Watchers Of Time Part 21

"Father James didn't leave it to you," Rutledge said finally. "But he did wish someone else to have it."

The impact of the Londoner's words left Sims stunned. "Not to me me? Merciful G.o.d!" He tried to absorb that, and then asked, "If not to me-then to whom?" When Rutledge didn't answer immediately, Sims continued. "Look, you've got to tell me! That photograph could do unimaginable harm."

Rutledge said, "If that's true-that a dead woman's photograph could do such harm-I can't imagine that Father James would have kept it, much less pa.s.sed it on. He wasn't, from all I've learned about him, either cruel or callous."

"But don't you see? It was given to me me. Out of simple fondness-a gesture that was meant in all innocence. That's the trouble, it could be misconstrued-interpreted in another light. It would sully her memory, to no purpose. If you won't tell me, I'll go to Gifford myself-"

Relenting, and at the same time testing the waters, Rutledge answered, "I can't tell you. But if it matters, this was bequeathed to a woman, not a man."

Sims leaned back in his chair, a man emptied of all feelings. "Yes, that makes a kind of sense. Thank G.o.d!" And then he repeated silently, Thank G.o.d!, Thank G.o.d!, his lips moving without his knowledge, as if they uttered a prayer. his lips moving without his knowledge, as if they uttered a prayer.

Hamish's first question came when the motorcar was turning through the vicarage gates into Trinity Lane. "He didna' ask you who the woman was. He didna' care."

"I think he cared-but he felt it was right-just-that she should have it."

"Which means he already kens the name of the woman."

"Or-thinks he does. Interesting, isn't it?"

Mrs. Barnett was crossing the lobby when Rutledge came into the hotel. He stopped her, and left a message for May Trent to give him a time and place where they could meet. He included the words Official Business.

She was still out, Mrs. Barnett informed him as she took the folded sheet of notepaper and put it safely in the drawer of the reception desk. And might be staying the night with her friends.

He didn't think that was likely. May Trent was avoiding him.

Rutledge went over the cuttings again, looking for any connection between May Trent and any other pa.s.senger on the ship and for anyone with a name beginning with V.

But he found no guidance in the reports of the sinking, the survivors, the missing, or the dead. Nothing that leaped out at him as the answer he sought.

He was on his way down the stairs to put in a call to the Yard, to ask Sergeant Gibson-who had an absolute gift for ferreting out information-to look into the shipping files at Lloyds and the White Star Line for women pa.s.sengers whose Christian name began with a V. The first words out of the crusty old Sergeant's mouth were likely to be "And are there any other miracles, sir, that you might require of me?"

Instead he met Mrs. Barnett coming up to find him. "There's a telephone call from the Yard, Inspector. It's urgent."

He thanked her and followed her back to the narrow little office. "Rutledge here," he said into the phone.

Sergeant Wilkerson's voice came down the line with the force of a foghorn. "That you, sir? I've got a bit of bad news. Or it might be good news, depending on one's point of view!"

"What is it, Sergeant?"

"That Iris Kenneth we found dead in the river, sir. Well, it isn't her after all. Iris Kenneth just walked in her landlady's front door and like to've given the old biddy apoplexy on the spot. Thought she'd seen a ghost, she did. But it was a very angry ghost, who was soon threatening to have her up for theft for disposing of her personal property. Which the landlady, if you recall, sir, had already sold."

"Are you quite sure," Rutledge said, "that the woman is truly Iris Kenneth? This time?"

"Oh, yes, sir. There was quite a row, and the local station sent a pair of constables along to see what it was about. All the roomers living there swear that it's Iris, but of course Mrs. Rollings is fit to be tied, claiming she she never clapped eyes on this woman in her life! Well, stands to reason," he added, suppressing a gleeful note in his voice. "She's likely to be taken up on charges." never clapped eyes on this woman in her life! Well, stands to reason," he added, suppressing a gleeful note in his voice. "She's likely to be taken up on charges."

Rutledge thought, It must have been quite an entertaining scene. It must have been quite an entertaining scene. "Where has Iris been, did she tell you?" "Where has Iris been, did she tell you?"

"By the time I arrived, there was some semblance of peace, and she confessed she's been staying with friends in Cardiff, hoping for a part in some production there. In my opinion, she was short of money and ruralizing until something came up. At any rate, I took the liberty of contacting the Cardiff police, and they just sent word she's telling the truth."

If she was Iris Kenneth-who was the woman in the river? And what did the corpse have to do with Matthew Walsh?

Hamish answered him. "Nothing at all."

