WHEN RUTLEDGE ARRIVED AT THE POLICE station twenty minutes later, after leaving his motorcar at the hotel, he found Inspector Blevins sitting in his cramped office finishing a stack of sandwiches and a steaming thermos of tea. “Missed my lunch,” he said, gesturing to the sandwich wrappings. “Someone was reported shooting out in the marshes, and that’s not allowed. I spent well over an hour tramping through the bloody reeds looking for the fool. My wife took pity on me and brought me these. Care for one?”
“Thanks, no. I ate at the hotel. Is it safe to walk out to the sea?”
“If you’re local, I suppose it’s safe enough. I wouldn’t recommend it. Too easy to lose yourself, and then I’d be out searching for you .” It was a friendly warning.
Putting the cap back on the thermos of tea, Blevins looked up at Rutledge and away again. “There’s been a complication,” he said. He ran his fingers through his hair. “Father James had two sisters-Sarah and Judith. Judith died in the influenza epidemic. Sarah is married and has young children. There was a telephone message here at the station this morning from Sarah’s husband, man by the name of Hurst, Philip Hurst. I’ve met him a time or two. Steady and reliable. The message was, he’d call back after Mass. And he did, just before the damned shooting started in the marshes.”
Blevins stopped fiddling with the thermos and set it aside. “Interesting conversation. Hurst told me that one of Judith’s favorite stories as a child was Jack the Giant-Slayer, Father James undoubtedly filling the role of Jack in his sister’s eyes. Sarah claims he must have read it to her dozens of times. But that’s neither here nor there.”
He seemed to be avoiding coming to the point, as if he found it distasteful. Rutledge waited.
“When he was in France, Father James wrote often to both sisters, and Sarah remembers one letter in particular, where he told Judith that he’d finally met the ‘Giant.’ There was even a line drawing in the margin with Father James dwarfed by this stick figure. And there was some other nonsense about the story, and that was it.”
“You’re telling me that Walsh is this ‘Giant’?”
“God, no! Father James was joking, reminding his sister of their childhood. This Giant could have been anyone he’d seen-a Punjabi for all we know! A good many of the Highlanders were damned tall, for that matter. But now I’ve got to find someone in the War Office to look up records to see if Walsh could have met Father James in France. They won’t like that, but if it’s true, I need to know about it before I’m made a fool of in the courtroom. It doesn’t change anything, even if he did!”
“You’ll have to question everyone at the bazaar again. To see if the two men recognized each other that day.”
“I don’t see how it was possible for Walsh to recognize Father James-he was dressed as a clown to entertain the children, and his face was painted. But of course Father James could well have remembered him.”
Hamish reminded Rutledge, “Mrs. Wainer spoke of clown’s paint. He was still wearing it when he handed her the bills and coins they’d taken in.”
So she had. Rutledge regarded Blevins, trying to read his face. “Asking Walsh is the simplest way to find out,” he observed.
“You can’t ask him anything without being cursed and abused. Better to find out from the War Office than give that clever bastard some way of crawling out of this charge!”
“Does Sarah Hurst still have the letter?”
“It was written to Judith, who showed it to her, and there’s no way of knowing if Judith kept it. Much less what’s become of it since she died. But Hurst thought we ought to know, and rightly so.”
“Could Walsh have been searching for it? Either time he was at the rectory?” It was not uncommon to keep letters after a loved one died.
“Lord, no, how would he have known such a letter even existed? No, it’s a false scent, and I’m not going to be sidetracked by it. Besides, if Father James had learned something incriminating about Walsh, he wouldn’t have told his sister, would he? Let’s leave it! I told you only because I thought you’d agree with me that it’s not important.”
Hamish reminded Rutledge of an exchange during last night’s dinner at the Norwich hotel on the subject of the murder having to do with the War:
And how to find such a needle in a haystack of returned veterans?
Yet that same needle might have found Father James, nearly a year after the War had ended…
Because he’d come to a bazaar?
“I see your point.” It was enough to satisfy Blevins. Changing the subject, Rutledge told him, “I’ve been to the rectory to look at the study.”
