Watchers of Time (13 page)

This morning, fighting a headache from the unpredictable shifts in subjects, some of them seeming to lie in wait for him and aimed with a deadly accuracy, others following the unsettled state of his own thoughts, Rutledge was glad to see a modicum of sunlight sifting through the overcast. It seemed to foretell a lifting of the clouds in his mind.

Hamish seemed to find it more to his liking as well. As the land changed a little, announcing their approach to the sea, Hamish unexpectedly said, “It isna’ a verra’ pleasant thought, returning to London. I canna’ ken why people live in cities, jammed cheek by jowl like so many sheep off to market!”

Rutledge agreed. His cluttered office was claustrophobic when rain ran down the soot-blackened windows, shutting him in with the lamplight and the musty smell of cigar smoke and wet wool. When it rained, Old Bowels’s moods were as unpredictable as the shifts in Hamish’s trains of thought.

Nor was he eager to return to Frances’s watchful care. His sister was a master at concealing her worry behind a light facade of humor, but he knew her too well to be taken in by it. He said aloud, in the silence of the motorcar—a habit he found nearly impossible to break— “I’ll be here at least one more day. It will do no harm.”

A lorry, bound from King’s Lynn to Norwich, sent an arc of muddy water across Rutledge’s bonnet as it passed in the southbound lane. He blinked as the spray washed the windscreen and left behind a dark and odiferous residue that slowly vanished in the drizzle that had resumed, swallowing up the sun.

As he drove into the town, Rutledge saw people hurrying toward Holy Trinity, bound for the service. He recognized a few of the faces from his brief visit on Saturday— the farmer and his sons who had successfully purchased the prize ram, the young woman he’d seen earlier in the churchyard, the barmaid at The Pelican, and two of the children who had been playing in Water Street. The familiar habit of Sunday worship comfortably being followed: occasionally greeting a friend, often looking up at the great tower that marked their destination as if already focused on the service. There was something very English about it.

He had the odd feeling that he had come home.

The constable on duty in the police station informed him that Inspector Blevins was at Mass, and had left word that he would expect his London counterpart after lunch.

“If there’s a Mass, there’s a priest,” Hamish told Rutledge as he walked back to the motorcar.

“Yes. I’d like to see who has been sent to conduct it.”

He turned the car and drove to St. Anne’s. The watery sunlight brightened.

Stopping in the drive beside the rectory, Rutledge sat back in his seat, trying to ease the tense muscles in his chest, massaging his upper arm near the shoulder, commanding it to relax. He’d nearly succeeded by the time the first of the parishioners came out of the service and walked away down the street.

Watching them, he wondered which had been under suspicion before Walsh had been taken into custody. Surely Blevins had considered a good many of them, before the investigation had widened.

In a few moments, Monsignor Holston stepped out of St. Anne’s and stood by the door, speaking to each family as they left the service. Rutledge, watching, could see that Monsignor Holston knew a number of them, and found a brief word even for those he didn’t. For a scholarly man, the priest had a remarkably affable manner with people. Inspector Blevins, in the middle of a group, stopped to make several remarks, and the priest’s face lighted a little. But there was doubt in his expression as he turned his head to follow Blevins and his family as they walked on. A trio of elderly women, dressed in black and very eager to take Monsignor Holston’s hand in their turn, brought up the rear of the procession of people. He reassured each woman, bending to hear what the eldest, stooped and leaning on a cane, had to say. But in the end he shook his head.

Hamish said, “He doesna’ know who will replace Father James.”

“I have a feeling the Bishop may wait until the police have finished their job.”

As the women moved off down the path, Monsignor Holston turned to go back into the sanctuary, and then saw Rutledge for the first time, hailing him.

Rutledge got out of the car and strode toward the church.

“Well met,” the priest said. “Come and talk to me while I change out of my robes.”