Rutledge asked Wilkerson if he'd questioned Iris Kenneth about Walsh.

"That I did, sir! And she tells me he's a devious b.a.s.t.a.r.d who would strangle his own mother." Wilkerson's laughter boomed down the line, nearly deafening Rutledge. "She hasn't had any decent work since he let her go, and if she could point to him being Jack the Ripper, she'd be happy to do it. It's anger talking, in my view. Revenge. She doesn't sound afraid of him, only furious with him. I asked her if he'd threatened her or hurt her in any way- showing his violent nature, so to speak. She swore he never touched her-she'd had a little knife to use on him if he had-but he's a brute and a n.i.g.g.ardly b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and selfish to boot."

A woman scorned.

"If you learn anything about the other woman, let me know."

"She's gone into a pauper's grave," Wilkerson replied. "There won't be any more interest in that one. More's the pity, but still, she won't be the last. If something does come up, I'll make sure you hear of it."

Rutledge asked for Sergeant Gibson, but was told that he was giving evidence in court for the next two days.

Blevins took Rutledge's news with a shrug. "We're not making much headway, ourselves. An old Gypsy who scratches his living sharpening scissors and tinkering is not likely to hold the police in high regard. They've moved him along too many times, and treated him like a pariah. He won't forgive that. And he'll lie like a sailor to get his own back! It won't matter to him whether Matthew Walsh killed a priest or not."

"Has this scissor sharpener-Bolton-ever been charged by the police? Other than rousting him as a public nuisance?"

"Nothing that could be proved against him." In frustration Blevins added, "They're worthless, that lot." Deserved or not, it was the general view of Gypsies: thieves and liars and heathen, filthy and secretive vagabonds. "Inspector Arnold, who first interviewed this man, is of the opinion that he's probably up to his neck in this, which means he'll stay with his story for his own sake, not Walsh's."

Rutledge said nothing.

Blevins smiled ruefully. "Well, I'm glad of course for Iris Kenneth's sake that she's alive and safe, but it would have helped our case against Walsh if we could have charged him with her murder as well. Your Sergeant Wilkerson is sure, is he?"

"The other roomers in that boardinghouse had no reason to lie."

"No." He moved papers around on his desk and then said, "It has to be Walsh! There's no one else it could have been." His eyes, looking up suddenly, dared Rutledge to refute it.

"He has the best motive for murder that we've found so far," Rutledge answered neutrally. "That has to count for something. Will you tell Walsh, or shall I? That Iris Kenneth is alive?"

"I'll tell him." There was resignation in Blevins's voice. "We can't charge him for the real drowning victim's death, can we?" It wasn't meant to be answered; it was no more than a reflection of his mood.

"Ever hear Father James speak of an interest in ships?"

"Ships? He was interested in the small boats around here. Handled the oars like a man used to the water. We've been out fishing a time or two, but he never said anything to me about ships. Why?"

"I wondered, that's all. I found some cuttings among his papers. They had to do with t.i.tanic t.i.tanic sinking." sinking."

"I'm not surprised. Shocking, the loss of life. We all felt it."

"Yes." Rutledge let the silence lengthen before adding, "And Lusitania Lusitania. Did he ever speak of her?"

"I'm sure he was horrified, everyone was. What's this in aid of?"

"I don't know," Rutledge answered. "At the moment, very little."

Blevins grinned without humor. "You're reaching, man!"

At the dinner hour Rutledge found his place at the only table set. Mrs. Barnett said, "I'm afraid it's rather lonely tonight. Thursdays often are."

Later, as she brought his main course, she informed him, "I've had no word from Miss Trent. Were you expecting her to join you for dinner?"

"No. Yes. I've some questions to ask her."

Her gaze sharpened. "Oh?"

Rutledge smiled. "I wanted to ask her about a photograph I found. I thought it might be of interest to her."

"I can't imagine how. She isn't local. Perhaps I could help you?"

"It's in my room. I'll bring it down after dinner-" The front door opened, and someone came into the lobby. Both Rutledge and Mrs. Barnett looked up.

It was May Trent.

She found them staring at her, and it seemed to startle her, but she said nothing, going directly to the stairs and starting up them. Leaving his meal to follow her, Rutledge caught up with her on the landing.

"I need to speak to you," he said.

"I'm tired-"

"No, I don't want excuses. If you don't mind coming to my room, it will take no more than five minutes." When she seemed on the point of arguing, Rutledge said, "My food is getting cold. Will you come with me or not?"

She looked back down the stairs, as if hoping to see Mrs. Barnett staring up at them. But she found no help there. The innkeeper was in the kitchens.