“Doesn’t tell you much, does it? Mrs. Wainer scrubbed that carpet nearly through to the nap, trying to get out the blood. Wouldn’t hear of having a constable do it for her. It was her place, she insisted, not his.” He wolfed down the last sandwich, then began to fold the serviettes in which they had been wrapped. A B in Gothic script had been embroidered into one corner, entwined with a sprig of lilac.
“A great deal of force was used to open the desk.”
“More than needful. Yes, that’s true. But I doubt our blossom of fragility back there in the cells knows his own strength. The same force was used to kill Father James.”
“The theory is that he came looking for money to pay for his new cart. But this was some weeks after the bazaar. By that time, the money collected at the fair might well have been already dispersed-to the needy, to pay for a new altar cloth, whatever use it was intended to serve. Why did Walsh believe that the money was still in Father James’s hands?”
“I’ve looked into that myself. More often than not those funds are used as a priest sees fit. The accounts that must be paid by the parish come from another sum that’s on deposit in the bank. The Autumn Fete never brings in a large amount. Although this year, the first since the War ended, we had a better turnout. The men had come home, and the young women who had gone away to do war work were back as well.” He paused. “That’s been the hardest part for me, you know, accepting that a good many men from Osterley won’t be coming home. Whilst you’re fighting, you don’t think about it all that much. But the butcher’s son and Mrs. Barnett’s nephew, and so many other faces you’d expect to see about the town didn’t make it. Or they’re crippled and off somewhere learning how to make baskets or some such that they can sell. The best man we ever had in the marshes is blind. Two of the choirboys are orphans, their mother dead of the influenza and their father killed off Jutland. There’s talk of making a small war memorial here to honor the dead of Osterley. I don’t see it myself. But those who lost loved ones might find it comforting after a fashion.”
Rutledge was reminded of the monument that London was building to the nation’s war dead. An enduring memorial to The Great War, the newspapers called it; a place where wreaths could be laid each November and prayers said for the dead who hadn’t come home.
He shivered. Many of them had never been found. They still lay in Flanders’s Fields, buried so deep in the wrecked earth that not even a farmer’s plow would turn them up. Leather boots might last longer than flesh or bone, and helmets as well, but in time, even leather crumbled and metal rusted. After a few years, peas and corn and vineyards would cover their resting place, not a wooden cross or a plinth of marble. Would they even hear the prayers of a grateful nation? And how long would gratitude last?
Blevins was saying to him, “-Father James survived the War, survived the influenza epidemic. A brave man, but never a foolhardy one. Anybody will tell you that. He’d have dealt with the man in his study, given half a chance. But if it was Matthew Walsh, he had no chance at all. I don’t know what your experience has been, but in mine a good many men the size of Walsh are of a milder nature. This monster’s got a temper. Father James may have made a fatal mistake in judging his adversary.”
“There’s some truth to that,” Rutledge agreed. “But speaking of Walsh’s size-I’ve been thinking about the print of the shoe you found at the rectory near the lilacs.”
Brushing aside Rutledge’s words, Blevins said impatiently, “Yes, I’ve already come to the same conclusion. Walsh’s foot dwarfs that print. I had a drawing made of it, to match with the shoes of any suspects. You know what this means, don’t you?”
This time Rutledge let him have the pleasure of answering his own question.
“It tells me friend Walsh must have had an accomplice.”
Hamish, breaking a long silence, warned, “You ken, the sum stolen wouldna’ be enough for two…”
“Did Walsh have an assistant at the bazaar?” There had been no mention of anyone else in the Strong Man’s act, to Rutledge’s knowledge, but that would make sense, if Walsh needed someone he could trust.
“No, no, he worked alone as far as we can discover,” Blevins answered. “I doubt he ever made enough to hire an assistant. Some months ago he had a woman with him, but I’m told she wasn’t good for business. The young ladies seemed to find her intimidating. Well, that’s not surprising! But breaking and entering is a different proposition. There’s often another man along to act as lookout. That’s why he was standing near the lilac bush. He was out of sight from the churchyard and the neighboring house.”
Blevins seemed convinced. For the time being, Rutledge left the subject and moved on.
