Watchers of Time (22 page)

Rutledge said, “You’ve been very helpful. One final question: Were both of Baker’s sons in the Army?”

“Martin was sent home, compassionate leave when his father’s health began to fail, and Ellen wasn’t up to running the household on her own. Dick was wounded, as I think I mentioned. Both men from all reports did their duty.”

But as Rutledge had learned, having used that phrase more times than he cared to remember, the words were a catchall when an officer knew too little—or too much— about a soldier under his command.

“Did their duty”
covered a multitude of sins. . . . Had Herbert Baker begged absolution for one of his sons, from Father James?

Rutledge had left the solicitor’s office and was walking back toward the Osterley Hotel when a large motorcar with a uniformed driver pulled up beside him. In the rear seat, Lord Sedgwick leaned forward.

“I say, have you had your luncheon yet?”

Rutledge turned. “Good morning. No, it’s still fairly early—”

It couldn’t have been more than eleven-thirty.

“Well, come and dine with me. And I’ll have Evans here bring you back afterward. My son’s returned to Yorkshire, and I’m damned if I can stand my own company for another meal. Mrs. Barnett at the hotel”—Sedgwick chuckled—“will turn me out if I appear unannounced a second time within the week. Or have you made a commitment to her?”

Rutledge had not.

“Then come along and bear me company, if you will. We can talk about something other than the price of sheep and what cabbages are currently fetching!”

Hamish warned, “It’s no’ a very good idea—!”

Rutledge hesitated. Then he opened the door, noting the crest on the panel, and climbed into the car. The interior was beautifully done with velvet cushions and quite fine, polished woodwork. Lord Sedgwick leaned back and spoke to Evans. The motorcar purred into motion, and moved off down Water Street between the carts and people as Evans handled his gears with smooth perfection.

Sedgwick said, “Any progress in your murder investigation?”

“Gossip hasna’ been slow in spreading,” Hamish told Rutledge. “You’ll soon be verra’ popular.” It was a sour comment.

“We think we may have found our man,” Rutledge said noncommittally. “But Inspector Blevins is making certain that he’s done his job thoroughly.”

“Yes, well, I’ve posted a sizable reward for information leading to an arrest. I hope I’ll have the opportunity to pay it out to someone.”

Rutledge recalled that Blevins had spoken of a reward. “Did you, indeed? Were you a parishioner of Father James’s? Did you know him well?”

“Good lord, no. Anglican. The East Sherham church is on our estate. Still, I keep a friendly eye on my neighbors. Right thing to do! I rather dislike people killing people, and I know that money can jog memories—or tongues. Father James was a conscientious man, from all reports. A considerable force for good. Over the years, I’ve applauded that. We can ill-afford to lose men of his caliber. Osterley’s best and brightest have already been sacrificed to that bloody War. I saw you coming out of the solicitor’s office. Frederick Gifford’s brother, Raymond, was one of the finest men I’ve ever met, and he went down in flames over the German lines. Gifford’s two clerks died at Ypres. Anderson at The Pelican lost his boy at Jutland, and Mrs. Barnett’s nephew was artillery, shells blew up in his face. Sadly, the list goes on.”

They were turning back out of Water Street onto the main road again. On the hill, the flint walls of Holy Trinity seemed to shine with an inner light. “But that’s a morbid line of thought. Tell me, what do you do in London, Rutledge?”

“Much the same sort of thing I do here. Ask questions. Collate information. Consider the evidence and try to draw conclusions from it. Search for motives.”

Hamish, who’d been silent since Rutledge had entered the motorcar, asked, “Hobnobbing wi’ the great willna’ give you the answers either.”

Sedgwick grunted. “What you do requires patience.” Evans had braked to allow a wagon laden with firewood to make the turn into Trinity Lane. Just a few yards beyond it, there was a woman walking along the verge, head down, face hidden by her hat. Rutledge recognized her and apparently so did Sedgwick. Priscilla Connaught, in Wellingtons and a long coat.

Sedgwick spoke to Evans and they slowed. He leaned forward to say, “Good morning, Miss Connaught! I see you are on foot. Anything the matter with your motorcar? I can have Evans take a look this afternoon!”

