Charles Todd - Watchers of Time

Sims said, “He’d never harm her!”

“But would Arthur Sedgwick feel the same way?”

The argument had ended there.

It was crowded in the car, and Hamish, in the rear seat with the two men, was restless and not in the best of moods.

Rutledge drove like an automaton, beyond exhaustion. May Trent sat in the seat beside him, head bowed, lost in her own thoughts. Once she turned to him and asked, “If Virginia Sedgwick was-simple-how did she manage to elude Baker, find her way to London, and arrange to sail on the next ship leaving for America?”

Sims answered, leaning forward with one hand on the back of her seat. “It’s what worried Father James. Why he feared she might be dead. God knows, Arthur received plenty of sympathy. He could have married again any time, an eligible young widower with more money than he knew what to do with, and no children to share in it? But he’d been burned once. He stayed clear of any entanglements.”

“And what did you think?” Rutledge asked him.

There was a long silence. “I thought perhaps Edwin Sedgwick had engineered her flight. I was jealous. I had wanted her to turn to me. I wanted to be the shining knight on the white horse who rescued her. I sat there alone in the vicarage and told myself that she’d been more clever than I knew. And I asked myself what she’d given Edwin in return. I’m not very proud of it. But it’s the truth.”

Monsignor Holston added unexpectedly, “She’s never been declared dead, you know. It was all kept very quiet. Father James wrote to her family in America. They swore Virginia hadn’t come home. They’d agreed with Lord Sedgwick’s decision to hire people to look for her and were satisfied that it was very possible she had been lost at sea. But Father James was convinced early on that if she had arrived safely, they would have sent her back.”

Hamish added, “It doesna’ seem that her ain family cares o’wer much what happened. They were eager enough to palm her off on an unsuspecting suitor.”

Sims swore. “To hurt her would be like hurting a child!”

May Trent said, “I shudder to think-it was so wild that night, when we went down. She’d have had no idea, what to do-” She stopped, waited until her voice was steady again, and went on. “But there had been a great deal of talk about the ship. She might have been attracted to the idea of sailing home on a famous ship. It would have made it easier for her to plan…”

“Then what did Herbert Baker Confess?” Rutledge asked. “If he’d only helped her to find a train to London, he didn’t share in the guilt of her death.”

Hamish said morosely, “We’re back to who paid for the care of his ill wife?”

Baker had even asked the Vicar if it was possible to love someone too much The question was, if one of the Sedgwicks had plotted Virginia’s disappearance, which one had it been? Arthur? Edwin? Or Lord Sedgwick himself?

Rutledge could feel the weariness that dragged at him like an anchor.

When the story got out that Herbert Baker had sent for a priest as well as the Vicar, had someone been terrified that the past would come back to life if the priest delved too deeply in it?

It was a strong enough motive for murder. If you’d killed before.

When they neared Osterley, a low mist hung over the marshes and the dips and twists of the road, the verges vanishing and reappearing like links in a chain. The dampness in the air sometimes produced a passing squall.

Rutledge stopped again at the Randal farm, unwilling to leave that loose end unraveled. Over the protests of his weary passengers, he got out and went to hammer on the door.

A ragged and battered figure came stomping around the corner of the house, yelling obscenities.

Rutledge stared.

Randal was bloody from a dozen cuts and scratches on his face and hands. Bruises marked his jawline and his left arm was held close to his body.

“The mare’s run into the ground, damn you, and that bitch done her best to kill me! I’m flipping lucky to be able to walk!” The farmer’s anger was a live thing, too long pent up. He kicked out at the corner of the house, then kicked again. “I’ll be seeing that solicitor in the town. I’ll be wanting somebody to pay for last night’s piece of work!”

Rutledge said, “Walsh is dead. The mare killed him.”

“Good on her! So the constable told me when I rode home by way of West Sherham. It serves the bastard right, and I hope he rots in hell where he belongs, the son-”

He looked up and saw the woman in the car in the drive. “Is that the bitch-” He started forward.

Rutledge in three long strides caught Tom Randal’s arm and held him back. “No. It’s someone else. The Vicar is with her.”

Randal peered at the motorcar. “That ’ee, Vicar?” he called.

“Yes, hello, Tom. What’s happened to you, man!”

Randal shook his head. “I was run down by a crazed woman in a motorcar, that’s what happened! Damned near killed me, she did, and of a purpose, too! Drove straight over me, after frightening the gelding half to death! It took me a quarter of an hour to catch him!”

He turned back to Rutledge, still furious. “I’m in no fit state to ride into Osterley. I’d take it as a favor if you’d see that a constable pays me a call out here. You owe me that. I’ve a claim to lay against the police and against that bitch. And I’ll be calling on the solicitor in the morning!”

“You ought to see Dr. Stephenson-”

“I’ll live. And you can tell that damned fool Blevins if he’d been better at his job, I wouldn’t have two horses in my stable that aren’t fit for work and won’t be for another week! Who’s going to help me do mine, I ask you!”

He turned and kicked savagely at the house a third time before stalking around the corner, muttering imprecations under his breath.

It was hard to feel sorry for the old curmudgeon, but Rutledge could sympathize. Tom Randal had been caught up in something over which he had no control, and Priscilla Connaught had shown him no mercy.

He walked back to the car. It would be just as well to send Dr. Stephenson out to make a call, he thought. When the fury and the sense of being wronged faded, Randal would be hurting rather badly.

At least, he thought, bending to turn the crank, Priscilla Connaught hadn’t killed the man.

Rutledge left the Vicar at his front door. Sims looked up at the dark shadows of his house, and turned, as if half afraid to go in. Then, with resolution, he unlocked the door and closed it behind him.

Holston, on the other hand, refused to spend the night in St. Anne’s rectory. “It’s bad enough by daylight, but with the mists swirling about it and the churchyard, I’d just as soon be in a well-lighted hotel!” he said wryly.

And so Rutledge pulled into the hotel yard and delivered the remainder of his passengers into the care of Mrs. Barnett, who welcomed them with the news that dinner could be warmed if they cared to dine.

Rutledge, standing in the dark outside the door, could feel the fatigue moving through him like a sluggish stream. But he turned and went instead to The Pelican for his meal.

Betsy, the barmaid, who came to ask what he’d have as Rutledge took the last seat in the crowded common room, was buoyant. “We’re doing a fine business tonight,” she informed him. “Everyone slept away the day, and now they’re eager for company and gossip.” She looked around her, pleased, then remembered what the cause of her good fortune was. Her mood shifted. “They tell me, though, that the man is dead. Still, it’s a swifter way to go than a hanging, any day!”

“What are people saying about Walsh? Do they believe he killed Father James?” Rutledge asked, curious.