Watchers of Time (19 page)

Unlike Mark Antony’s wily promise over Caesar’s bloody corpse, Miss Connaught had come to bury Father James in every sense of the word, not to praise him. Which gave the priest human dimensions rather than saintly ones.

“It might have made him a better priest, knowing he’d failed one person,” Rutledge argued.

“Aye, it’s true. Ye canna’ tell without knowing how he’d failed the woman.”

But that had been left unspoken. Had Father James failed Miss Connaught personally—choosing the priesthood over marriage—or had he given her advice that a young man devoting his life to the Church might have seen as the only answer, although not necessarily the most compassionate one?

And in spite of her agitation, Rutledge was prepared to believe Priscilla Connaught when she swore she hadn’t killed the priest. Haunting him had clearly given her far more personal satisfaction than murder ever could. The reserved woman that Mrs. Barnett had described had been completely distraught.

“Unless Father James had learned to come to grips with it,” Hamish pointed out. “It wouldna’ satisfy her, then.”

Still, this second face of the man was intriguing.

Turning down the other leg of Water Street, Rutledge could see the bowl of sky out beyond the water, dark now but filled with stars, their clarity almost breathtaking. As he reached the quay, he stopped and stood there feeling the distant whisper of the waves, although he wasn’t sure he actually heard them. There was a line of luminescence out there as well, as if far beyond his earthbound line of sight, the moon was already rising.

Something prickled along his spine, a warning, and he glanced to his right to discover that he wasn’t alone here on the quay. A woman had walked out of the hotel and was standing some twenty yards away. Lost in her own thoughts, she hadn’t seen him. Holding her coat about her more as comfort than as a wrap against the wind’s chill, she was staring down at the stream that flowed in from the sea.

He stood very still, unwilling to disturb her reverie. She said something, the words whipped away in the wind. Thinking that she must have been speaking to him, he answered, “It’s a beautiful night.”

But she looked apprehensively in his direction as if only just aware that someone was there.

“Sorry,” she said. “I have a most dreadful habit of talking to myself!”

He walked toward her, stopping some ten feet away. She was, he thought, the other guest at the hotel. And, he realized, possibly the woman he’d seen in the churchyard on his first day. It was the set of her shoulders, and the way her skirts moved in the breeze.

“I’m afraid I’m guilty of that as well,” he said, then added as one does with a chance-met stranger, “I haven’t visited East Anglia in a number of years, and I’ve never been to Osterley. It’s a different world from London.”

“Yes.”

He thought for a moment that she was not going to continue, that her brevity was a signal to him to walk on.

But then she added, “I’ve come here before. It was a very long time ago. This trip, I’d planned to continue up the coast toward Cley, but for some reason, I’ve lingered. I suppose it’s because of the marshes. They’re beautiful around Osterley.”

“. . . a very long time ago . . .”
He had the feeling that she meant long ago in memory, not in actual years. That she was thinking of someone and unwilling to speak of him to a stranger. A war widow?

Hamish said, “You willna’ hear me speak of Fiona—”

“No!”

Fiona, who had loved Hamish before the war, and loved him still. . . . She was a part of Scotland, and Rutledge refused to remember her.

But Hamish did, and the name hung between them like a bad dream.

The black ribbon of the tidal stream below the quay quivered as a small fish came to the surface and then vanished again.

The woman was saying pensively, “I don’t know why, but the rivulet there reminds me of something I read once.
‘I know a brook / Where the willow dips long fingers into /
Water made sweet with summer. / Where birds come to
drink, / And a lone fox lies dozing / In dappled shade . . .’ ”

Rutledge finished the lines silently.
“ ‘. . . I know secret
places / Where toads rest, / And a child sits, / Mourning
the passing / Of butterflies . . .’ ” O. A. Manning had written those in a poem called “My Brother.” He knew it well.