“Good morning, Lord Sedgwick. No, I’m walking for the exercise. But thank you for your concern.”

Something in her face gave Rutledge the impression she was walking off a dark mood. Her eyes flickered in his direction and then came back to Sedgwick.

Sedgwick touched the brim of his hat and Evans put the car into gear once more. “She’s had the very devil of a time with her brakes,” the former explained to Rutledge. “I told her she’d wind up in the marshes, if someone didn’t fix the problem. Evans believes it’s in the linkage.” Picking up the thread of what Rutledge had been saying earlier, he continued. “I’m not a patient man by nature. Never was. Can’t sit confined for long. But then I wasn’t trained to it!”

“Few of us are.”

They were passing the school now, on Gull Street where it became the Sherham Road. After a time Sedgwick nodded to rolling fields where sheep grazed in the late grass. “I wasn’t born to farming. Anyone will tell you, my father made his fortune in the City. He bought the house in East Sherham when the last of the Chastain family died. I spent my summers here. To keep me out of harm’s way, I was given into the care of an old sheepman who—God forgive him—thought I was entirely spoiled and woefully ignorant. On the other hand, I believed that anything that allowed me to escape from my tutor was daring and rebellious. Before I quite knew what was happening, I’d learned as much about sheep as old Ned could teach me.”

He lifted a hand, deprecatingly. “My father was shocked to discover that I was breeding sheep and had a natural eye for the best rams to improve the flocks. The Chastains hadn’t maintained the land or the pasturage, and I was soon badgering him to buy up acreage and extend our holding. He sent me off to Oxford to cure me of such low habits.” He chuckled. “That finally made a gentleman of me, but I’ve always kept my eye on the management of the estate. And it’s prospered. Our sheep produce some of the finest wool in the world. Or did, before the War turned everything on its head and all anyone wanted to manufacture was uniforms and blankets.”

He turned to Rutledge. “I needn’t tell a policeman that life goes on. But it does, somehow. It must. There’s never any turning back to what once was.” He fell silent, looking at the window.

Rutledge heard a hidden bitterness in the philosophy, although Sedgwick’s tone had been light. But money was not always a guarantee of perfect happiness. . . .

The detective in him intrigued, Rutledge cast about for another subject of interest to the man at his side. “You spoke of a son. I think he must have dined last night at the hotel.”

“Arthur? Yes, he’s the elder. He went to the Front and came home a broken man. He’s still in and out of hospital. Wound in his back. Edwin, the younger of the two, had a gift for languages and was given the task of dealing with prisoners. Or the French. Whoever was most troublesome!”

Rutledge suppressed a smile. The French were not always the most comfortable of allies. And interrogating prisoners never went smoothly.

“Edwin keeps a boat in Osterley,” Sedgwick went on. “He and that fool dog of his go hunting in the marshes. Shooting isn’t allowed, but the dog’s nose stays sharp. Edwin takes him to Scotland for the Season.”

Hamish reminded Rutledge of the man rowing into the quay with a dog in the thwarts. The woman who had offered him a lift had called him Edwin. . . . Edwin Sedgwick? Rutledge rather thought it was. The same man had been in the lounge bar in the hotel outside Norwich.

They had reached the outskirts of East Sherham and turned onto a road where tall old trees marched on either side. Overhead, branches arched high to form a cool and shaded canopy, and the undergrowth along the verges was still thick and full here at the end of summer. Ahead Rutledge could see the walled grounds of an estate, with ornate gates marking the entrance to the drive. The crest on the heavy, gilded wrought iron bore the motto “I Will Persevere.” Two handsome pillars on either side were surmounted by a griffin. These apparently had belonged to the original owners: Time had etched them, wind and rain had worn them, but they had been carved to last.

A man came out of the lodge to let the car pass through, touching his cap to Sedgwick, who responded with a nod. They wound their way through a finely wooded park, nearly as handsome as that at Hatfield, and turned to the left before sweeping up in front of a lovely old brick manor house. The wings were set back from the main block, and Elizabethan chimney pots soared into the blue of the sky. The lawn, wide and still reasonably green, ran down to a low brick wall, and beyond that the park continued to a line of trees. In the distance, a small Greek temple sat on the rising ground beyond what appeared to be a landscaped stream at the southern edge of the park. There was a feeling of old money here, and a long lineage. Nothing ostentatious, nothing new. An ideal setting, perhaps, for a newcomer to the aristocracy eager to present an appearance of having deep roots in the land.

