Charles Todd - Watchers of Time

“Well, of course, he must have done! He escaped, didn’t he? Inspector Blevins was here no more than half an hour ago, and saying that he’d spoken to the Chief Constable in Norwich. Everyone’s relieved that the police have done their best. Even though there’s to be no trial.”

Looking around her once more, she waited expectantly for his order.

The death of Walsh, he thought, had been papered over. Justice had been served. Perhaps it was true. He was beyond caring. He ordered an ale and a serving of the stew, and Betsy brought him a covered dish of warmed bread from this morning’s baking and a slab of butter.

Hamish said, “Ye ken, you’ll no’ make any headway against what Blevins has been saying. And they’re eager to believe him. There’s the sticking point. It was no’ one of his friends or neighbors who killed the priest, and no’ one of theirs. That’s what matters. They can go to bed this night and no’ be worried about being murdered in their sleep.”

There was an outburst of laughter from a group by the window. Every head turned to look. Rutledge could see the general mood was relief, and it bordered on the hysterical.

Hamish was right. Order had been restored, their own sturdy faith that no one from Osterley could be guilty of such a heinous crime had been upheld. But a stubborn refusal to go against his own better judgment made Rutledge argue with his nemesis.

“The priest kept working toward a solution to Virginia Sedgwick’s disappearance. The story about two priests at one deathbed was bound to get out, and someone began to worry. I don’t think Father James expected to be attacked. Perhaps his visit to Norwich was the last straw. Even the appearance of having confided in his fellow clergymen would have aroused unwelcome suspicion.”

“Aye, that’s possible. But it doesna’ signify! Truth is no more than what people want to believe.”

Rutledge answered, “Or what they fear.”

“And ye’re as gullible as any man. You canna’ face the question about yon Englishwoman’s guilt!”

“I haven’t forgotten May Trent. But if she killed Father James, there won’t be another victim. If it was one of the Sedgwicks, what’s to stop the murderer from biding his time until it’s safe to kill again? He may already be suspicious of Sims-Holston-or even Miss Trent. Where is my duty toward them?”

“Aye, duty, that’s all verra’ fine. Ye did your duty in France, too. And I’m dead for it!”

FINISHING HIS MEAL AS QUICKLY AS he could, Rutledge paid his bill and then walked toward the hotel.

His fatigue had passed the need for sleep. As he had so many times at the Front, he’d ignored it and pushed his body and his mind to their limits-and then pushed both beyond that.

Retrieving his motorcar, he drove to the police station. There, he asked the sleepy constable on duty how to find two people, and left word for Blevins requesting that someone be sent around to speak to the old farmer in the morning.

The constable grimaced. “A year or two back, a lorry hit one of his piglets, out on the road. Odd place for a piglet to be wandering, you’d think, and the Inspector was of the opinion the sow had rolled over on it. But Randal swore it was a lorry. It was three months before we could satisfy him!”

“He has a better claim this time,” Rutledge warned, and left.

Dr. Stephenson lived on the main road, toward Hunstanton, in a well-kept three-story house that backed up to the marshes. Rutledge turned into the yard, where a gate led into the flint-walled garden with its flagstone walk up to the door. A black spaniel, waiting on the step to be let in again, greeted him effusively, trying to lick his hand. When the housekeeper answered the knocker’s dull thunk, the little dog darted past her crisp skirts and disappeared into the hall beyond.

The middle-aged woman, regarding Rutledge with unconcealed interest, as if his reputation had preceded him, warned him that he had interrupted the doctor at his dinner. Stephenson himself, coming out to speak to Rutledge, told him to make his call brief.

“It’s brief enough. Tom Randal was bruised in a fall from his horse. It might be best to find out if he’s more seriously hurt. I shouldn’t be surprised if he’ll be more grateful than he’ll care to admit. By tomorrow morning, he’ll be stiff as a board.”

“I’ve been trying to persuade him to hire a couple to cook for him and help with the farm. He may listen now, but he’s as independent and stubborn as they come.” Stephenson, his serviette in his hand, sighed. “All right, yes, as soon as I’ve finished my dinner. And I’ll take someone along who can stay the night and see that he has a decent breakfast in the morning. Was it Randal that Priscilla Connaught thought she’d killed?”

“I have every reason to believe it is. Tom Randal is damned lucky to be alive. She was in no state to think clearly about what she was trying to do.”

“And whose fault is that?” Hamish asked in condemnation.

Rutledge ignored his voice. “How is she?”

“I’ve kept her sedated. Mrs. Nutley is staying the night with her.”

“I’ll look in there on my way.”

“Do you have any idea how tired you are? You’re slurring your words, man, you ought to be in your bed. Or I’ll have a new patient on my hands!”

“Good advice. I’ll take it shortly.”

Rutledge said good night and strode down the dark path to the road. As he cranked the engine, his chest protested in fiery wires spreading deep.

Ignoring that, too, Rutledge drove next to Priscilla Connaught’s house. He was surprised to find that she was awake, drinking a mutton broth that Mrs. Nutley had made.

The nurse had explained to Rutledge on their way up the stairs, “An empty stomach sees nothing good. I always feed my patients before the next dose of medicines.”

Priscilla, wearing a very fetching lavender dressing gown, smiled at him as he walked through the door, but obediently drank most of the broth before saying, “You’re here to arrest me.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, but her expression bleak behind the smile. “I’d warned Mrs. Nutley the police would come for me soon.”

“No.” He pulled a chair to the bed and sat down, wondering if he’d be able to get out of it again. “The man you thought you killed is alive, though bruised and bloody. And furious. He must have gone through a hedge headfirst. Still, I’d accept that as very good news if I were you. Nor was it Walsh. Again, good news from your perspective.”

“Dear God!” She set the bowl on her tray and stared at him. “Oh, gentle God!”

“There’s nothing you can do about Mr. Randal tonight. Except to sleep and regain your good sense.”

She said faintly, “You look like a dead man yourself.”

“Yes, I rather feel like one.” He smiled. “Don’t you think it’s time you told me what lay between you and Father James?”

Biting her lip, she turned away. “I told you once before. It doesn’t have anything to do with his death. Only with mine.”

“What did he ask you to do? What ruined your life?” he pressed her.

It was unfair to force her in her present state-as Hamish was pointing out-but he was afraid that when she regained her strength, she would be more than a match for the police.

She glanced at Mrs. Nutley. “I’m half drunk with whatever it is she’s made me swallow. I can’t keep my mind clear!”

He could see it in the pupils of her eyes. Mrs. Nutley, her hands folded in her apron, was unruffled. “It’s only what the doctor instructed me to give her.”

“I understand.” To the patient he added, “Would you like Mrs. Nutley to leave the room? I’m sure she’ll be glad to give us a moment.”