notebook.
“Did you know Father James well?”
“He was an ordinary man, in many respects. He never made anyone uncomfortably aware of his collar—there was never any fuss about it. I’ve seen him down on the floor reading a book with half a dozen children. But there was a dignity about him as well that I admired. Quite a good tennis player, and possessed of a wry sense of humor. He had the most persuasive voice.” Gifford grinned. “With that gift, I’d have been a barrister! Father James and the Vicar—Mr. Sims—and I sometimes dined together. Not out of deep friendship so much as for the company. I lost my wife in ’15. I’ve learned,” he said ruefully, “that a widower with a good law practice is fair game, to make up the numbers at a dinner party. Especially when a maiden sister or cousin has been invited.”
Rutledge laughed. He had been introduced to all the sisters of his friends and half their cousins—until he’d become engaged and thus considered off the market. A twinge of memory swept him. Jean had been the first to make it clear that he was not a good prospect now. Even for the most desperate spinster.
Gifford prepared to rise, bringing the interview to a close.
But Rutledge sat where he was. “There’s another matter. Did you also serve as solicitor to Herbert Baker and his family?”
It was Gifford’s turn to be surprised. “Herbert Baker? Good God, how did you come to know him?”
“I didn’t. But he died shortly before Father James’s death, and I’d like to know how his Will stood.”
Bewildered, Gifford said, “I don’t believe Father James witnessed it, if that’s your point.”
“No, but I understand from Dr. Stephenson that he was in attendance just before Mr. Baker’s death. What can you tell me regarding the Will’s provisions?”
Gifford steepled his fingers. “Very straightforward. There wasn’t much in the way of money, although Baker owned the house he lived in. It’d been his wife’s family home. Naturally he le
ft that to the elder son, Martin, with the proviso that the other son, Dick, and the daughter, Ellen, live there until they married. Dick just came home from hospital, bad shoulder wound. And Ellen is the youngest. A late child.”
Rutledge considered how to put his next question, and decided to be blunt. “Were the three children Herbert Baker’s?”
“Good Lord, I should think they were! Ellen looks very much like her mother, and the brothers are the spitting image of Herbert. Same spare frame, and same high forehead, same left-handedness. Why on earth should you suppose they weren’t?”
“I don’t. I merely wondered if there could be any skeletons in the Baker closet.”
The grin reappeared. “Herbert Baker, if you’d known him, was not the man for skeletons. He was sexton at Holy Trinity until his health broke, and while he’d worked hard all his life, he hadn’t the money or the time to squander on wine, women, and song. A devoted father, most certainly. And as far as I know, an honest man.” The grin broadened into a smile. “If you want the truth, he probably led as boring a life as anyone in Osterley.”
“Then there was nothing that might have rested heavily on his conscience at his death?”
“The only thing that ever worried Herbert Baker as far as I know was his wife’s illness. It was hopeless from the start, but he sent her to London to be treated. Tuberculosis, and too advanced when Dr. Stephenson caught it to expect a cure.” He shrugged. “She was the kind of woman who never complained, never sent for a doctor except in childbirth, used her own remedies for whatever ailed her, and generally died as she’d lived, as self-effacing as possible. But the sanitarium gave her two more years of life, and I don’t believe any of the family would have considered it money wasted!”
“Sanitariums are expensive. Where did a poor man find the money?”
“Charity, if you want my honest opinion. It’s happened before, actually. Not three years ago there was a woman who needed surgery for her goiter, and a generous contribution from her employer paid the better part of the cost. It was done with circumspection—I handled the paperwork myself, as the donor wished to remain anonymous—and this woman has never learned the truth. She believes she paid the entire fee.”
Rutledge said, “You’ve been very helpful. One final question: Were both of Baker’s sons in the Army?”
“Martin was sent home, compassionate leave when his father’s health began to fail, and Ellen wasn’t up to running the household on her own. Dick was wounded, as I think I mentioned. Both men from all reports did their duty.”
But as Rutledge had learned, having used that phrase more times than he cared to remember, the words were a catchall when an officer knew too little—or too much— about a soldier under his command.
“Did their duty” covered a multitude of sins. . . . Had Herbert Baker begged absolution for one of his sons, from Father James?
Rutledge had left the solicitor’s office and was walking back toward the Osterley Hotel when a large motorcar with a uniformed driver pulled up beside him. In the rear seat, Lord Sedgwick leaned forward.
“I say, have you had your luncheon yet?”
Rutledge turned. “Good morning. No, it’s still fairly early—”
It couldn’t have been more than eleven-thirty.
“Well, come and dine with me. And I’ll have Evans here bring you back afterward. My son’s returned to Yorkshire, and I’m damned if I can stand my own company for another meal. Mrs. Barnett at the hotel”—Sedgwick chuckled—“will turn me out if I appear unannounced a second time within the week. Or have you made a commitment to her?”
Rutledge had not.
“Then come along and bear me company, if you will. We can talk about something other than the price of sheep and what cabbages are currently fetching!”
Hamish warned, “It’s no’ a very good idea—!”