“What about other towns where Walsh has made an appearance? Were there any crimes that could be traced to him? Is this a pattern?”
“I’d thought of that, too. We’re looking into it.” After a moment of silence, Blevins said, “We haven’t got more than curses out of Walsh so far. Would you like to try your hand at questioning him?”
“It wouldn’t do any harm.”
“We’ve put him in irons, to keep him manageable.” Blevins reached for a ring of keys and took Rutledge down the passage to the makeshift cells set in behind the offices. “He won’t be tried here,” the Inspector went on as he unlocked the door. “We’re moving him to Norwich by the middle of next week. We’re used to drunk and disorderly, petty theft, and the occasional wife-beater who won’t learn his lesson. And any murderers we’ve had to deal with over the years are generally more terrified of what they’ve done than they are a threat to the peace. But this man is dangerous.”
When Blevins unlocked the door of the cell, Walsh was sitting on the iron cot, his face bruised, his eyes defiant. Ankles and wrists were fettered, a heavy chain hanging between them.
Blevins said briskly, “You’ve met Inspector Rutledge before. Nearly knocked him down. I wouldn’t think about trying it again. He’s here from London.”
Walsh, surprise in his face, said, “Are they taking me to London, then?”
“That could depend on how cooperative you are. The Inspector wants to question you. About the priest’s death.”
Taking advantage of the man’s uncertainty, Rutledge asked almost conversationally, “Ever use an assistant in your act, Walsh?”
Eyebrows raised, Walsh answered, “I used a woman for some weeks. Thought it would make the ladies more willing to let themselves be lifted on the bench, if Iris went first. But she didn’t work out. Why do you want to know?”
“I should have thought a man would have been more useful, considering the bench and the weights you must haul about regularly in your cart.”
Walsh grinned. “I can lift them and you, too, and I’ll show you if you unlock these!” He raised his hands. The chain clanked unmusically, but its weight seemed not to cause him any distress.
Rutledge returned the smile. “Then why did you take someone with you when you killed the priest? Was that more dangerous than pulling a carriage against a team of horses? I’m surprised that you’d choose a woman to stand outside and watch. She couldn’t stop the priest from coming home, could she? Or warn you. But what you’ve done is pitched her into this with you. Accomplice to murder. I should have thought there was barely enough money for one.”
The grin had faded. Walsh said angrily, “I didn’t kill any man, with or without help! Except in the War, when I was paid to do it. Are all policemen deaf, or is it that you can’t do your work properly?”
Rutledge responded quietly. “You bought yourself a new cart.” Behind him he could hear Blevins fuming. But the trick with a man like Walsh was to encourage braggadocio. To let him tweak the noses of the police.
“Aye, with the savings from letting Iris go. The old one had got worm in it, sitting in a shed all the time I was away fighting. It had to be replaced. I didn’t have any choice!”
“If you didn’t kill Father James, who did? You were at the bazaar. Did you see anyone looking for a chance to pick up money?”
“Pickpockets, you mean?” Walsh asked. “There were two, but a constable run them off soon enough. Men in the line of housebreaking don’t come to church bazaars. The bloody things are advertised everywhere you look! In shop windows, on pasteboards or lampposts. Invitation to robbery, right out in the streets! All they have to do is watch for a family to leave for the day.”
“We’ll make a note of that,” Rutledge assured him. “Will you tell us where to find Iris now? We’d like to hear what she has to say about killing a priest.”
Walsh shrugged. “London, probably. How do I know? She didn’t work out, and I let her go. She wasn’t what you’d call happy about it, either. But business is business.”
“What’s her full name?”
“Iris Kenneth is what I knew her by. I’m not saying it was her true name. She’s a shill by trade-you know, standing in front of a show like mine and talking it up. Used to work for a Gypsy fortune-teller from Slough, name of Buonotti-Barnaby, he called himself. Italian he was, went home to fight in the War and never come back. So she was at loose ends, and suited me just fine.”
Blevins said, “What did you promise her, Walsh? That you’d take her on again if she helped you? Or was there someone else who owed you a favor?”
