Watchers of Time

by Charles Todd

  Rutledge waited to a count of ten, watching the man’s face. It was a thinking face, but not a cunning one. The Strong Man wasn’t just muscle and brawn; he was capable of working out the ramifications of his position and dealing with the reality it represented. But he didn’t appear to have that extra measure of slyness that sometimes cropped up in people of his ilk.

  As if in agreement, Hamish observed, “He’s no’ one to lurk about in the shadows. He’s been larger than most men, all his life.” And it was true. Walsh had probably never feared anyone or anything. Unlike a small man, whose wits were all that stood between him and a bullying, Walsh had never needed to bluster or bargain. His arrogance grew out of his certainty about himself in the scheme of things.

  Rutledge let his silence draw attention to itself. When something changed in Walsh’s manner, less belligerent and more wary, he finally said, “Iris Kenneth is dead. Did you kill her, too?”

  The shock was real. Walsh sucked in his breath, and there was a sudden tightness around his mouth, an incredulity that left him shaken with a realization that he might have fallen into a trap.

  “You’re lying to me!” he said, the deep bass voice rolling around the walls of the small cell like thunder overhead.

  “Why should I lie? I can take you to London tonight and show you her corpse. If it hasn’t already been turned into a pauper’s grave.”

  “She’s not dead! Iris had a way about her, a lively way. But she kept her wits about her, and she never—I don’t believe you!”

  With a shrug, Rutledge turned to leave. “I don’t really care whether you believe me or not. I’m not lying to you. She’s dead.”

  “How? By what means!” Walsh asked quickly, taking a step forward as if to stop Rutledge from leaving.

  “Drowning,” Rutledge said coldly. “Not a pleasant way to go, surely?”

  And he walked out of the cell, shutting the door behind him.

  Walsh was there as he turned the key in the lock. His fists pounded furiously against the door. “Damn you! Come back here—!”

  But Rutledge walked away down the passage to Blevins’s office, to the drumbeat of Walsh’s fists battering on the door.

  As Rutledge walked into the office and dropped the key on the desk, Blevins said, “What’s that in aid of?” He inclined his head toward the savage pounding. “I don’t see you’ve gained much of anything!”

  Rutledge sat down in the chair across the cluttered desk from Blevins. “I don’t know who killed Iris Kenneth,” he said. “But I’d give you heavy odds that it wasn’t Walsh.” He could feel the weariness building up in him, the strain across his shoulders that came from depression and stress. “Not that it matters. We’re far from proving she was on the scene, the night of the priest’s murder.”

  “He had the opportunity, surely? We didn’t pick him up until after the woman went into the river, from what you’ve told me of the timing. He had a reason to want her silenced. He could have taken a train to London, finished her off, and taken the next one back to Norfolk!”

  “And left his cart and his equipment with the scissors sharpener?”

  “That’s possible! We should look into the trains. A man the size of Walsh would stand out. Other passengers might remember seeing him.”

  “It’s best to be thorough,” Rutledge agreed. Then he added, choosing his words, “Something was said earlier about having to release Walsh, if you didn’t have incontrovertible proof. Perhaps—as a precaution—we might be well advised to look at other suspects.”

  Warily, Blevins asked, “Starting where?”

  “I was about to ask you that.”

  “I’ve told you, no one in Osterley had a reason to murder Father James!”

  “We won’t know that with any certainty until Walsh is found guilty.”

  Disconcerted, Blevins studied the Londoner. “Do you really believe I’m wrong about Walsh?”

  Rutledge answered indirectly. “If you’re forced to let Walsh walk out of here, will you still be convinced he was guilty?”

  Blevins looked away, a long sigh expressing his frustration and uncertainty. His fingers toyed with the edge of the blotter, worrying a small tear in the corner. He was reluctant to give up any part of his authority—and equally reluctant to exercise it. This was his village, his people. To be seen rigorously investigating the private lives of those he lived with on a daily basis would bring their wrath down on his head. To let Rutledge usurp his position was an admission that he was not prepared to do it himself. For whatever reasons.

