Charles Todd - Watchers of Time

Rutledge was about to answer him when the door opened and a small white-haired woman dressed in black warily asked his business.

He explained who he was, offering his credentials for her inspection. She glanced at them with relief and then stood aside to allow him to enter a dark hall with two doors on either side of a wide staircase of worn mahogany. A passage ran down beside the stairs to a third door at the back end of the hall. Mrs. Wainer opened the one to her right and invited him into a small parlor, with a gesture offering the sofa as the most comfortable seat. It was a room of surprisingly lovely proportions, with long windows facing the church, a selection of old but well-cared-for furniture, and an oak mantelpiece that rose nearly to the high ceiling. This was ornately carved with ferns and acorns and leaves, and Rutledge wondered if it had come from an even older house.

The scent of lemon wax pervaded even the upholstery and rose to greet him as he sat down. The sheen on every wooden surface spoke of the brisk application of a polishing rag, and there was no dust on the green leaves of the large plant in one corner. Hamish eyed it with dislike. “Yon’s the ugliest aspidistra I’ve ever clapped eyes on.”

Rutledge was in agreement. It seemed to thrive without beauty, out of place here, but certainly well fed and watered.

Mrs. Wainer was saying, as she stood before him like a schoolmistress, “Did I understand you rightly? Scotland Yard, you said. That means London.”

“Yes, that’s correct.” Behind her, on the mantel, was a small china clock with a French dial and beveled glass. It ticked with a soft grace.

Her eyes closed for a brief moment, and she said, “I have prayed for answers. And there have been none. Until now.”

Rutledge said, not absolutely certain he understood her, “I haven’t come to tell you that the murderer has been found.”

“No. You’ve come to look for him. That’s what matters!”

“I’m here because Bishop Cunningham was concerned enough to contact the Yard-”

“As he should have been! It was a despicable crime. Despicable! I looked at Father James lying there, and I knew straightaway that such a thing hadn’t been done by an ordinary man. Inspector Blevins can’t seem to grasp that. Or won’t. I’m beginning to think he wants to believe it was a thief, come for the bazaar money. But it wasn’t. Now you’re here, something will be done about what happened.” There was an intensity in her face that made Rutledge feel uneasy.

“Why are you so certain that the killer wasn’t a thief?”

“Because he wasn’t! I don’t care what they say. You don’t knock a man down for such a pitiful sum, then leave behind a medal around his neck worth more than fifty pounds. If you’d kill a priest, you’d feel no compunction stealing his medal. In my opinion, this was vengeance. Someone wanted him dead!”

It was an interesting choice of words. Rutledge said, “What had Father James done to bring such wrath down on him?”

“That’s what you must find out,” she told him earnestly. “I’ve been Father James’s housekeeper since first he came here to Osterley, and that’s been well over ten years now. He was a good man and a wonderful priest. A caring priest. And good people make enemies.” She turned her head to look over her shoulder, toward the door and the stairs, as if expecting someone to come down them and call to her. “I don’t think I’ll ever be free of that horror, him lying there in his own blood, his hand so cold when I touched it that I cried out for the pity of it.” Her eyes came back to Rutledge. “A monster did that killing, retribution for Father James standing up against cruelty and evil and sin. Mark my words, that’s what you’ll find if you search hard enough!”

Hamish said, “She believes what she said, and she willna’ be satisfied with any other solution.”

Rutledge answered him silently. “She must have loved him, in her own way. And anything less than a monster will make Father James’s death seem-senseless-to her.” Aloud he said to Mrs. Wainer, “Did you know the money was here? The money from the autumn fair?”

“Of course I did! Father James gave it to me that evening when the fair was over, and said, ‘Lock this away in my desk, will you, Ruth? I’ll give you the key, and fetch it again as soon as I’ve cleaned up.’ He’d been dressed as a clown, to entertain the children, you see, and the paint was still on his face.”

“Did you usually lock money away for him?”

“I did whatever he asked. He trusted me,” she said simply.

“Was the desk broken into? To find the money?”

“Yes, it was, damaging the drawer something fierce! But there’s only a small lock on the drawer, a flimsy thing at best. It was secure enough from prying eyes, if anyone came into the room. Hardly more than that-and we never had a ha’penny stolen until now! There was no need for safes and bolts on doors. I have told you, he trusted people, Father James did. It wouldn’t have occurred to him that this house might be invaded the way it was!”

“Sadly enough, that’s often the case,” Rutledge answered her. “It’s one reason why housebreakers-and the like”-he added hastily-“are often successful. But I have no authority here, Mrs. Wainer. Except to assure the Bishop that everything possible is being done to find Father James’s murderer-”

“And how, pray, could you hope to assure the Bishop of that, when you haven’t lifted a finger toward setting Inspector Blevins on the right track?” Her eyebrows rose, and she regarded him with a scornful expression.

“The Yard-” Rutledge began.

But she was not interested in the politics of the Yard or its role outside London. Like Bryony in Norwich, she was concerned only with finding a reason for an otherwise incomprehensible crime.

He had disappointed her. And her face let him know it.

Making amends as best he could, Rutledge said, “You tell me that goodness makes enemies. Can you give me the names of anyone who might have had a reason to harm Father James?”

“Don’t be daft. If I could have made such a list, I’d have handed it over to Inspector Blevins. And I never heard Father James speak ill of anyone. He had a way with him, listening to what was said to him, considering what was to be done for the best. And, good man that he was, he always looked for the best in people. But he didn’t always find it. There are some that are two-faced, smiling and agreeable under your eye, but mean-spirited and venomous behind your back. He knew that, just as any good policeman should.”

Her views on the failings of human nature met with approval from Hamish. He said, “Aye, a man owed my grandfather money, and said he couldna’ pay it back, his business was sae puir. But it wasna’ true. He was hiding the profits.”

Rutledge said, “You were in this house every day, going about your duties. How did Father James behave those last weeks? As he always had? Or could you see that he was worried, preoccupied?”

For the first time, he caught a glimpse of fear in her eyes. It was unexpected, as if she had locked it away and didn’t want to bring it into the light.

Mrs. Wainer was silent for a moment, then answered, “I’d find his bed not slept in, some mornings. And he’d often be standing at the kitchen window by the back garden, looking out, the tea already made, as if he hadn’t been able to rest. That last morning, he turned a surprised face to me when I came in at my usual hour. As if he’d lost track of the time.”

“Was there a problem in the parish that kept him awake?”

“If there was, it never reached my ears! But he’d been to the doctor’s, several times to my certain knowledge, and I was beginning to wonder if he was ill-a cancer or some such. And it was on his mind.”