Walsh’s laughter was a deep rumble in his chest that welled up and spilled over into a bass chuckle. “I’d have had to promise to marry her to get her to come in with me again. And I’m not the marrying kind! Not yet, anyway!”
After they’d finished with Walsh, Blevins turned to Rutledge and said, “I don’t know. He’s hard to read. But I’m ready to put good money down that says he’s guilty! Too damned cocky by half!”
“Do you think this Iris Kenneth was his accomplice?”
“No. I’d say the shoe’s too large for a woman’s foot.”
“That’s probably true. But stuffed with rags, it would be the perfect blind, wouldn’t it? A man’s shoe. A woman’s foot.” He let the thought lie there.
Blevins said in resignation, watching his simple case grow to monstrous proportions, “I’ll see what London can find out about Iris Kenneth.”
The sky was clear now, the deeper blue of a storm passed and finer weather to come, and even the wind had dropped. The sun’s warmth was not August’s warmth, but it felt good on his face as Rutledge left the police station and walked down toward the hotel. On impulse he continued as far as the quay and stood there looking out across the marshes. He felt tired, deeply tired, and thought about a drink to ease his chest muscles and his arm. But he knew it was better to fight through the pain, if he could.
“You didna’ sleep verra’ well last night,” Hamish pointed out. “Guilty conscience, was it?”
“No.” Rutledge was too weary to enter into an argument with his tormentor.
Hamish said, “There’s more on your mind than Scotland. This murder-this marshy country-I canna’ see what it is that has made you a hollow man.”
It wasn’t a hollowness, Rutledge thought, that left him empty. It was too much, not too little-conflicting emotions, divided passions, an uncertainty he hadn’t felt since June, when he had walked into Warwickshire an exhausted, haunted man with no hope and no expectations, and a great fear of going mad.
It wasn’t madness now that he feared-though he knew that his mind teetered on the brink of self-destruction more often than he cared to admit.
But he was damned if he’d let Hamish pry and tear at him like a bird of prey, pulling out his soul to examine it like some rare specimen from the dark corners of the Congo. The question was, how to shut him out. Rutledge had never found a way.
Hamish had the last word-as he so often did. “It isna’ a matter of a night’s sleep, ye ken that. You willna’ sleep until you allow yoursel’ to live again!”
Trying to ignore him, Rutledge moved along the quay, to stand so that he could see the little stream where the boats came in to tie up. Wildfowl took off from the reeds and grasses, looking for their night’s roost. He watched them for a time, and the long shadows of the late afternoon falling across the marshes. They were golden in this light, or a deep rufous, or pale yellow, and when he stood very still, he thought he could hear breakers coming into the strand out beyond them.
“Tomorrow will be fair,” Hamish said, his countryman’s instincts strong.
“Yes.”
Rutledge turned back, walked to his car in the hotel’s walled courtyard next to a stand of late autumn flowers, and retrieved his luggage from the boot.
It was early in the dinner hour when Rutledge came down for the evening meal. Mrs. Barnett greeted him and led him to a table in the middle of the room under the softly lit chandeliers. With a smile she asked if he’d enjoyed his day, and with equal courtesy he agreed that he had.
Where he had eaten his luncheon, a man was dining alone, a heavy cane hooked over the back of the second chair.
Mrs. Barnett turned to hover over him solicitously as he finished his cheese, and Rutledge caught part of the conversation.
The man was saying, “… in Osterley. We’re a benighted lot here on the north coast.”
Mrs. Barnett smiled. “I saw Nurse Davies a time or two in the shops. It was always the rain she…”
The glass doors between the dining room and the reception hall had been left open. Sunday night, it appeared, was a popular time for local people to come in for their dinner, and there were already six or eight couples by the windows and two families at the larger tables along the wall beneath the sconces. Their quiet laughter and low-voiced conversation filled the spacious room with warmth and life. A far cry from that noon when it had seemed much too large for its only occupants: Rutledge and the woman guest.
But it appeared that she wasn’t dining in this evening.
Waiting for his soup, Rutledge unobtrusively studied the man by the window, the one Mrs. Barnett had spoken with.
