Charles Todd - Watchers of Time

Sims said, “That’s why we didn’t tell you, May Trent and I. I’ve never known Peter to lie to me, but he was very cold and hungry, walking that far, and he might have made up a story in exchange for his breakfast. It seemed-a little less like begging, I suppose.”

Rutledge got up and helped himself to the bacon and a slice of burned toast. Sims said, “There are boiled eggs in that covered dish.”

Rutledge lifted the lid and set an egg on his plate, cracking it and spooning out the yolk. He said, “What else has Henderson seen, wandering around in the dark?”

Sims buttered his own slice, frowning at the burnt taste. “He seldom talks about his life-or what he’s witnessed. I think the only reason he told me about his encounter with Walsh was his need for food and a little warmth.”

“Yes, it may be true.” Rutledge added pensively, “I should have expected that between you, you and Father James could have found work for Henderson-doing the heavier labor for old Tom Randal, for instance. And Mrs. Barnett must need someone to help with upkeep at the hotel. It’s a barn of a place for a woman on her own.”

“She doesn’t have the custom to hire anyone else, even for a pittance with room and board. Tom Randal refuses to consider help on the farm. No one else in Osterley needs Henderson. Too many people are out of work, that’s the trouble-the shopkeepers and farms can find help two a penny without turning to a man with Peter’s history. Lord Sedgwick hired him until Dick, Herbert Baker’s younger son, was fit again for light duties. The house in Yorkshire is closed while Arthur Sedgwick recovers from his own injuries-if he’s not in hospital, he’s here in Norfolk or in London. Edwin lives in London most of the year. I’ve been corresponding with a woman in Hunstanton who may take Henderson on. She and her husband own a small pub, and need an extra man. But he’s not local, you see-and she’s wary of that.” Sims said tentatively, “What are you going to do about Virginia Sedgwick? I don’t quite see Inspector Blevins rushing to find out the truth, most particularly if it involves the Sedgwick family. He won’t like that!”

“He’s already seen to it that most of Osterley believes that Walsh has paid for what he did-that justice has been served. And he has to live here. I can’t fault him for trying to put as good a face on the situation as he can.” Rutledge grimaced. “The most direct course of action would be going to Lord Sedgwick himself.”

“Good God, man, you can’t be serious?” Sims’s face was the picture of dismay. “I agreed-we all agreed-that it was worthwhile speaking to Blevins. Do you realize how powerful Sedgwick is? You’ll sink your own career, and possibly mine as well!”

Rutledge considered him. “You still don’t wish to know what’s become of Virginia Sedgwick, do you? But Sedgwick’s son may well have committed murder, and I think it’s important to give him an opportunity to refute such a charge. He’ll be a worse enemy if half the town hears before he does.” He smiled. “Thank you for breakfastand a night’s sleep. I needed both rather badly.”

As he went to find his coat, Sims followed him to the hall. “I’m grateful for what you’re trying to do. It’s just- I’m not sure that I want to stop thinking about her being alive. I-it’s given me a kind of hope…” He shrugged, as if embarrassed by the admission. “It’s hard to explain.”

But Rutledge understood what he was trying to say. He himself had never looked over his own shoulder to find out once and for all if Hamish was there. He didn’t want to know-he didn’t want to see what was there. And as long as he didn’t, he was safe.

As he buttoned his coat against the rain, he said, “What if, against all expectations, we should find that Virginia Sedgwick left her husband of her own accord and is happily settled in a cottage in Ireland, living a life she much prefers to her role as Arthur’s wife. Would he welcome her back, do you think?”

“I-don’t know. It would depend on the scandal, to a large extent.” Sims looked out at the rain and the wet trees overhanging the drive. “The Sedgwicks came from trade- they aren’t able to weather the scandals that established families can. They’ve climbed the social ladder as high as possible in three generations. But they aren’t at the top. They’ve given money generously where it would do the most good. Full acceptance, marrying into the best families, eludes them. Arthur might have, if he hadn’t foolishly fallen in love with a cousin. He might still, as a widower. I’m not sure he wouldn’t prefer to learn that she’s dead.”

“Father James pursued her disappearance with unexpected fervor.”

“No, not if you’d known him. He had a great capacity for caring. He told me once that every time he looked out at his congregation, he knew that he was not the man they believed him to be. It drove him to strive for a level of service that few of us can ever hope to emulate.”

As Rutledge thanked Sims again and walked out into the rain, Hamish said, “Aye, Priscilla Connaught’s shadow fell across the priest’s pulpit every time he stepped into it.”

“A pity he never told her,” Rutledge answered silently.

HAMISH SAID, AS RUTLEDGE CLIMBED BEHIND the wheel, “If it wasna’ Walsh who killed the priest, you’re up against a canny murderer. He kens how to cover his tracks.”

“No loose ends to stumble over,” Rutledge agreed. “When Blevins allowed himself to be blinded by anger, he tied his own hands. He went looking for a monster.” Rutledge turned out of the vicarage gates. “And he found himself one.”

Hamish answered, “It willna’ be to your credit if you fail.”

“I won’t fail,” Rutledge answered grimly. “Sedgwick should have destroyed that Egyptian bas-relief instead of moving it out to the gardens. It gave me the key to Father James’s actions-a Watcher. After that, it was only a matter of time before the rest made sense.”

A milk wagon lumbered by on the main road. In the rain the backs of the horses were burnished copper.

Rutledge braked. “In this weather-”

He reversed the motorcar, backing as far as the gate to Holy Trinity. The grass under his feet as he crossed the churchyard to the north porch door was heavy with rain, and his shoulders were soaked by the time he reached the shelter of the church door. Opening it, he brushed the water from his face before he stepped inside.

“Henderson? Inspector Rutledge. I’d like to speak with you, if you’re here.”

His voice echoed in the silence, almost an obscenity in the peace of the nave and the soft patter of rain against the stained glass. This morning, dark as it was, the colors were deeper and richer, but without life.

Rutledge waited.

Then he heard someone near the choir. “I’m here. Give me a minute.”

Peter Henderson, rising from a pew, tried to straighten his coat and brushed a hand over his hair before walking toward Rutledge. “What do you want?”

“Verification. That’s all. The Vicar tells me that you saw Walsh the night he came in here to hammer off his chains.”

“Yes.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you follow him, when he left?”

“I knew who he was. I’d seen him at the fair at St. Anne’s. I thought it best.”

“Where did he go?”

“Up the lane, into that copse of trees. Past the houses. He was bearing west, and south. It’s the direction I’d have taken, in his shoes. It’s mostly pasturage, beyond the houses, and easy walking.”

“He never turned east, while you were following him?”

“No. Why should he? It would be going into a box.”