Oddly enough, he understood what this woman was trying to say. That this barren little stream here in the marshes, gone astray and all that was left of the once-broad harbor, was neither familiar nor safe. As she, too, had managed to wander from the comfort and safety of a life she had once lived. But with no offer of surety that either would find a way back again, the stream or her world.

There was no answer he could make to that. He had no sureties either. Only of Hamish being there, from waking to sleeping, and unwilling to let him go in peace.

She lifted her head to look up at him, and smiled. There was a wryness in her smile that he found attractive. “How terribly dreary that sounds! I suppose it’s because we’ve had nothing but rain until yesterday. A rusting of the spirit, perhaps?” As she turned away to walk back in the direction of the hotel, her profile was outlined by the sky, very patrician, pale as a cameo against the darkness of her hair and her coat. “Good night.”

The farewell was formal, indicating that the brief companionship here in the dark was happenstance and not at all an invitation to further acquaintance.

“Good night . . .”

The air seemed to grow colder, and he could hear the lonely rustlings of the marshes.

Hamish had fallen silent.

Rutledge let her continue to the hotel alone, and stood for a time by the quay, until she had gone up the stairs.

After breakfast the next morning, Rutledge made his way to the vicarage to speak to Mr. Sims. The sun was shining again, catching the sparkle of flint, the dark red of the brick window facings, and the almost Mediterranean warmth of the tile roofs of Osterley.

Water Street was busy, carts and drays maneuvering around each other to make early deliveries—cabbages and turnips for the greengrocer, a brace of ducks and a cage of live hens for the butcher, and lumber for the smith’s shop, where a new wagon was in progress. Behind the houses, Monday’s wash hung on the lines, blowing in the surprisingly soft breeze.

Climbing the hill toward the vicarage, he could feel the coolness of the copse beyond the church and smell damp wood and wet leaves rotting beside the path. He turned into the vicarage gates, startling a half dozen birds busy at a bush along the drive. They swirled away in a glitter of sound, bright as berries on the wing. Overhead the old trees that sheltered the house spread heavy boughs, reaching out for sunlight and casting an umbrella of shade and shadow across the roof. Thick roots had broken through the earth to form a tangle of enticing places for childhood games—transformed into fortresses for lead soldiers and houses for dolls and sometimes even strong arms in which to curl up and sleep in summer’s warmth.

They dredged up memories. Rutledge’s grandfather’s house had had such places. An ancient oak, which he had thought he would never grow tall enough to reach his arms around, had stood near a pond of garrulous frogs, and just beyond its shade was the swaybacked shed where bicycles and sleds and croquet sets lived. The last time he’d seen it, at the age of seventeen, the back garden had seemed small, like his aging grandfather, and the tree had been toppled in a storm, ripped from rotting roots to sprawl like a drunken giant across the iron fence.

“We worked hard for our bread in the Highlands,” Hamish answered his thought, “and didna’ play with fine toys on well-trimmed lawns. Instead we washed in the stream that ran through the glen, and watched the sun go down over the mountain, glad to call an end to the day.”

Rutledge answered, “It made you what you are, as my childhood made me what I am. I can’t say that one or the other is better.” But Hamish could.

The vicarage was rather plain, sprawling, built of flint, designed more for a large family than for beauty. But there was a small, graceful porch over the door, and a pot of late-blooming flowers had been set in a patch of sun by the step.

Rutledge lifted the knocker and let it fall.

A man came to answer the door, his shirtsleeves rolled above his elbows and a large paintbrush in one hand. Slim and fairly young, his blond hair awry, he looked more like someone’s younger brother than a Vicar.

Rutledge identified himself and Mr. Sims said with some relief, “I’m in the middle of painting. I thought you were someone coming to fetch me. Do you mind if I go on with my work? Before everything dries out? Paint is unforgiving!”

“Not at all.” He stepped into the open hall and followed the Vicar up a flight of stairs.

The house appeared to be equally plain inside, with the kind of furnishings found in most vicarages—the outgrown collections of generations of occupants, left to the next man to serve or to be rid of as he wished. The finest piece was on the landing, a small Queen Anne table that must have belonged to Sims. No one would have left that behind intentionally.

