Charles Todd - Watchers of Time

Hamish’s last salvo was telling.

“They willna’ like it in London.”

“No. But we’re a long way from London.” Rutledge shut out the voice in his aching head and tried to concentrate on the busy road south.

It was close to teatime when Rutledge pulled the motorcar into a small space between a cart full of cabbages and the deep hole that still reeked like a cesspool.

He got out, stretched aching shoulders, and went around the boot to open the door for May Trent. But the Vicar was already there before him, saying, “Why didn’t you tell us that it was Monsignor Holston you were coming to see!” His voice was cross. “There was no need to be so damned mysterious!”

He and May Trent stood waiting by the road while Rutledge went to knock on the door of the rectory.

Bryony opened it, beamed at Rutledge, and asked after greeting him, “Will you be staying for tea? I’ve got such a lovely bit of French cake for Himself, and-” She broke off as she saw the two people behind him, looking up at her from the street. “Ah, this’ll be business, then!”

“I still wouldn’t say no to tea,” Rutledge assured her, smiling. On their way south, by mutual agreement, the three travelers had agreed not to stop for lunch.

May Trent closed her eyes, as if shutting out the watery sun that had been threatening rain for two hours or more. Bryony saw it, and called to her, “Come inside, madam, and let me take you upstairs for a bit. You look like you could do with a rest.”

She only smiled and shook her head. “No. But thank you!”

They were ushered into the study, where Monsignor Holston looked up from his book in surprise.

“I didn’t remember visitors were expected!” he said to Bryony, setting the cat, Bruce, on the floor.

“The Inspector has come again, Monsignor, and brought guests with him.” She quietly closed the door as he greeted Rutledge warmly. Then he smiled at the Vicar and shook his hand, before the introduction to Miss Trent was made. Their host seated her with courtesy and said, “Father James spoke to me a number of times about the manuscript you’re completing. It’s quite an undertaking. If I may be of any assistance, you need only ask. Norfolk has a good deal of material to draw from.”

“As I’ve discovered!” She thanked him, managing to smile. “Memorials, even so, are often an excuse to go on mourning. He tried to tell me that as well.”

“I expect time will take care of that, too.”

Rutledge said, “We’re here about Father James, as it happens. Walsh is dead. He-died-last night, trying to escape.”

“Killed?” Holston asked. “By the police?”

“He was kicked by a horse. At least that’s what the evidence suggests. There’ll be an official inquiry, as a matter of course.”

“God rest his soul!”

Sims said, “Altogether, it was a harrowing night for everyone.”

“Walsh appeared to have the best motive,” Rutledge said. “There was a certain amount of evidence against him, but not all of it was conclusive-or satisfactory. On the other hand, I’ve been exploring Father James’s movements during the fortnight between the bazaar and his death.” His eyes turned toward Holston. “And I need to learn from you, Monsignor, what Father James told you about the Confession of Herbert Baker.”

Completely unprepared for the question, Holston said, “I couldn’t, even if I-”

“I’m not asking for a revelation of Herbert Baker’s last words. What I want to know is what Father James told you about this man.”

“He never spoke to me about Baker or his family-”

“I’m sure that’s true. But he came here one day shortly before he died and told you that he had just been given information that had upset him, and that the person who had passed on this information had had no idea of its importance to Father James personally.”

It was an arrow shot into the air. But the sudden tightness of Monsignor Holston’s face told Rutledge that it had come very close to its mark. “No, it wasn’t that-”

“Did he also tell you that he was helpless to do anything about it?” Rutledge kept his voice at a conversational level, as if he was continuing to confirm knowledge he already possessed.

“There was nothing he could -” Monsignor Holston stopped. Then he said, “Look, he didn’t confide in me. Or confess to me. He didn’t tell me the circumstances. But I could see he’d come for comfort-from a friend, not a fellow priest.”

“How could you see that?”

“He walked in that door and paced the floor for over an hour. I didn’t ask him why-we’ve all been through that kind of personal despair. To tell you the truth, there was one family in particular that he was deeply concerned about. I thought his visit had to do with them. When he sat down in that chair, where you’re sitting now, I made some comment to that effect. He raised his head and looked at me. ‘No, they’re doing well enough just now.’ Then he added simply, ‘God works in mysterious ways. I’ve been given an answer to a question that has troubled me for years. But I can’t make use of it to set things right. It came unexpectedly, and in such a way that my choices are very limited.’ He put his face in his hands and I could see that he was under a great strain. I asked, ‘Would it help to speak to the Bishop?’ and he said, ‘That door is shut, but there may be another that will open.’ And so I went back to the report I was writing, to give him a little space. Half an hour later he was gone, and that was the end of it.”

“But you guessed-did you not-what he was referring to.”

“Not then.”

Rutledge waited.

Monsignor Holston said, “It wasn’t until the funeral Mass for Father James that I first heard the name Baker.”

“During the service?” Rutledge was surprised.

“Actually, a young woman came up to me afterward to say that she didn’t know Father James well, but that she had attended the Mass from a sense of duty. He’d given her father comfort as he lay dying, even though Herbert Baker wasn’t a Catholic. She felt she was returning a kindness, in her own fashion. She was quite shy, stammering out the story, but I thanked her for coming and told her that Father James would have appreciated her thoughtfulness. And it was true. Later on I asked Sims, here, about her. Dr. Stephenson overheard and added that Father James had come in to the surgery to inquire about Bakerwhether his mind was clear at the end. His point was that Father James had been a conscientious priest, but I read more into the conversation than Stephenson realized. Because I knew the one other bit of information that mattered.”

“That Herbert Baker had been coachman-and sometimes chauffeur-to Lord Sedgwick’s family,” Rutledge said.

“Everyone in Osterley could have told you that, if you’d asked. No, that it was Herbert Baker who drove Virginia Sedgwick to King’s Lynn, the day she disappeared. At her particular request.”

The Vicar, listening apprehensively, sat back with a sigh. But Monsignor Holston had no more to say.

Rutledge turned to May Trent. She had kept her composure, a woman with hidden strengths, learned from her personal suffering. He chose a different course with her.

“The other door Father James mentioned-it was you. He wanted to know if Mrs. Sedgwick had been on board ship, if you’d actually seen her, spoken with her. If you had, then he no longer had to rely on Baker’s confession, whatever it was, to fill in the details of Mrs. Sedgwick’s disappearance.”

“No, it wasn’t like that! He was trying to help me. To stop the nightmares. He said.” Her voice was odd, a tremor behind it. She seemed on the point of adding more, but stopped.

“And when you refused to remember, the priest went to his solicitor and added a codicil to his Will. Father James left you a photograph of Virginia Sedgwick”-there was a sharp intake of breath from the listening Vicar-“but not the cuttings that he’d collected so painstakingly. He wanted only your own memories, and he wished you the courage to write down what had happened-to you and to her. Why would he have believed so strongly that you-of all the survivors-had met her on shipboard?”