There was something in the shape of his head that had caught Rutledge’s attention, the way his hair grew thickly from its part, and the line of his chin. He was young- perhaps thirty or thirty-two-but his face was lined with pain, aging it prematurely. A member of Lord Sedgwick’s family? The resemblance was there, but softer drawn, as if the bone structure was less formidable.
“I canna’ see it mysel’,” Hamish said. “He’s no’ as large framed.”
It was true. Unless illness had whittled away the muscle and brawn. And certainly this man appeared to be taller, longer limbed.
Later, as Rutledge finished his soup, he saw the man by the window fold his serviette and set it by his plate, his expression relaxed, as if he’d enjoyed his meal. But he lingered, as if reluctant to push back his chair and retire to the lounge for his tea.
And then Mrs. Barnett came in from the kitchen, as if alert to his needs, and handed the man his cane. He grasped the ivory handle and rose with visible effort, his weight heavy on the thick shaft. He straightened, pausing to catch his breath. Rutledge looked away, but not before he saw the sharp sadness in Mrs. Barnett’s face.
After a friendly exchange with Mrs. Barnett, the man walked on toward the lobby with only a slight limp, as if sitting had left him quite stiff and motion improved the ability of his muscles to function. He went on into the lounge to take his tea.
Mrs. Barnett came to remove Rutledge’s soup plate and set the roast veal in front of him, and he said quietly, “The man with the cane. Is he related to Lord Sedgwick?”
She nodded. “Arthur. His elder son. His back was so severely injured in the War that they didn’t expect him to live. And now he’s walking again. It’s quite a miracle. But it’s hard to keep help. His last nurse was a London girl, not used to the country.”
“I should think,” Rutledge said lightly, “that the Sedgwick family paid well enough to overcome even that reservation.”
Mrs. Barnett smiled but shook her head. “Ordinarily they probably would. But Arthur Sedgwick doesn’t live in East Sherham with his father, although when he requires more surgery or physical rehabilitation, he often comes to stay. His home is in Yorkshire, and I’m told that compared to the Dales, Osterley is second only to Paris!”
Rutledge had nearly finished his meal when a woman came striding through the outer doors and walked up to Reception, where Mrs. Barnett was adding up figures. By this time most of the diners had retired to the lounge, and it appeared at first that the newcomer was going to ask if the dining room was still open. Instead she leaned over rather imperiously to touch Mrs. Barnett’s arm, interrupting her to ask a question.
Mrs. Barnett’s eyebrows went up, and she turned to look at Rutledge through the open doors.
Hamish said, “It appears the news has got around that ye’re a policeman.”
The woman, turning her head, followed Mrs. Barnett’s glance, thanked her, and came through to the dining room.
She stopped in front of Rutledge’s table and said, keeping her voice low, “Are you the man from London? Scotland Yard?”
Rutledge, standing now, his serviette in his hand, replied, “Yes. Inspector Rutledge. And you are-?”
“My name is Priscilla Connaught. Please-sit down and finish your meal! But if I may ask you to meet me in the lounge-it’s down the passage, beyond the stairs- afterward? I won’t keep you long, I promise!” Her voice was almost pleading, as if she feared he’d refuse her.
Hamish said, “She’s verra’ agitated!”
Rutledge was already answering, “Yes, I shan’t be more than a few minutes. Would you prefer to join me-?”
“No! Thank you, no, this is a very-private matter.” Glancing around the room at the remaining diners, she shook her head, as if to reinforce her refusal.
“Then I’ll join you shortly.”
“Thank you!” she said again, and turning, walked swiftly out to the lobby, in the direction of the lounge.
Rutledge resumed his seat as Hamish said, “It’s no’ a name you ken?”
“No. But if she’s already learned that I’m from the Yard, she must live here in Osterley.”
Finishing his trifle quickly, Rutledge left the dining room and went down the passage to the lounge.
But it was empty, except for one of the families who had dined at the hotel.
“She hasna’ waited,” Hamish pointed out. “A woman will change her mind, if she canna’ be sure she’s doing what’s best.”
