by Charles Todd
He made a point not to look back again. After examining the oddities that decorated the pub, and counting the number of diners, Rutledge set himself the task of cataloging from memory the framed photographs in the priest’s house. But none of those he could call to mind seemed important enough to require a codicil to a Will. Certainly most of them would go, along with the rest of his possessions, to Father James’s surviving sister, who would cherish those of the family and perhaps pass on a few to Father James’s friends. As was right.
Gifford had already indicated that Mrs. Wainer knew nothing about any bequest. But if the photograph wasn’t in the desk, it must surely be somewhere. There was no reason why Walsh or anyone else should wish to steal it. However, there might be, perhaps, some way to jog a memory the housekeeper wasn’t aware she had.
That would have to wait until tomorrow.
Unwillingly aware of the occasional quiet laughter coming from the table by the window where the dark-haired woman sat, Rutledge felt a sense of depression settle around him and he fought against it, without any help from Hamish.
Rutledge was more than halfway through his roast chicken when the woman sitting by the window got up from her table and walked toward him. He thought for an instant she was coming to speak to him and had nearly risen to his feet when he realized that her eyes were fixed on something behind him.
He turned. The man in the corner was shaking like a leaf in the wind, his shoulders jerking with it.
The woman crossed to him and sat on the bench opposite him. Reaching out, she caught his hands before he could hide them again, and began to speak to him. Rutledge, watching, had the feeling it was not the first time she’d done this. Something in her voice—whether the words or simply the sound—had a calming effect, and for a moment Rutledge thought she had actually stemmed the tide of whatever it was that drove the man into such a frenzy of trembling.
He was just turning away again when the man surged abruptly to his feet, with such force that he overturned the bench on which he sat. The unexpected clatter of the wood on the floor stopped conversation in its tracks: every head turned toward the man and the woman. And he stood there, like a hare caught in the headlamps, unable to move. His eyes were shocked, almost beyond seeing.
Rutledge rose and strode forward, reaching the man and taking his shoulder in a firm grip. The man flinched away, and the woman said sharply, but in a voice that didn’t carry beyond the three of them, “Leave him alone! He’s done nothing to you!”
Rutledge ignored her. He said to the trembling man whose face had turned away, toward the wall, “All right, soldier. Let’s get some air.”
It was the timbre of his voice that got through. An officer’s voice. Steady and assured.
For a long moment the tableau was unbroken: the furious woman, the man in the throes of a breakdown, and the outsider who had interfered.
And then it altered, dissolving into movement, the woman stepping aside, lips tightly shut and eyes worried, and Rutledge seeming to walk away, without looking back, his shoulders as ramrod straight as if he still wore a uniform.
An officer expected a soldier to obey. Unquestioned loyalty to rank was the hallmark of training. Rutledge drew on that now.
Hamish said, “He won’t follow. He’s beyond heeding!”
Rutledge had taken no more than two strides when the man moved away from the fallen bench and, with Rutledge just ahead of him, almost a shield, walked through the gauntlet of staring eyes and through the door, out into the night.
The woman, her face pale with distress, followed.
Outside, Rutledge didn’t stop until he was well away from The Pelican’s door, nearly to the quay. In the darkness of the waterside, he stood staring out to sea, not looking at the man who had stopped some little distance from him. Then he said, as if addressing a comrade, “There’s a wind coming up. But it’s a beautiful night, still.”
The man just behind him cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he said roughly, as if finding it hard to speak. He hesitated. “There were too many people in there—”
Claustrophobia. Rutledge knew it all too well. . . .
“Yes.”
“Suddenly I couldn’t breathe—I thought I was dying. But I never do. Worst luck!”
There was almost a lightness in the words that belied their intensity. But Rutledge felt sure the man meant them. He had himself, on more than one occasion fraught with panic.
“In the War, were you?” It was a common enough question, but the man flinched.
“For a time,” he said. And then he walked away, unsteadily but strongly, as if wanting to be alone more than he needed human companionship.
The woman, watching the scene, said, “He was in the War. He was a sniper.”
She flung out the last word as if daring Rutledge to say anything. Daring him to condemn.
Rutledge said, “Snipers saved my life any number of times. And the lives of my men. Why should I find that so terrible?”
“Everyone else does.” Her voice was bitter. He tried to see her face, but it was hidden. The lights from The Pelican barely touched her hair, like a pale halo behind her head.
“Why?”
“He shot from ambush. It wasn’t very gallant. It was assassination, if you will. Not the thing, you know.” Her voice altered, twisting the words, as if she was quoting someone. He heard an echo, he thought, of Lord Sedgwick in them, but couldn’t be sure.
“He killed from ambush, yes, it’s true,” Rutledge answered her tersely. “Such men took out the machine gunners when we couldn’t. They could move in the night as silently as a snake or fox, waiting for their chance, then making their shot. Some of the other men weren’t too pleased about what they did. I suppose it must have seemed unsportsmanlike. But I can tell you they were life, when we expected to die.”
She said, surprised, “You’re a policeman. I expected you to condemn what he’d done as tantamount to murder.”