"All right. Five minutes."

She went ahead of him, and he opened the door of his room for her, leaving it standing wide. There was no one to overhear their conversation.

May Trent looked about her with interest, as if mentally comparing his accommodations with her own.

He went to the desk drawer, and on a sudden whim, took out the photograph first.

Handing it to her, Rutledge said, "Can you identify this woman?"

It was a natural question. He had no intention of upsetting her and was completely unprepared for her reaction. Her face crumpled, as if she was on the verge of tears. But none came. Her eyes were dry and furious.

Jerking the photograph from his hand, she turned it on its face and dropped it on the bed, as if it had burned her fingers. "No. I won't talk to you! I won't!" She moved to go, and he stopped her, his hand on her arm. "Let go of me!" she cried, color flaring in her face.

"You can talk to me here, or you can talk to me at the police station," he said angrily. "Your choice!"

"I'm leaving Osterley. I've only come to pack my bags and go. My friends are waiting-"

"They've gone to London," he told her, guessing. "And I can put you under arrest if I have to, to keep you here. There's an empty cell next to Walsh."

She rounded on him, anguish in her eyes. "I won't talk about it, do you hear! I couldn't tell you anything if I had to, don't you understand? I don't know know anything! anything! I can't I can't remember anything! remember anything!"

Hamish cautioned, "Someone is coming."

There was the sound of someone walking down the pa.s.sage, a soft footfall. It was Mrs. Barnett. She stopped in the doorway, horrified by the sight of Rutledge clutching May Trent's arm as she tried to fight free of his grip.

"Inspector Rutledge!" Mrs. Barnett exclaimed, moving toward them.

He looked up, speaking with the cold air of command that had served him on the battlefield when his mind had been too tired and too worn to think. "Mrs. Barnett. Sit down. Now."

She opened her mouth, stared at them, and sat.

"There's a photograph on the bed. The one I spoke of earlier." He kept his grip on May Trent's arm as he spoke. The skin was warm through the cloth of the sweater she was wearing over her long skirt. "Pick it up, and tell me if you will, whether you recognize the woman in it."

She reached for it, turning it over, frowning at the face looking back at her. "I think-well, I know it's a photograph of Virginia Sedgwick. Lord Sedgwick's late daughter-in-law."

May Trent had begun to cry, her face averted, half shielded by her shoulder.

"She was the wife of his elder son? Arthur?"

"Yes. That's right. But why should you be hara.s.sing Miss Trent with it? She never even met this woman, as far as I know!"

"How did Virginia Sedgwick die?"

"She disappeared. No one knew where she had gone. It was whispered that she'd run away from her husband, but I know that couldn't have been true! She just wasn't the sort."

Hamish said, "It's been said of many a wife. That she wasna' the sort. But who can be certain?"

"I don't understand, what is this about?" Mrs. Barnett was still wearing her ap.r.o.n, and she wiped a smudge from the gla.s.s over the photograph. "Please, will you not let Miss Trent go?"

"Did her husband ever find Mrs. Sedgwick?"

"No. That is o say, not alive. She went down on that ship, you see. t.i.tanic. t.i.tanic. She wasn't using her married name, and no one thought to look under any other, until Lord Sedgwick hired someone to do what the police apparently couldn't-" She stopped, biting her lip in embarra.s.sment. She wasn't using her married name, and no one thought to look under any other, until Lord Sedgwick hired someone to do what the police apparently couldn't-" She stopped, biting her lip in embarra.s.sment.

"How do you know all this?" he asked.

"My husband told me-he'd met Edwin on the train, coming back from London. Edwin was quite upset. He said his father and Arthur had gone to Ireland to bring back the body."

"I'd read that most of the dead were buried in unmarked graves?"

"So they were. But Lord Sedgwick was convinced he could find her. For Arthur's sake. And he must have been successful; I heard there was a service in the little church on the Sedgwick estate. The Queen sent flowers, I was told."

Rutledge released May Trent.

Hamish rasped, "Ask her-!"

He said to her, "Does the Vicar know you were on t.i.tanic t.i.tanic ? That you may have met Virginia Sedgwick, and seen her drown? Or that Father James was trying to awaken your memories?" ? That you may have met Virginia Sedgwick, and seen her drown? Or that Father James was trying to awaken your memories?"

"No! I have never told anyone here! Father James-he had clippings-he'd seen my name among the survivors, and he wanted-" She stopped, unable to go on.

"And you can't remember what happened the night of the sinking."

She shook her head, her dark hair spilling over her face, hiding it.