Rutledge joined him at the door. “I see you were sent here to conduct the service. Does this mean the Bishop has made no decision about Father James’s successor? Or are you taking up residence now?”

“The Bishop’s biding his time. I think he prefers to wait until there’s some news about the killer. Not wanting to be seen to be filling Father James’s shoes with unwarranted haste. But he can’t leave it much longer. There are needs here that I can’t meet, coming only for a day. And most of all it’s a need for continuity, a sense of order having been restored.”

They went into the sanctuary together and down an aisle. “This is a very lovely church, you know.” Monsignor Holston gestured to the stark simplicity surrounding them. “Father James used to say that it was stripped of all pretension, down to the bare bones of faith. Architecturally, that’s quite true. And I think he carried that message through into his pastoring here. But this is a dying parish; there’s no work for the young people here along the coast. The Bishop should find a young priest with energy and ideals to fill Father James’s shoes. One who might reach them before they wander off to work in Norwich or King’s Lynn or Peterborough. You could see for yourself how many of those present this morning were over forty.”

“Yes, I had noticed. Is this considered advice? Or an offering to the gods to keep you safely in Norwich?”

Opening the vestry door, Monsignor Holston smiled. “Yes, there’s that. I don’t mind coming here for the services. I just don’t have a fancy for staying.”

“I should think with Walsh’s capture that much of the strain would begin to dissipate.” To soften the remark, Rutledge added, “Although that will take time, I’m sure.”

Monsignor Holston shook his head. “There’s still something in that house”—he gestured toward the unseen rectory—“that would keep me awake at night!”

“The coffin door knocker, for one?” It was said lightly.

The smile returned. “That was a bit of whimsy on some Victorian priest’s part. A reminder that dust to dust is everyone’s fate.” He took off his robes and laid them carefully in the small black case on the table. After a moment he said, “I was surprised to see you still here, Inspector. I had thought you’d go back to London, duty done.”

“I had every intention of going,” Rutledge answered. “But Inspector Blevins has asked me to stay on a day or two. Until they are sure that this man Walsh is the one they want. They only brought him in yesterday, and there’s still a great deal to find out about his movements.”

Monsignor Holston nodded. “Blevins spoke to the Bishop last night. ‘Early days’ was what he said, but I think he’s very hopeful. Bishop Cunningham asked to be kept informed.”

“Blevins would also like to see this ended.” Rutledge paused, watching Monsignor Holston as he added the consecrated wafers to his case and closed the lid. As they walked out the vestry door into a spreading patch of sunlight, he said, “I’m just going to the hotel to see about a room. Will you join me for lunch?”

Monsignor Holston sighed. “I’d like that very much. But I have to be back in Norwich for a service tonight. If you’re here next Sunday, I’ll accept.”

“If I’m still here,” Rutledge agreed. “Where did you leave your motorcar?”

“Behind the rectory. Look, if you are staying on here, will you keep me apprised of the situation? I’m sure Inspector Blevins will have his hands full. And—I’d appreciate it.”

“Yes, I will.”

And Monsignor Holston was gone, hurrying around the apse into the churchyard, lifting a hand in farewell as he disappeared in the direction of the rectory.

Hamish said, “He left with indecent haste.”

“Yes. I don’t know what he’s afraid of, but Monsignor Holston is a man looking over his shoulder. He wanted me to come inside with him because he didn’t want to be in that church alone. At a guess I’d say he’s not sure the evidence against Walsh will stand.”

“Aye,” Hamish said thoughtfully. “There’re ghosts there. But of his making or are they real?”

“I wish I knew!” Rutledge answered, walking back to his own motorcar.

The Osterley Hotel had once been grander, when the town was closer to the sea. Now it offered comfort to what travelers there were and to families and merchants staying for market day. Rutledge thought it might also be the only lodging within several miles where townspeople could put up guests.

The hotel stood on Water Street, where the road ran along the quay, and was built of the ubiquitous flint, three stories with windows looking out over the marshes or onto a courtyard at the side of the building, where carriages and motorcars could be left.