  Finally he told Rutledge, “I don’t want to know what you’re doing. Not at first. But when you think you’ve got something I should hear, then I want to hear it. However unpleasant it might be. Do you understand me?”

  Rutledge agreed with grace, knowing that Blevins had crossed a line that would come back to haunt him. Hamish, in the back of Rutledge’s mind, added silently, “If the killer is no’ the Strong Man, you’ve made an enemy.”

  And that was equally true.

  Down the passage the pounding had stopped, and Rutledge found the silence disturbed him.

  Blevins waited until Rutledge had reached the door to the street before asking, “Where will you begin?”

  After a moment, Rutledge answered, “Where death begins. With the doctor who examined the body.”

  As Rutledge stepped out into the hazy sunshine of the October morning, he heard Hamish clearly, as if the voice had just walked out of the police station at his heels, no more than two steps behind his left shoulder.

  “There’s no turning back,” Hamish warned. “If you’re wrong, he willna’ let you live it down!”

  But Rutledge answered, unaware that he’d spoken aloud, “So be it.”

  CHAPTER 15

  RUTLEDGE WAITED NEARLY TWENTY MINUTES IN Dr. Stephenson’s surgery before the nurse, Connie, summoned him and led the way to the small private office in the rear.

  Stephenson, looking at Rutledge over the tops of his glasses, said, “I’d heard you went back to London.” He collected the sheets of paper he’d been reading and set them in a folder. “Blevins is a capable man. I can’t quite see the need of someone from London looking over his shoulder. Most of the town feels satisfied that Walsh killed Father James, and if there’s been any evidence to the contrary, I haven’t heard about it.”

  “When a man travels the country as frequently as Matthew Walsh did, his movements aren’t always easy to follow. And the timing on a given date can be critical,” Rutledge answered without rancor, waiting to be offered the chair on his side of the desk.

  Stephenson nodded toward it, and Rutledge sat down. “Then what brings you here today?”

  “Walk lightly!” Hamish warned.

  “I wasn’t present when the body was found. I’d like to hear what you saw and noted at the scene.”

  “I wrote everything down for Blevins. The next morning, in fact.”

  “That’s the official report. Well-considered medical opinions designed to stand up in court. What I’d like is your personal opinion—whatever you felt and saw and thought, whether you could support it with fact or not.”

  Stephenson leaned back in his chair. “I can’t think why! It was a clear-cut case of violent death. No question about that.”

  Rutledge rejoined mildly, “Still, you might provide a small piece of the puzzle that’s been overlooked.”

  Stephenson, a man used to judging people and tracking down the site of illness from small signs, considered Rutledge more sharply, his mind working swiftly behind the shield of his glasses. “You aren’t suggesting that someone in Osterley—”

  Rutledge cut across what he was about to say. “For instance, Monsignor Holston tells me he was disturbed by the presence of something malignant and evil in that room. Mrs. Wainer on the other hand believes that the murder was motivated by revenge. But neither of them would write such impressions in an official report. Nor would you.”

  Hamish was saying something, but Rutled
ge listened to the silence instead.

  Stephenson scratched his jaw, a rasping sound in the quiet of the room. “I can’t say that I had an initial reaction. Unless it was disbelief. The constable who came to fetch me told me that Father James was dead. I was short with him, saying that it was my business, not his, to make that determination. After we got to the rectory, I remember thinking that this vigorous, intelligent man seemed smaller in death than he was in life. But we were standing over Father James rather than looking him in the eye as we usually did, which probably explained why he seemed— diminished. There were half a dozen people in the room and I could hear a woman sobbing somewhere down the passage. Mrs. Wainer, that was. After that I was too busy to do more than note the circumstances.” He stopped, looking back at the scene imprinted on his memory.

  Rutledge said, “Go on.”

