Watchers Of Time Part 32

On the way back to the hotel, Rutledge spotted a solitary figure walking among the trees just back from the road. As the headlamps of his motorcar flashed across the pale, expressionless face, he recognized Peter Henderson.

He was about to stop and offer the man a lift, and then Mrs. Barnett's words made him drive on. "I leave him "I leave him alone now." alone now." Peter Henderson still had his pride. Peter Henderson still had his pride.

Rutledge was so tired his eyes were playing tricks on him as the motorcar's headlamps picked out the turning for Water Street, and he came close to swerving into the wall of a house.

He had done all he could this night, and he wanted his bed.

But as he neared the hotel, another thought struck him: May Trent and Monsignor Holston were staying there, too, and if they were waiting for him in the lounge, it would be at least another hour-or more-before he could walk away from them.

He pa.s.sed the hotel, drove along the quay, and turned toward the main road, considering even a pew in the church as a better alternative. There was something that May Trent had said about a blanket kept there for Peter Henderson. It would do. Soldiers were used to sleeping rough.

But as he went up Trinity Lane, Hamish pointed out another choice, one where his presence might be gratefully accepted. Gratefully enough that no questions would be asked.

The vicarage.

Rutledge had to fight the wheel to turn in through the vicarage gates, like a drunk whose reflexes were starting to fail. He drew up in front of the house, his hands shaking as he switched off the motor.

It was a minute or two before he could make it to the front door and lift the knocker.

After a long wait, the window above his head opened. The Vicar said, "Who is it?" in a flat voice.

"Rutledge. I don't want to go back to the hotel. But I need to sleep. If I keep you company tonight, will you trade me a bed and no conversation?"

There was laughter from over his head. Bitter and without humor.

"I haven't slept myself. All right, I'll let you in. Wait there."

Sims was still fully clothed when he unlocked the door and opened it to Rutledge. He smelled of whiskey. "I'm beginning to think about posting a sign: Rooms For Let," he said. "You look like h.e.l.l."

Rutledge took a deep breath, unsteady on his feet. "As do you."

"Have you been drinking?" Sims asked suspiciously.

"No. I'm cold sober. Just-nearly at the end of my tether."

Five minutes later Rutledge was deeply asleep in the bedroom that May Trent had occupied only twenty-four hours before.

Her scent still lingered in the room.

Rutledge awoke in the dark, startled by a figure walking close by the bed.

"Who is it?" he managed to ask coherently, after clearing his throat.

"Sims. It's after nine. I brought hot water for shaving, a razor, and a clean shirt. Breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes, if you're hungry."

"Thanks." Rutledge lay there, an arm flung across his eyes, stunned by exhaustion, his mind working slowly. After several minutes he forced himself out of the bed and across the room to draw open the draperies.

It was pouring rain out of heavy black clouds, a sky that seemed to absorb all light. No wonder he'd thought it was still the middle of the night.

Hamish scolded, "There's no' any need for haste, if you're no' clear-headed."

Rutledge went to the washstand and looked at his face in the mirror, shadowed by beard and the dreary light coming in the windows behind him. It was not a face he was particularly fond of. Lighting the lamp, he set about shaving and dressing.

A quarter of an hour later, he walked into the kitchen.

Sims said, "If anyone came to the door and looked at the two of us, they would be ready to believe we'd had an all-night carousal. My head feels like it." In the lamplight he was haggard, lines bracketing his mouth and heavy circles under his eyes. He had found yesterday unbearably difficult.

"I sympathize." Rutledge reached for the pot of tea, ready to pour the steaming liquid into his cup, and somewhere in the tangle of memories from the day before, one stood out clearly.

There had been three three cups on the table yesterday morning- cups on the table yesterday morning- He looked across at Sims, who was putting a rasher of bacon on a plate, while the toast browned.

"Who keeps this house for you?"

"I have a woman who comes in three times a week. Why?"

"She wasn't here yesterday."

"No. She's coming around ten today. That's why I woke you."

"Then who was here-besides yourself and Miss Trent?"

The Vicar became very still. "You were here." But his eyes swept down to the teacups and back to Rutledge. He didn't lie well, as Hamish was busy noting.

Rutledge hazarded a guess. "It was Peter Henderson, wasn't it?"

Sims said carefully, "Peter comes sometimes, yes. When he's hungry. He often sleeps in the church if the weather's foul. I don't know where he sleeps the rest of the time, poor devil."

"A cold roof over his head, the church. With stone walls and stone flooring, he'd not be very warm."

"There's a chest under the tower. I keep clean blankets there. He knows where to find them." He paused. "The church has had a long history of offering sanctuary. I can do no less."

"Miss Trent and Mrs. Barnett tell me that he roams the night more often than not. I've seen him a number of times myself."

"Yes. I expect he does. Perhaps it's easier for him, living in the dark. Fewer people to stare at him."

"What did he see, the night that Walsh escaped?" Rutledge insisted.

Sims put down the plate and retrieved the burning toast from the stove.

"You must ask him."

"I'm asking you."

Sims sat down, reached for the pot, and poured tea for himself. "Look. The man's little more than a vagrant now. Living hand to mouth. Most of the townspeople have no use for him; they think he's beyond the pale. His own father disowned him. I do what I can, and so did Father James. But changing att.i.tudes is much harder than preaching profound sermons on a Sunday."

A silence followed; it was Sims who reluctantly broke it.

"Peter was in the church that night. He wasn't feeling well, and crept in to sleep for awhile. He was still in the church when Walsh came in to hammer off his chains. Henderson heard him dragging them; he didn't know who or what was there. His tally of kills from the War, for all I know. It must have been rather appalling. He slipped into the choir-it's quite dark in there, and no one was likely to find him crouched among the misericords. And he moves like a wraith when he wants to."

"Yes. That's his training."

"When Walsh left, he was on foot. Henderson-who isn't a fool, by any means-had worked out who was in the church and what it must have meant. He followed, and kept an eye on him from a distance. They walked through the woods and past the barn where Trinity Lane ends. Henderson stayed with him for nearly five miles."

"To Tom Randal's farm."

"Walsh didn't go anywhere near the Randal farm. Not according to Henderson. He was moving as swiftly and quietly as he could. Walsh, I mean. Covering the ground faster than most. Peter kept up with him until he was well beyond Osterley. Then he turned back, not wanting to be spotted."

Rutledge shook his head. "That can't be true. The mare at the farm went missing in probably that same time frame. And it was her shoe that killed Walsh."

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 b.u.t.tered 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 d.i.c.k, 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 G.o.d, man, you can't be serious?" Sims's face was the picture of dismay. "I agreed-we all 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!" 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 breakfast- and 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 embarra.s.sed 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 b.u.t.toned 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.

CHAPTER 27.

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 gra.s.s 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 gla.s.s. 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."

Rutledge nodded. He looked down at Peter Henderson's shoes. They were old. Worn . . .

He said, "Walsh stole a mare from a farmer just east of Osterley. Why would he turn back on himself to do that?"