Charles Todd - Watchers of Time

When Mrs. Nutley arrived, letting herself in quietly, he forced himself back to wakefulness. But it was hardly more than that. She clicked her tongue when she saw him. A motherly woman with a strong face and an awesome air of competence, she said, “If you know what’s best for you, you’ll get yourself in that spare bed over there and go back to sleep.”

But there was still too much to be done.

Blevins was working in his office when Rutledge walked through his door. He looked up with a sour expression and said, “I thought you’d be asleep by now. I wish to God I was.”

“If I look as weary as you do, we’re both a fine pair of sleepwalkers.”

“Matched set.” Blevins leaned back in his chair. “The doctor in Hurley tells me Walsh was probably kicked by the horse and died where he stood. The loose shoe fits rather roughly into the wound in his skull, even though it wasn’t the one that did the damage. The doctor’s not sure what the angle was, of course, when the kick was delivered. What matters was a luck of the strike. Delivered just exactly at the wrong place for any chance of survival. Death by misadventure.”

Rutledge said easily, “Any sign of other injuries? A fall-running into something in the dark?”

Blevins laughed. “You don’t give up, do you? London told me that, when I asked for you. All right, just for the hell of it, why should there be?”

“The searchers seemed to have had a rough night of it,” Rutledge answered, taking the other chair and sitting down. He hadn’t had breakfast, he remembered. Only the sandwiches that Mrs. Barnett had put up for him when he’d gone to find Priscilla Connaught. “Does Walsh have any family? Have you notified anyone that he’s dead?”

“There’s the scissor sharpener. I doubt he’d walk to the corner to help Walsh, now that he’s dead. What’s in it for him? With no real proof that he was the lookout while Walsh riffled the study, he’s home free.”

“There’s Iris Kenneth. She might know if Walsh had any family.”

“Yes. Well, do you want the task of going to London to fetch her? She’s not likely to come north on her own!”

“I suppose you’re right. Still-”

“If you’re on your way there,” Blevins said, watching Rutledge’s face, “you might do me the courtesy of calling on her yourself.”

After a moment, Rutledge made a last effort to break through the emotional barriers that Inspector Blevins had set up.

“Put aside your personal feelings about Walsh-and about the death of Father James. If you’d walked into the study of a stranger that morning, how would you have described the body lying by the window?”

“The same way. An intruder had struck hard and fast, out of fear of being recognized. Matthew Walsh won’t be giving us the answer to why he did it-but I don’t suppose, in the scheme of things, it makes much difference. He ran. That’s guilt.”

Rutledge said quietly, thinking it through, “The killer- Walsh, if you like-didn’t strike once, looking to buy time for an escape. He meant to kill.”

“Yes. It was deliberate. Makes me sick to think about it!”

“On the other hand, if there hadn’t been any money in the tin box in the desk-if it had been spent or given away by that time-how would you have decided on the motive for murder?”

Blevins said impatiently, “The same way.”

“No, you couldn’t have looked at it the same way! There was no money in the desk, nothing to draw a thief to the study. Nothing for Walsh or anyone like him to slip into the rectory to steal.”

“You’re setting up a scene that didn’t exist! Walsh couldn’t know that, could he? See it my way for once! Walsh was desperate-this was his last hope of finding the sum he needed to finish paying for that bloody cart. He may have killed in a fury when he discovered the box was empty!”

“If this had happened before the bazaar-” Rutledge began.

“All right! Let’s take your position and examine it. A dead man and no tin box would tell me there was another reason, a personal reason, to kill that priest. But I knew Father James too well-and in all your questioning, you still haven’t answered that one, either!”

Blevins, tired as he was, couldn’t make the leap of imagination. Hamish said, “You canna’ expect it from him. He was too close to the victim.”

Rutledge took a deep breath, thinking, Hamish is right.

“If Father James knew something that worried him- possibly involving a police matter-would he come to you with it?”

“Of course he would! I’d be the first person he’d turn to,” Blevins answered with a lift of pride.

But he hadn’t-and for the same reason: Father James, too, had known the Inspector’s limitations as a man and as a policeman.

Rutledge said, “I hear there’s a chance that Monsignor Holston will replace Father James until a suitable choice can be made. I’m driving to Norwich later. Shall I tell him that Walsh has died?”

“Suit yourself. I expect half the county has heard that by now. What’s taking you to Norwich?”

Rutledge smiled. “A personal matter. By the way- who’ll be given the reward that Lord Sedgwick put up?”

“Not the police,” Blevins said wryly. “And Lord Sedgwick ought to make that decision himself.”

“I expect he will.” Rutledge rose from his chair. “Have you by any chance seen Miss Trent? I’d like to speak to her before I leave for Norwich.”

“She went out last night, found herself badly frightened in the woods north of the church, and spent what was left of it at the vicarage. I stopped there to tell the Vicar that Walsh had been found. He thought she was still asleep.”

“What frightened her?”

“God knows. An owl probably, or a badger. Women have no business out in the middle of the night on their own.”

“You’ve heard, I’m sure, that Priscilla Connaught was out looking for Walsh? Ran her car into a ditch and was lucky to survive with only a concussion.”

“Yes, well, rather proves my point, doesn’t it?”

Rutledge reached across the desk to shake Blevins’s hand. “If you’d like a last piece of advice, I’d wire Iris Kenneth if I were you. Save the ratepayers from burying Walsh in a pauper’s grave!”

“I might, at that.” He thought about it. “Yes, I will!”

Rutledge left, glad to step out into the sunshine. It had a grayness to it now that forecast rain later, as the doctor had suggested. After the early morning, it had never been a clear day. But even in this light the marshes seemed rich with color, and the wind moved through the grasses like a wraith.

The walk from the police station to the vicarage seemed to stretch before Rutledge like the Great Wall of China, miles upon miles to travel on foot. His body rebelled at the thought. Hamish ridiculed him for his weakness.

Ignoring his tormentor, he went back to the hotel and started the car.

MR. SIMS OPENED THE VICARAGE DOOR warily, peering out at Rutledge shrouded in the heavy shadows cast by the trees along the drive.

“What brings you here? Half the town is sound asleep after the long night. I understand Walsh has been found, and is dead.”

“Yes, that’s true. On both counts.” Rutledge said it pleasantly. “I came to ask if Miss Trent is awake.”

Sims said, “I expect she’s still asleep. But if you care to leave her a message?”

“Would you mind looking in on her? It’s rather urgent.” His voice was still quite pleasant, but the edge of command had crept into its timbre.

Sims was on the point of arguing when a door opened at the top of the stairs. May Trent stood there above them in a dressing gown far too large for her, her hair unbound and hanging in a dark stream down her back. She didn’t look as if she’d been asleep. The smudges under her eyes were as deep as Rutledge’s own.