  “He was lying by the window, facing it and partly on his left side, his left hand outflung and open, and I remember thinking that he couldn’t have seen the attack coming. But Blevins was pointing out the destruction in the study— chairs overturned, papers and books scattered about—and suggesting that Father James had walked in on this confusion and then gone to the window to call for help. That’s an old house, but the sashes work smoothly; I tested them myself. Still, even if Father James had been successful in attracting attention, it would have been too late. The bastard had found the opportunity he was looking for and struck hard. Nevertheless, the victim was facing the windows, and Blevins knows his business better than I do. Mine was to examine the body.”

  Hamish said, “It wasna’ proper, surely, to influence the doctor’s view!”

  “It’s done often enough. Setting the scene, as it were,” Rutledge silently responded. “Human nature to pay heed to it.”

  Stephenson took a deep breath and studied the ceiling. “There had been an emergency on one of the farms around five that same morning—I was tired. And Blevins was taking it hard—he was one of Father James’s flock, as you probably know. I saw no reason to doubt what he was telling me.”

  “How did Blevins look to you?”

  “He was extremely angry, but his face was pale, his hands shaking. I thought it likely that he’d just vomited from the shock. He said two or three times, ‘I can’t understand killing a priest for a few pounds—I didn’t think we held life as cheaply here as in London.’ Or words to that effect.”

  “Tell me about the room.”

  “It’d been ransacked. You must know that. I could hardly set a foot down without tramping on papers or books and the like. I looked for evidence of a struggle, but didn’t find any. I said something to Blevins about that, as I remember. I’d always had the feeling that Father James could look after himself. I’d see him on the road on that bicycle of his at any hour of the day or night, and in any weather. I was surprised that he hadn’t made any effort to defend himself. Of course, that was before Blevins brought in Walsh.”

  “Aye,” Hamish reminded Rutledge, “it’s a question you raised, yoursel’.”

  Stephenson looked at the pen on his blotter. “I couldn’t find any scratches on the hands, nothing under the nails. No marks on the face. Rigor was present, and I was fairly sure he’d been dead for more than twelve hours.”

  His eyes came back to Rutledge’s face, as if the medical details were more comfortable than speculation. “The back of his skull was crushed and that large crucifix lay on the floor near the body. I could see hair and blood on it quite clearly. I knelt on my handkerchief and someone held a lamp for me, so that I might examine the wound better. There had been at least three blows—I could identify the shape of the square base at three different points. I would say that the first blow stunned him, the second one killed him, and the third would most certainly have made it impossible to survive. Each blow was delivered with considerable force, judging from the compression of the skull.”

  “Which confirms,” Rutledge said, “that the priest was standing, his back to the killer?”

  “That’s true. I was told later that there were no fingerprints on the crucifix where it must have been gripped for leverage—either it was wiped clean or the killer wore gloves.”

  “Women wear gloves,” Rutledge said thoughtfully, thinking of Priscilla Connaught, who was tall for a woman.

  “I won’t tell you that it couldn’t have been a woman,” Stephenson answered, “but I find it hard to believe a woman would have struck more than twice.” He shrugged. “Still, it would depend on her state of mind. This was a bloody wound, and in my experience, few women are willing to splatter themselves with bone and blood and brain tissue, no matter how angry or brave they are. It’s not medical opinion, of course, but as a rule, women avoid that sort of unpleasantness. I pronounced him dead, and called it what it was: murder.”

  Rutledge mused, “I come back to the question, what would I do if I walked in on a thief?”

  “I’ve never faced an intruder in my house, Inspector. I’d feel violated, walking in on such wanton destruction—I know that—and damned angry as well. If I recognized the person, I’d tell him to stop making an ass of himself and get the hell out of my house, if he wanted to escape charges. I’d be in no mood to be charitable. And probably get myself killed for it. I’d be more wary of a stranger, not knowing what he was capable of, but I’d still go after him. But then I’m not trained as a priest. It would make a difference.”

  Hamish said, “He was in the War, Father James. Would he turn the other cheek?”

  As if he had heard Hamish’s comment as clearly as Rutledge did, Stephenson straightened the folder on his desk to march with the right margin of the blotter and added with an odd tension in his face, “If there was no thief—if it wasn’t Walsh—then Father James was confronted by an enemy.”