Evans pulled up and came around to open the door for Lord Sedgwick and Rutledge. Sedgwick thanked him and led the way across the short walk to the house. A housekeeper stood ready to greet them, alerted perhaps by a bell from the gatehouse. She was a trim woman in her late fifties, with a serene face and an air of competence. She nodded calmly when Sedgwick told her there was an unexpected guest, and said, “Luncheon will be ready in ten minutes, my lord. Shall I serve it on the terrace?”

“Yes. That would be fine.”

They entered a wide, flagstoned hall. A narrow stair of age-blackened oak on the left led up to the first floor. A massive hearth, which must have been a great comfort in the damp of a Norfolk winter, covered the wall to the right. Above Rutledge’s head, the high plastered ceiling was delicately carved with Tudor roses and garlands of fruit.

At the foot of the stairs a Turkey carpet covered the floor, and there were rare Elizabethan chairs on either side of a small Jacobean table. It was quite an attractive room, little changed, Rutledge thought, from the day it was built. They preceded the housekeeper down a passage and through a doorway that led into a drawing room where long French windows looked out onto a sunlit terrace. An ornate stone balustrade reached like arms to embrace the broad, shallow stone steps that gave access to the gardens. Urns shaped like Roman amphora stood at the bottom, and in the center of the garden beyond, an aged mossy fountain spilled water into a bowl shaped like a Tudor rose. The effect was very pretty.

Rutledge found himself thinking of his godfather, David Trevor, in Scotland—and banished the image before it had formed. Trevor was an architect by profession, with a love of buildings that he’d conveyed to his godson through the years. It was hard to see a place such as this without recalling all that had passed between the two men—or, now, remembering what had happened in Scotland just over a month ago.

Rutledge followed Sedgwick out onto the terrace, where comfortable chairs had been set up to take advantage of the garden views. The housekeeper returned with a tray of glasses and decanters while Rutledge was admiring the flower beds. They were showing signs of autumn wear, but they had been designed with an eye for every season. The rare Japanese chrysanthemums were glorious.

“What will you have?” Sedgwick asked, and when told, held out a very good whiskey. As Rutledge turned to accept it, he noticed a remarkable stone rectangle set at an angle in the garden. Larger-than-life apes, four squatting in a row, stared at the house, their eyes unblinking and focused, as if sharing some knowledge that was theirs alone.

They had been carved in bas-relief, with a vividness that was both unusual and riveting. Exotic as the land they’d come from, they rested on their haunches, unperturbed by this English garden, or by the Englishmen who had stepped into view.

Catching the direction of Rutledge’s glance, Sedgwick said, “I don’t know why my father kept the damned thing. Or, for that matter, why I leave it there. Except that the previous owners of the house felt it brought good luck, and he was superstitious about that. I can’t think why it should—it’s as ugly as anything I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s Egyptian, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s right. Eighteenth Dynasty, I’m told. It once stood in the hall, just by the stairs. Where the Jacobean table is now. God knows how the Chastains came by it! They were magpies, collecting whatever caught their fancy. I couldn’t abide looking into those faces every night before I went up to bed. And Arthur swore it gave him nightmares as a child. When my father died, I banished it to the gardens.”

Rutledge walked down the steps and went to examine the thick slab of stone. It had been cut from a building’s wall, he thought. Longer than it was tall, it was well polished, not rough. The figures of the baboons, it seemed, were meant to catch the morning and afternoon sun in a climate where the light was intense. Slanting rays would give them an almost three-dimensional quality. Here in the much paler light of the English Broads they possessed an almost preternatural air.

Following him, Sedgwick went on, “They’re called—so I’m told—‘The Watchers of Time.’ ‘Set the task of witnessing what man and the gods may do. Through all eternity.’ That’s what the catalog says, at least. We bought the house furnished. Lock, stock, and phantoms.” He was smiling, but when Rutledge looked up from the stone, he could see that the smile had not reached Sedgwick’s eyes.