Rutledge turned back to the dining room and met Mrs. Barnett coming through the glass doors. “Oh-there you are! I put Miss Connaught in the small parlor, just there-” She pointed to a closed door beyond the lounge. “There will be other guests having their tea in the lounge. I thought you might prefer a little privacy.”
“Yes, thank you,” he said. “Could you bring us tea in about five minutes?”
“I’ll be happy to, Inspector.” Her voice held a cooler note.
Hamish said, “Aye, they know now who you are.”
His anonymity-his role as a man with no ties to the problems of Osterley-had been stripped from him. There had been a new reserve in Mrs. Barnett’s manner. And it would soon be reflected in that of other people. His questions would be met with reticence.
Rutledge walked on to open the door Mrs. Barnett had indicated.
Priscilla Connaught was sitting by the small hearth, staring at the empty grate. She rose as Rutledge entered the room, facing him as if uncertain whether or not she really wanted to speak to him. Frowning, she gnawed her lip.
She was tall, rather slim, with dark hair showing only the first hints of graying, but her face was that of someone who suffers constant pain. Not lined so much as the planes worn down to bone, giving them a severity that was not unattractive.
Over the dark gray dress she was wearing was a matching coat with a lovely little gold pin at her lapel, stylish but somehow conveying a sense of mourning in the austerity of the cut. Her hat was a softer shade of gray with a small bunch of white feathers where the brim lifted on the left side.
A woman who would stand out wherever she was.
Hamish murmured something, but Rutledge didn’t quite catch it, only the words “… a fierce pride…”
Miss Connaught was saying, “I hope you didn’t rush your meal on my account-” Her voice was strained.
“Not at all,” he replied with a smile. “I did take the liberty of asking Mrs. Barnett to bring us tea.” In an effort to put her more at ease, he asked, “Do you live here in Osterley, Miss Connaught?” He indicated her chair, and after she sat down stiffly, her back ramrod-straight, he took the one on the other side of the hearth.
“Yes-yes, I do. I’m-not a native of Norfolk. My family is from Hampshire.”
“I was surprised to find the harbor has all but vanished.”
“I-it has been silting up for well over a century, I believe-”
A silence fell. The room, small but comfortably furnished, seemed to stifle her. She looked at the chairs and tables, the magazines on a low stand, the several pieces of Staffordshire porcelain on the mantel-anywhere but at Rutledge’s face.
The door opened and Mrs. Barnett came in with their tea. Miss Connaught seemed almost relieved at the interruption, her eyes following the settling of the heavy tray on a table at her elbow.
Rutledge thanked Mrs. Barnett, and when she had gone, he said, “Would you rather I poured?”
Priscilla Connaught looked up at him, startled. “Yes. Would you? I-” She smiled for the first time, giving her face a little color. “I really think I’d drop the pot!”
He filled their cups, asked her her taste in sugar and cream, and handed her one of them.
She sat back, seeming to draw comfort from the warmth between her two hands. After a silence, she said, “I’ve come to ask you something that matters very much to me. I went to see Inspector Blevins, but the constable on duty tells me he’s gone home and I didn’t want to disturb him there. I’m not on the best of terms with his wife.”
“I don’t know that I can help you-” Rutledge began.
“It isn’t a state secret!” she said abruptly. “Surely not. I need to know, you see-I need to know if the man they have at the police station is the person who killed Father James. The constable suggested that I speak to you.”
Ah! Rutledge thought. Aloud he said, “Inspector Blevins believes that the man is the murderer. Yes.”
“And what do you think?”
Parrying the question, he asked, “Do you know Matthew Walsh?”
Surprised, she said, “Is that his name? No, I have no idea who he is.”
“He came to the bazaar. He was the Strong Man.”
“Oh. I do remember seeing him. He was quite a spectacle, actually. Why do they think he killed Father James?” She sipped her tea, and he thought for an instant that she was going to spill it-the contents seemed to move in tiny waves, in concert with her nervousness.
“Why are you so concerned for him?” Rutledge asked.
“Concerned?” she repeated, as if bewildered. “For him? No-I have no interest in him at all. I want to know who killed Father James. It’s very important to me to know! That’s why I’ve asked about this man.”
“Are you a parishioner at St. Anne’s?”
