Charles Todd - Watchers of Time

“I have given you all the information that it’s in my power to give you,” Monsignor Holston replied, his austere face clouded with doubt. “I can’t tell you more than that-I wish I knew more! And I won’t lie to you, either. I will say this: Father James was a very good man. Sober and hardworking. A man of faith and deep convictions. I have a duty to him. If his murderer can be found, I want him found.”

Hamish said, “A priest could be killed for what he knows.”

It was true…

Rutledge, finishing his tea, shook his head as he was offered more and set his empty cup on the tray. “There’s another avenue we haven’t really explored. A clergyman learns to cope with a variety of responsibilities, some of them rather onerous. There’s always the chance that what happened to Father James is in some way related to his duties. And in taking them over, you may put yourself at risk as well. Someone may believe you will come to know more than you safely should.”

“It’s always possible, of course. The truth is, a clergyman can often make quite good guesses about what’s going on in his parish. And he’s often privy to confidences-never mind what he’s told in the confessional. But in that confessional, he may learn the whole story. A husband is unfaithful to his wife, a clerk has cheated his employer, someone has spread a lie that hurt others, a child was not fathered by the man who believes it’s his. That’s the reason the words uttered in the confessional are a sacred trust. It must be a place where a person tells the truth and unburdens his soul before God. We believe in this sacrament, and we protect it with our silence. Father James wouldn’t have broken that vow.”

“And if a man or a woman tells the priest something, and later regrets that confidence?”

“He or she may regret having spoken. But God knew long before he or she stepped into the confessional. And the priest is sworn to silence.”

“That’s not always the practical answer,” Rutledge told him.

Monsignor Holston removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “No, it isn’t. The practical answer is, that man or that woman may simply move to another parish, leaving behind the priest who knows the truth and finding another one who will accept this newest member of his flock at face value. One doesn’t murder the priest for the secrets of the confessional. It would have changed the face of the Church hundreds of years ago if that had become the common practice.” He restored his glasses to their proper place, settling them into the deep indentations on either side of his nose, then tried to smile. And failed. “Were you told that Father James was a chaplain in the first two years of the War, until he was sent home with severe dysentery in 1917? Who can be sure that the truth doesn’t lie there? In the War?” Monsignor Holston turned his head again to look out at the garden, as if he half expected to find the answer he wanted in the grassy paths and the shrubbery. Or half expected to find someone standing there.

Hamish said, “He fidgets like a man with an uneasy conscience!”

Rutledge answered silently, “Uneasy? Or uncertain?” Aloud he said, “In that event, I see no reason why you should feel that you’re in any particular danger.”

Monsignor Holston turned from the window to Rutledge. “I have told you. It’s primitive-the hair rising on the back of my neck in a dark corner of my church, or coming down the passage here in the house when it’s late and I’m alone. Sitting in a lighted room when the windows are dark and the drapes haven’t been drawn, and looking up suddenly to see if someone is out there, staring in at me. It isn’t real, it’s all imagination. And I’m not by nature easily frightened. Now I am.”

“Did you serve with the same units that Father James did?”

“I never went to France. I worked among the wounded here in England as they were being sorted out when the ships came in. Most of them were in too much pain to do more than accept a cigarette and a little compassion, some reassurance that God was still watching over them.” Monsignor Holston shook his head. “You’re probably right, I’m not thinking very logically about any of this. But somewhere in this muddle there must be an explanation for Father James’s murder and my own strange sense that something’s wrong. ” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. You’re a very clever man, Inspector Rutledge. You’ll sort it out. I am reassured that Scotland Yard has sent us its best.”

And that was all that Monsignor Holston was prepared to say.

Leaving the rectory, Rutledge paused to speak to Bryony as she showed him to the door. Around them the house was silent, shutting out the sound of the rain and the echo of shovels scraping against stone out in the street. “I understand that Father James was well thought of.”

“Now there was a black day, when Father was killed! I’ve not got over the shock of it. Well thought of? Of course he was, and well loved, well respected, too!” She took Rutledge’s hat and coat from the chair beside the door and held them to her as if they offered comfort. “You can ask anyone.”

“People always speak well of the dead,” he told her gently. “Even a priest is human, and sometimes frail.”

“As to that, I wouldn’t know! I’m not one to go around looking for failings. I can tell you Father James was a patient man, and generous. If someone had come to him with a tale of hard luck, he’d have given them the money, they needn’t have killed him for it! It’ll turn out to be a stranger, mark my words. A cruel and ungodly man with no regard for his own soul.” Her eyes remained on his, as if expecting him to make a pronouncement that would set her mind at rest.

“A non-Catholic? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Neither Protestant nor Catholic, in my view-no churchgoing man would murder a clergyman, would he? I’m saying that whoever it was killed Father James wasn’t hungry or in debt. He was calculating and self-serving, with a devil in him. Or her. Women can be terrible cruel sometimes. Are there so many of those walking about that it takes all this time for the police to track down the right one? It’s been days now since Father’s death, and what have the police got to show for it? I call it a crying shame!”

“Surely they’ve tried.”

“Oh, as to trying, now, I’d agree with you there. They’ve tried. But they’re not what I’d call clever men.” She moved to open the door for him, letting in the damp and the reek of the filthy mud being piled high at the roadside. “Housebreaking and petty theft, fire-setting or assault-they’ll find the culprit, because chances are he’s done it before. But that’s not clever, is it? It’s only a matter of knowing where to look!”

“And in this case, perhaps only a matter of finding out who has extra money jangling in his pocket, the money he stole from Father James,” Rutledge responded reasonably. “Six of one-”

“Is it, now?” She tilted her head to look up at him. “Father James was a family man, did they tell you? This past August his sister presented her husband with three little ones, and Father James was always helping out with the babes. What’s she to do now, with winter coming on and no one to come and stay a few days, when one’s sick of the croup and she’s up all the night? You might speak to Mrs. Wainer. She was Father James’s housekeeper, and a more decent woman you’ll never meet. Ask her about walking into the study and finding him there stiff and cold, blood all over the place. And for all she knew, the killer lurking in the bedroom, ready to strike her down as well! If you’ve set Monsignor’s mind at rest just now, it would be a kindness to reassure her, too. And only a few hours out of your way, mind!”