Charles Todd - Watchers of Time

“Yes, it must be.”

“My younger son bought one like it a year before the War. Found it an admirable motor. Made the run from London in excellent time and never gave him any trouble.” He smiled wryly. “I’m at the mercy of gout, myself. Don’t fancy driving when my foot is aching like a fiend in hell.”

The conversation moved on from motors to unemployment and then to some discussion of the peace treaty that had been signed. “Is it worth the paper it was written on? I ask you! The French were vindictive as hell, and the Hun is too proud to live long under their heel!” Sedgwick shook his head, answering his own question. “Politicians are the very devil. Foolish idealists, like Wilson in America, or short-sighted and closed-minded, like that lot in Paris.”

Mrs. Barnett served them roasted ham and a side dish of carrots and potatoes, seasoned with onions, still steaming from the ovens. As she rearranged the salt and pepper to accommodate the various dishes, she asked Sedgwick if he cared for hot mustard sauce. He smiled and helped himself from the silver bowl she held for him, then sighed. “I don’t think anyone can match Mrs. Barnett’s mustard sauce. She won’t tell me how she makes it. And so I try to remember which days she’s likely to serve it. You’ll find it excellent!”

As she moved away after serving the sauce to Rutledge, Sedgwick added, “Know the Broads well, do you?”

“I’ve come here a time or two. A friend kept a boat west of here, but that was before the War. He’s not up to sailing these days.” Ronald had been gassed at Ypres; the damp ravaged his lungs now.

“Never been much for the sea myself. But one of my sons was fond of boats and took us out a time or two.” He smiled sheepishly. “Not the stomach for it, if you want the truth.”

Sedgwick was an engaging man, the sort of Englishman who could spend half an hour with a stranger without fear of encroachment on either side. Which told Rutledge, watching the sharp eyes beneath the gray, shaggy brows, that he was not what he seemed.

By the end of the meal, Rutledge had his man pegged. His accent was Oxonian, his voice well modulated, his conversation that of a gentleman, but he still had occasional trouble with his aitches. London roots, and not the West End, in spite of the heavy gold watch fob, the elegant signet ring on the left hand, and apparel that had been made by the best tailors in Oxford Street.

As they finished their flan and Susan Barnett brought the teapot for a second cup, the woman who had been sitting behind Rutledge some tables away rose and walked out of the dining room.

Sedgwick bowed politely, turning his head so that his eyes followed her through the doorway.

“An interesting young woman,” he said to Rutledge. “Religious sort, I’m told. She was at a dinner party given by the doctor here, and spoke very well on the subject of medieval brasses.”

It was almost condescending.

As if to underline Rutledge’s thoughts, Sedgwick added, “Spinster, of course,” settling the question of where she stood in his scheme of the world.

“Indeed,” Rutledge said, watching her walk across the lobby. The brief flash of a shapely ankle and the glossy dark hair above the straight back seemed at odds with Sedgwick’s opinion of her.

Sedgwick excused himself after his second cup of tea and spoke to Mrs. Barnett in the kitchen before leaving the hotel.

Rutledge himself rose from the table, dropping his serviette by his empty cup, and went into the lobby. There was a small sitting room beyond the stairs, the door standing wide. Inside he could just see his fellow guest reading her book. While the room was for any guest’s use, the occupant seemed to make it clear that she did not wish for company, her chair set at an angle that discouraged any greeting.

He turned and left the hotel to walk down the street toward the water. A chill wind blew off the North Sea and whipped the saw grass he could just see far out on the dunes. The single boat he’d watched coming in was now beached on the damp strand below the seawall, with wet boot prints coming up the stone steps and leading up into the town. He could follow them, as cakes of gray mud flecked off at each step.

Hamish said, “The priest’s killer wore old and worn shoes.”

“Yes. I hadn’t forgotten. The Strong Man, Walsh, was wearing boots. With hobnails. And his feet are large.”

“Aye. It’s a thought to bear in mind…”

INSTEAD OF FETCHING HIS LUGGAGE FROM the boot as he’d planned, Rutledge drove to St. Anne’s rectory. The mixture of watery sun, clouds, and drizzle that had pursued him all morning had given way to fairer skies. If the sun stayed out, he thought as he pulled into the short drive, the day would soon be pleasantly warm. A light wind riffled his hair as he went up the walk to the door and lifted the coffin knocker. After a time Mrs. Wainer came to answer the clamor, and recognizing the Inspector on the doorstep, greeted him with noticeable relief.

“I thought it might be someone wanting Monsignor Holston!”

“I hope I haven’t taken you from your dinner,” he said.

“No, I’ve finished. Do come in!” she said, and was on the point of leading him back to the Victorian parlor when he stopped her.

“I’d like to see Father James’s study,” Rutledge said gently, “if it wouldn’t be too much trouble for you.”

She turned her head toward the stairs. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not go up there just now. I still find it hard.” She looked at Rutledge again. “It’s Sunday, and he was always on time for his dinner, and hungry, having fasted. There’s no one to cook for now, though I’d bought a nice bit of ham, hoping Monsignor Holston would stay… I feel at sixes and sevens!” There was a sadness in the words that touched Rutledge. “Well. The Bishop will send a new priest when he’s ready.”

“It should be reassuring to know that Inspector Blevins has found the man responsible.”

The housekeeper answered, “Oh, yes.” But her response was polite, with no sense of relief. Only acceptance. “Of course I told the constables the Strong Man had been in the house. But I never dreamedHe seemed-I don’t know, apologetic about his size, afraid of bumping into anything. Go on, if you like. There’s no harm can be done. And maybe some good. Up the stairs then, and the second door on your right.”

“Toward the house next door,” Hamish observed.

Rutledge thanked her and started up, becoming aware of how little noise he made on the solid treads-a muffled step, a sound you’d miss if you weren’t listening for it.

When he’d reached the landing, he turned. Mrs. Wainer was still standing by the parlor doorway, unwilling to remember what lay at the top of the stairs. There was an expression of deep grief on her face. Then she walked away down the passage, as if turning her back on what he was about to do.

The second door to the right led into a large study, with a bank of long windows covered with heavy velvet draperies that shut out the light. Rutledge was reminded suddenly of what Monsignor Holston had said, that the room had spoken to him of evil. Whether what he sensed now was evil or not, he couldn’t say, but the dimly lit room seemed-not empty. Waiting.

Hamish said, “It isna’ the corpse, it’s been taken away. But the spirit…”

“Perhaps.” Rutledge hesitated, and then, shutting the study door behind him, crossed the carpet to pull the draperies open, watching the wooden rings move smoothly down the mahogany rod with the familiar click-clicks. Brightness poured into the room, and that odd sense of something present there was banished with the light.

He found that his feet were set in a scrubbed and faded portion of the carpet, where someone must have tried to remove the blood that had puddled from Father James’s head wound. An onerous duty for the grieving woman downstairs. Rutledge stepped away from it, then looked at it in relation to the windows.