“Was it murder?” He looked out across the dark, silent marshes, listening for the sea. “I suppose it was,” he said tiredly. “Those men were deadly; they seldom missed. The German gunners never had a chance. A good many of our snipers were Scots, with years of stalking behind them. Others had a—knack for silence. For stealth. They were brave, very brave, to do what they did. I never judged them.”
“His own father judged Peter Henderson. Alfie Henderson was one of Father James’s failures. He never forgave his son, not even on his deathbed, even though Father James begged him to heal the breach between them. I think Alfie would have been happier if Peter had never come home from France. He believed that being a sniper had brought dishonor to the family name.”
Rutledge swore under his breath. It was often that way—people at home, soldiers’ families in particular, seldom understood what war was all about. Their gallant men marched away in crisp uniforms, caps at a jaunty angle, flags flying, and went to France to kill the Hun—how that was done never seemed quite as clear. Young men in the filthy trenches were not likely to write to their mothers or their young wives and tell the truth: War was neither dashing nor colorful nor honorable. It was, simply, bloody and terrible. Even the government had entered into the conspiracy of silence for as long as it dared.
Wearily he tried to explain. “The Germans actually trained soldiers as snipers. Did you know that? They had schools to teach their best shots. We quite cleverly used whomever we could find.”
Hamish was saying something, but Rutledge didn’t hear it. The woman in front of him was also speaking. He caught the last of that.
“. . . wasn’t given his job back after the War. No one else in Osterley will hire him. He’s nearly destitute and won’t accept help. Father James believed—but now that he’s dead, Mrs. Barnett and the Vicar try to see that Peter is fed. But he doesn’t want pity—” Her voice cracked, and she added, “It’s never the evil people, is it, who suffer? It’s always the lonely ones who are already afraid!”
She turned on her h
eel, going back into The Pelican to rejoin her party.
Not hungry any more, Rutledge stood there for a time in the darkness of the October night, and then walked back to the hotel. He would settle his bill in the morning.
When he came into the lobby, Rutledge was greeted by Mrs. Barnett. She gestured toward the small parlor. “You have a visitor, Inspector.”
“A visitor?” he repeated, his mind still on the darkness he’d just left. On Peter Henderson and Father James.
“Miss Connaught.”
He brought his attention back to the present. “Ah. Thank you, Mrs. Barnett.”
With a nod he walked past the stairs and to the small parlor. As he opened the door, Priscilla Connaught got to her feet and faced him, as if facing the hangman.
“I saw you with Lord Sedgwick the other morning. And then I was told you had gone back to London. Is it finished then, the reward paid and the case of Father James’s death finally closed?”
She looked as if she hadn’t slept, dark rings under her eyes and a nervous tic at the corner of her mouth. The handsome dark blue suit she wore seemed nearly black, emphasizing her pallor.
Rutledge recalled what she had told him—that with Father James dead, she herself had no reason to live. He wondered what she did each day, when not absorbed in her anger. Did she read? Write letters to friends? Or sit and stare out at the marshes, waiting for something that would never come? Peace, perhaps.
He answered with some care, “I went to London on other business. As far as I know, the probe into Matthew Walsh’s movements hasn’t been completed. There has been no mention of passing out a reward. Not in my hearing.”
“Oh.” She seemed shaken. As if she had been so very certain that she hadn’t thought beyond the need to find out if she was right.
Rutledge, studying her face, hought, She’s in worse straits than Peter Henderson. Father James was an obsession she couldn’t live without. Like a drug, only far more deadly.
Hamish said, “Aye, but there’s naught to be done. You canna’ stop the investigation.”
Rutledge gestured to the chair she had risen from, but she shook her head. And then, as if her legs wouldn’t support her any longer, she sank back into the seat.
“Do you know Lord Sedgwick well, Miss Connaught?”
“Lord Sedgwick? Hardly at all. I have met his son Edwin—but that must be close to sixteen or seventeen years ago, now.” She sounded distracted, as if only half her mind was on what she was saying.
“Here in Osterley?” Rutledge persisted, keeping to a neutral topic.
“No, Edwin sometimes stayed with a family I knew in London. He was little more than a boy at the time, and I didn’t like him very much.”
“Why not?”
“He was very easily bored, and more than a little selfish. He’d lost his mother, and everyone rather spoiled him. But I’ve heard that he turned out rather well—he was on someone’s staff at the Peace Conference last spring.”
“And Arthur?”
“I know him by sight, of course, but we’ve never met. Like his father, he was married to an American woman—I did meet her once. At a vicarage tea I’d been persuaded to attend. One of those sweet girls with little to say for herself. And unbelievably pretty. They spent most of the year in Yorkshire and seldom came to Osterley. Later I heard that she’d died.”
She was beginning to breathe more regularly now, finding it easier to carry on a polite conversation. The intensity that had held her on the edge of breakdown was draining away, and in its place was a precarious control again.
“Lord Sedgwick was concerned about the brakes on your motorcar.”