Rutledge hesitated. Then he opened the door, noting the crest on the panel, and climbed into the car. The interior was beautifully done with velvet cushions and quite fine, polished woodwork. Lord Sedgwick leaned back and spoke to Evans. The motorcar purred into motion, and moved off down Water Street between the carts and people as Evans handled his gears with smooth perfection.
Sedgwick said, “Any progress in your murder investigation?”
“Gossip hasna’ been slow in spreading,” Hamish told Rutledge. “You’ll soon be verra’ popular.” It was a sour comment.
“We think we may have found our man,” Rutledge said noncommittally. “But Inspector Blevins is making certain that he’s done his job thoroughly.”
“Yes, well, I’ve posted a sizable reward for information leading to an arrest. I hope I’ll have the opportunity to pay it out to someone.”
Rutledge recalled that Blevins had spoken of a reward. “Did you, indeed? Were you a parishioner of Father James’s? Did you know him well?”
“Good lord, no. Anglican. The East Sherham church is on our estate. Still, I keep a friendly eye on my neighbors. Right thing to do! I rather dislike people killing people, and I know that money can jog memories—or tongues. Father James was a conscientious man, from all reports. A considerable force for good. Over the years, I’ve applauded that. We can ill-afford to lose men of his caliber. Osterley’s best and brightest have already been sacrificed to that bloody War. I saw you coming out of the solicitor’s office. Frederick Gifford’s brother, Raymond, was one of the finest men I’ve ever met, and he went down in flames over the German lines. Gifford’s two clerks died at Ypres. Anderson at The Pelican lost his boy at Jutland, and Mrs. Barnett’s nephew was artillery, shells blew up in his face. Sadly, the list goes on.”
They were turning back out of Water Street onto the main road again. On the hill, the flint walls of Holy Trinity seemed to shine with an inner light. “But that’s a morbid line of thought. Tell me, what do you do in London, Rutledge?”
“Much the same sort of thing I do here. Ask questions. Collate information. Consider the evidence and try to draw conclusions from it. Search for motives.”
Hamish, who’d been silent since Rutledge had entered the motorcar, asked, “Hobnobbing wi’ the great willna’ give you the answers either.”
Sedgwick grunted. “What you do requires patience.” Evans had braked to allow a wagon laden with firewood to make the turn into Trinity Lane. Just a few yards beyond it, there was a woman walking along the verge, head down, face hidden by her hat. Rutledge recognized her and apparently so did Sedgwick. Priscilla Connaught, in Wellingtons and a long coat.
Sedgwick spoke to Evans and they slowed. He leaned forward to say, “Good morning, Miss Connaught! I see you are on foot. Anything the matter with your motorcar? I can have Evans take a look this afternoon!”
“Good morning, Lord Sedgwick. No, I’m walking for the exercise. But thank you for your concern.”
Something in her face gave Rutledge the impression she was walking off a dark mood. Her eyes flickered in his direction and then came back to Sedgwick.
Sedgwick touched the brim of his hat and Evans put the car into gear once more. “She’s had the very devil of a time with her brakes,” the former explained to Rutledge. “I told her she’d wind up in the marshes, if someone didn’t fix the problem. Evans believes it’s in the linkage.” Picking up the thread of what Rutledge had been saying earlier, he continued. “I’m not a patient man by nature. Never was. Can’t sit confined for long. But then I wasn’t trained to it!”
“Few of us are.”
They were passing the school now, on Gull Street where it became the Sherham Road. After a time Sedgwick nodded to rolling fields where sheep grazed in the late grass. “I wasn’t born to farming. Anyone will tell you, my father made his fortune in the City. He bought the house in East Sherham when the last of the Chastain family died. I spent my summers here. To keep me out of harm’s way, I was given into the care of an old sheepman who—God forgive him—thought I was entirely spoiled and woefully ignorant. On the other hand, I believed that anything that all
owed me to escape from my tutor was daring and rebellious. Before I quite knew what was happening, I’d learned as much about sheep as old Ned could teach me.”
He lifted a hand, deprecatingly. “My father was shocked to discover that I was breeding sheep and had a natural eye for the best rams to improve the flocks. The Chastains hadn’t maintained the land or the pasturage, and I was soon badgering him to buy up acreage and extend our holding. He sent me off to Oxford to cure me of such low habits.” He chuckled. “That finally made a gentleman of me, but I’ve always kept my eye on the management of the estate. And it’s prospered. Our sheep produce some of the finest wool in the world. Or did, before the War turned everything on its head and all anyone wanted to manufacture was uniforms and blankets.”
He turned to Rutledge. “I needn’t tell a policeman that life goes on. But it does, somehow. It must. There’s never any turning back to what once was.” He fell silent, looking at the window.
Rutledge heard a hidden bitterness in the philosophy, although Sedgwick’s tone had been light. But money was not always a guarantee of perfect happiness. . . .
The detective in him intrigued, Rutledge cast about for another subject of interest to the man at his side. “You spoke of a son. I think he must have dined last night at the hotel.”
“Arthur? Yes, he’s the elder. He went to the Front and came home a broken man. He’s still in and out of hospital. Wound in his back. Edwin, the younger of the two, had a gift for languages and was given the task of dealing with prisoners. Or the French. Whoever was most troublesome!”