The woman who came to the desk as he entered was nearing fifty, he thought, her graying hair tidily pulled back into a soft knot at the nape of her neck. Clear gray eyes met his when he asked for a room. “For the night?”

“For several days,” he said.

She nodded, pleased. “There’s a nice view of the sea from number seventeen. If you have keen eyesight,” she added with a smile. “What brings you to Osterley? We don’t get many holiday-makers this time of year.”

“A matter of business,” he said pleasantly. “When did the sea recede?”

“Not in my lifetime. The early years of the last century. Though they say that the storms since 1900 are eroding the beaches again, and we might see the water return within the next ten or twenty years. That would be nice!” There was more hope than certainty in her voice. “We serve breakfast at seven, later if you prefer it. And if you’ll be in to luncheon, we’d like to know. It’s generally served at half past twelve. Dinner is from seven to nine. Then the cook wants to go home. You can also find a meal at The Pelican when we’re closed. That’s the pub at the end of the quay.”

She was leading him up stairs that had been painted a soft green to match the carpet running down the center of the first-floor passage. A line of photographs in gold-trimmed oak frames had been hung along the walls, and he saw that they were early photographs showing Osterley when it still managed to attract a few bathers. Dark and faded, but fascinating as history: Victorian women in black silk gowns and bonnets strolling by the sea with black silk parasols shading their faces from the sun; small boats coming in to the quay in deeper water than existed now; and a fisherman proudly displaying his catch, his cap at a jaunty angle. There was a very early photograph of a coaster unloading freight, boxes and bales and barrels, just beyond The Pelican. And next to that, children forming a ring of curious faces around a pair of seals on the strand, their sleek, wet heads cocked in wary uncertainty. In this one, the marshes were a thickening line of reeds and grasses, more prominent to the east, leaving the western side of the narrowing harbor as a last sacrifice to the encroaching silt.

Noticing Rutledge’s interest, she said, “My grandfather took those. Avid photographer with a keen eye for such things. He was lucky with the seals—they don’t come this far south very often.” She stopped before number seventeen and opened the door.

It was a bright room, flooded with light from a double pair of windows. Large, well furnished with a bedstead of mahogany wood, a dresser with a mirror, and a clothespress that matched. A painted washstand stood in the corner. Two comfortable chairs framed a table under the first pair of windows, and a desk was set under the second.

“The finest room in the house,” Hamish murmured.

“I’m Mrs. Barnett,” she told Rutledge. “If I’m not in the office, I’m in the kitchen or out to do the marketing. Leave a note if you can’t find me.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“Do you care for luncheon today? As it’s Sunday, The Pelican is closed. You’ll have to drive inland some distance.”

“If that’s no trouble.”

“We have one other guest at the moment, and she’s staying in. Not a very agreeable morning for exploring the countryside! But I think it will clear by afternoon.”

She cast one last glance around the room, nodded, and closed the door.

Rutledge went to the windows and looked out. From the first floor he could indeed see the water, a thin line of waves curling in, gleaming dully, and a flight of birds rising from the shingle strand. The hummocky, marshy ground filling the harbor from the headland to his left as far as the great hook of land that served as a natural breakwater on his right appeared to be threaded with foot-wide rivulets of no great depth, as well as the little stream that was all that remained of the harbor.

Having seen the photographs in the passage, he realized that the buildings that had once served the sea—shops selling ship’s stores, fish markets, taverns, yards—had long since been turned to other uses. He had noticed one sporting a sign proclaiming a branch of the wildfowl trust. Another had become a smithy-cum-garage.

Hamish said, “I ken the sea taking a man’s livelihood. Storms scour the coast of Scotland. Men drown, ships are lost. It’s a hard life. But here . . .”

“They turned their hands to other things, I expect. Norfolk is sheep country. Or people simply moved on, those with a skill to offer somewhere else.”