“My sister and her three children are coming to keep house for me,” Sims said over his shoulder. “She lost her husband in the last year of the War, and I’ve just persuaded her to move here. The house in Wembley holds too many memories, and there really isn’t enough space for a growing brood.”

He disappeared into a large room down the passage where new wallpaper had been hung, cabbage roses and forget-me-nots on a cream background. There was a piece of paint-splattered canvas the size of a carpet lying under the windows and along the baseboard. Rutledge, stepping across the threshold, thought how bright and airy it was. Sims said, “This will be Claire’s room. I can only hope she’ll like it!”

His forehead was furrowed with doubt as he scanned his handiwork.

Rutledge said, “I’m sure she will.”

“This is a barn of a place!” Sims added. “I rattle around in it like my own bones. Children’s voices and laughter will make a vast difference.” He rubbed one hand over his forehead, leaving a smear of paint, and said with some intensity, “They’ve got a dog. A big one.” He began to paint the sashes. “What can I do for you, Inspector? I take it you’re here in regard to Father James’s death.”

“Yes. I’m trying to cover the same ground Inspector Blevins explored before me. We still have more questions than we have answers.”

“I’d heard there was someone in custody. The Strong Man from the bazaar.”

“Yes. His name is Walsh. But it will be several days before we can be absolutely certain we have our man. Inspector Blevins knows Osterley, knows the people here. He was one of Father James’s congregation. But I’m at a disadvantage. I’d like to know more about the victim, for one thing.”

“I thought this was a case of housebreaking gone wrong—” Sims said uneasily, looking over his shoulder at Rutledge as he smoothed the bristles of the brush along the sill.

“We surmise it was. But in murder, I’ve learned that nothing is certain. For instance, did Walsh know the priest before this autumn? Or had they met for the first time at the bazaar?”

It was a roundabout process, and Rutledge was patient.

“I have no idea,” Sims answered. “There’s been a bazaar at St. Anne’s for as long as anyone can remember. Most of the town attends it, just as the Catholic parishioners come to our Spring Fete. There isn’t enough entertainment in Osterley to stand fast on religious lines.” He threw a smile at Rutledge as he dipped his brush into the paint can. “As far as I know, this was the first year the bazaar committee decided to allow outsiders to perform. St. John the Lesser had been quite successful with such a program and it was the talk of Norfolk. A number of churches followed suit, and found that this drew attendees from miles around. Many of the villages inland from Osterley aren’t large enough to have anything approaching a bazaar, and so this one was—not surprisingly—rather popular. The Strong Man was a last-minute replacement when the wire walkers couldn’t come and suggested him instead. At least that’s what I’d heard.”

“Did Walsh use his own name for his act?”

“Lord, no, he called himself ‘Samson the Great.’ ”

Which suited the man under lock and key—defiant and arrogant.

Changing the direction of the conversation, Rutledge asked, “Was Father James a good priest? As you would judge any man of the Cloth.”

Sims turned, studying the amount of paint on his brush. Ruefully he replied, “Probably a better priest than I am. My father was a clergyman—I more or less followed him into the family trade, so to speak. It was expected of me. ‘Sims and Son, Clergy.’ Like the greengrocer or the ironmonger.” He began to paint again, concentrating on the strokes. “My father was terribly proud of me when I was ordained. But I learned soon enough that I never had the deep calling that made him a sincerely committed man. I’ll marry one day and raise a family, and serve my congregation faithfully. Holy Trinity is beautiful, and I’ll be proud of what I accomplish here.” He bent to dip the brush again. “But Father James’s church
was
his family, and a more dedicated man you’ll never find. And when my sons come to me to ask if they should follow in the footsteps of their grandfather and father, I’ll encourage them to ask themselves why they want to be clergymen. If I’m not satisfied with the answer, I’ll dissuade them, if I can.”