“He rather enjoys playing lord of the manor. And I’ve good reason to thank him for that—his chauffeur rescued me once when I’d lost my way and run out of petrol.” As if realizing that she was steadier, she asked again, “Are you sure—have you told me the whole truth about Walsh?”
Her eyes begged him for an honest answer.
“Yes,” he said gently. “I have no reason to lie to you.”
And yet he thought he had. She’d been distraught enough to do something foolish, before she’d reasoned out the consequences.
“Aye,” Hamish said, “it wouldna’ do to have her blood on your hands!”
She stood up again. “I must be on my way—”
“Whatever rumors you hear,” Rutledge told her, “come to me and I’ll tell you the truth. I give you my word.”
Priscilla Connaught took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m not sure I can believe you. I don’t know, I can’t somehow think straight.”
“It might be a good idea to speak to Dr. Stephenson. Someone you trust.”
She laughed, a hollow and mirthless sound. “There’s not much a medical doctor can do for a shattered life.”
“I wish you would tell me what Father James—”
Priscilla Connaught shook her head with finality. “It had nothing to do with his death. Only with his life. And that’s finished. Over and done with.”
She looked around, saw her purse on the table, and as she picked it up, spoke again. “I’ve lain awake at night, wondering who could have murdered him. If there was someone else he’d treated as cruelly as he’d treated me. I think I’d be happier believing that than in the story of a thief.” Then she turned toward Rutledge again.
“Thank you for your concern, Inspector,” she said with great poise, as if they’d spent an evening in pleasant conversation and she was leaving the party. “You’ve been quite kind.”
And with that, she wished him a good night and walked past him out the door.
Another of Father James’s failures, he thought, watching the door close behind her. Like Peter Henderson’s father . . . How many were there?
Mrs. Barnett was still in the office when Rutledge came back to the lobby and paused by the desk.
“Yes, Inspector?” she said, looking up.
“I’m told that Mr. Sims, Frederick Gifford, and Father James dined together from time to time. Did they come here?”
“Yes, about twice a month, generally. Occasionally it would be just Father James and the Vicar. I’ve always looked forward to having them come. They were no trouble at all, and I’d enjoy chatting with them when I brought their tea to the lounge.” The memory of that caught her for a moment. “It’s not easy, running this hotel on my own. I have so little time for anything else. It was almost like having friends drop by, because they would tell me about a book I might enjoy reading or where someone they knew had been traveling or even a bit of news from London that I hadn’t heard. My husband knew all of them quite well, you see, and in a small way it brought him back to me for just a little while.”
Something to look forward to . . .
It was a gratification Rutledge did not have. And he had, after a fashion, come to terms with the fact that how he lived today, on the edge of breakdown and exhaustion, would be a pattern he could expect in his tomorrows. It was not self-pity, whatever Hamish drummed into his head, but acceptance. The price of living with himself.
Mrs. Barnett hesitated, on the point of wishing him a good night.
Instead he asked, “Would you give me the name of the young woman who is also staying here?”
Something altered in her face. “I’m sorry, Inspector. She’s a guest here, and you must ask her yourself.”
Hamish said, “It’s no’ unusual, for a hotel to guard the privacy of a woman traveling alone.”
Rutledge, inexplicably angry, as if accused of a breach of manners, said curtly, “It’s a matter of police business, Mrs. Barnett, not personal interest.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth before he regretted them. But it was too late to recall them.
Mrs. Barnett stared at him, as if she didn’t believe him. Then she replied stiffly, “Her name is Trent, Inspector.”
He didn’t hear what else she was saying, something about Somerset.
“Is her first name Marianna?”
“She’s registered as May Trent.”
But May was often a diminutive for Mary. The Queen, Mary, was called May by her family.
Had Gifford known Marianna Trent was staying in Osterley? He’d chosen not to tell Rutledge that.
Or was he trying to make sure that Rutledge didn’t go in search of the woman?
“You didna’ ask,” Hamish informed him.
The next morning, Rutledge found Inspector Blevins already in his office at the station. A letter lay open on the blotter in front of him.
He looked up as a constable ushered Rutledge into the room, and nodded.
“I hope your morning has been fairer than mine.”
Rutledge said, “The scissors sharpener?”
“Yes, a man named Bolton. He swears Walsh was with him the night the priest was murdered. It won’t be easy to pry the truth out of him. If there is any truth to be had.”
“I have another bit of bad news. The London police believe they’ve found the body of Iris Kenneth in the Thames. The woman who kept the lodgings where Iris Kenneth lived was satisfied enough to sell her belongings for whatever they might bring.”
Blevins was staring at him. “When was she found?”
“A week ago. Two days before you picked up Walsh.”
“Damn!” Blevins leaned back in his chair. “It’s like dealing with a will-o’-the-wisp—you no sooner think you have your hands on the truth when it evaporates like morning fog! Do you think Walsh might have killed her? To shut her up?”
“God knows. There’s no real evidence to support murder. She may have killed herself. Or someone else may have put her into the water. I did ask Mrs. Rollings about an old pair of men’s shoes. She couldn’t believe that Iris Kenneth had ever owned anything of the kind.”