  Rutledge said nothing.

  Stephenson moved uneasily in his chair. “No, disregard that, if you will. Blevins is a good policeman—he wouldn’t have got it wrong!”

  Again Rutledge let the comment stand. Instead he asked, “Did you know much about Father James’s past?”

  “That’s the trouble with you people from London! You don’t live here, you don’t understand the people here. You look for complexity, and these are not complex people.” Rutledge started to speak, but Stephenson said, “No, let me finish! Some twenty years ago, we had discussions to see if anything could be done to bring back the port. Experts from London preferred to keep the marshes as a sanctuary for birds. We said, What about the needs of the families who had to scratch a living here? But nobody listened. This was a good place for marshes, and marshes we would keep,” he said with growing heat. “Well, I’m the man who sees the cost of the struggle to make a living out here. I knew that Romney Marsh had been drained to make it fit for sheep grazing, and we could do the same here, along with dredging the port, making it safe for small boats and a holiday place for people who haven’t the resources to travel to the southern beaches. The experts would have none of it. You’re the expert here; you want to find something to blame Father James for, something to excuse the time and money the Yard has spent in sending you here. Well, it won’t wash. I knew the man. You didn’t.”

  “He’s avoiding the question, ye ken,” Hamish pointed out.

  Rutledge said without rancor, “I’m not suggesting that Blevins is wrong. Or that Father James was guilty of some unspeakable crime. But none of us is perfect—and people will kill for reasons that you and I couldn’t comprehend. One of the worst murders I’ve ever seen had to do with a simple boundary dispute, where a hedge ran over the line. Hardly a case for violence, but it ended in one man taking the shears to the other.”

  Dr. Stephenson looked at him for a long moment. Then, as if against his will, growing out of some inner need he couldn’t silence, he said, “In all my personal and professional encounters with Father James, I never felt any doubt about his integrity or his honor.”

  A but hung in the air between them, like a shout that couldn’t be ignored. Rutledge waited,
silent.

  And as if goaded by that, the doctor said, “Damn you! I don’t know why I’m telling you this. But there was something years ago that puzzled me, and I suppose that’s why I couldn’t put it out of my mind. It had to do with the sinking of Titanic. Once when I walked in on him—this was several months afterward—there was a great pile of articles spread out across Father James’s desk. A hundred or more cuttings, with notes in ink in the margins, and even photographs of passengers and recovered bodies. He saw me looking down at them, and before I could say a word, he’d gathered up the lot and swept it out of sight into a drawer, as if it were somehow . . . obscene material. I made some remark about the disaster, and his interest, and he said, ‘No, that’s nothing to do with me.’ It was odd, to hear a priest lie, and about something so—ordinary.” Dr. Stephenson frowned. “He never spoke of it again, and nor did I. But the lie never set well with me. I— In some fashion it altered my view of the man.”

  He studied Rutledge’s face.

  Rutledge said. “Perhaps he knew someone who had sailed on her.”

  “I wondered about that, but people in Osterley seldom travel beyond Norwich or King’s Lynn. They most certainly don’t have the money for passage on a ship like that. I myself know of only one person who sailed on Titanic, and she didn’t live here at all. I can’t believe that Father James had more than a passing acquaintance with her.”

  “Who was she?”

  Stephenson answered testily, “Lord Sedgwick’s daughter-in-law. His son Arthur’s wife. An American. It was hushed up at the time—she’d left her husband and sailed for New York without a by-your-leave. Sedgwick and young Arthur had searched everywhere, they’d no idea where she went or why. She simply vanished. Until the ship went down, and someone found her maiden name in the passenger list. Terrible shock to the family.”

  “Was her body retrieved?”

  “I believe it was. The family held a private service on the estate. Look, I should never have spoken of this. For all I know, Fa her James had dreamed of running away to sea as a boy! Titanic was a marvel; she caught the fancy of the entire country. He was probably embarrassed to admit to sharing that excitement.” Stephenson took out his watch. “I’ve three more patients to see before I can go home for my dinner. Is there anything else you want to know?”