“I attend Mass there. But you’re not answering my question directly. Have the police found Father James’s murderer or haven’t they?”
“We aren’t sure,” he said. Something in her face shifted. Disappointment? Was that what she felt? He couldn’t be certain. “There appear to be very good reasons to believe that this man could have committed the crime. But there are also some unexplained problems. The courts may have to sort it out.”
“I need to know!” she said again, her voice harsh with that need. “I can’t wait until the courts do their work.”
“Why?” he asked bluntly. “Did you care so much for the priest?”
“I hated him!” Priscilla Connaught said roughly.
For an instant Rutledge was reminded of what Mrs. Wainer had told him. That Father James had been killed for revenge.
“That’s a very strong word, hate,” he told her. “And if you did hate him, why should you care whether his killer is found or not?”
“Because whoever killed Father James has cheated me!” she cried, her voice trembling. “And I want to see him hang for that!”
Looking back on the encounter, Rutledge realized that his face must have reflected his shock. Priscilla Connaught set her cup on the tray with a clatter that sent tea over the lip of the saucer and onto the shining silver surface.
“I shouldn’t have come,” she said, rising to her feet. “I didn’t mean a word of what I’ve just said. I’m upset, that’s all. Everyone in Osterley is upset by this murder. Frightened by it. It’s late, I must go-!”
Rutledge stood also. “No, I think you’ve told me the truth. And in my opinion, you owe me some explanation-”
“I just want the killer found, that’s all! That part is true enough. And I wanted to know if that man-what did you say his name was?”
“Walsh. Matthew Walsh.”
“Yes. If that man Walsh was likely to be the murderer. And you won’t tell me straight out whether you believe he is or not!”
She was flushed, and Rutledge thought she was close to tears. Suddenly he felt a wave of pity.
“We don’t have enough proof to charge him yet. It’s circumstantial evidence at the moment. But Inspector Blevins is waiting for information that might give us the answer to your question. And as a precaution he’s holding Walsh until it arrives.”
“Oh, God.” Her face seemed to close in on itself, the features tightening as if the muscles were pinched together. “Well, at least that’s honest.” She glanced around, searching for her purse, found it on the floor by her chair, and stooped to pick it up. “I’m sorry I interrupted your meal, Inspector. But I live alone; there’s no one to talk to about this. I sometimes think I’ve lost my perspective.”
“I wish you would be as honest with me,” Rutledge answered. “Why did you hate Father James?”
She sighed in resignation, brushing the edge of her hand across her forehead. “It was a very long time ago. Well in the past, and nothing to do with the police. It was before he became a priest. I went to him for advice, and he gave it to me. I followed it because I trusted him. And it ruined my life. It destroyed everything I believed in and loved and cared about. And this man who was so wise and compassionate and understanding became a priest. I have often wondered just how many other lives he ruined in his righteous belief in his own infallibility. But as long as I could hate him, I had something to live for, you see! And now that’s been taken away from me. And I really have nothing left. When that man killed Father James, he might as well have killed me, too!”
She swept past him, and out the door. Rutledge, staring at her stiff and uncompromising back, let her go.
Rutledge was halfway up the stairs when he thought about Monsignor Holston. He went down again to the lobby, found the telephone in the little alcove behind the desk, and put in a call to Norwich.
Eventually the priest answered, sounding out of breath. Rutledge identified himself.
“Sorry, I had to make a dash to answer the phone. Is there more news?”
“No, I’m afraid not. But I do have a small mystery on my hands. Tell me, do you know anyone called Priscilla Connaught?”
Monsignor Holston considered the question. “Connaught? No, I can’t place her.”
“She’s a parishioner here at St. Anne’s.”
“Was she at Mass this morning?”
“I didn’t see her. Tall, slim, graying dark hair.”
“No. I can’t put a face to the name. Does it matter? You could speak to Mrs. Wainer. She’d be able to tell you, surely?”
“Probably not important,” Rutledge said lightly. “Apparently Miss Connaught knew Father James a good many years ago. His death seems to have upset her more than most.”
“Priests have friendships, like anyone else. That shouldn’t surprise you.” There was a smile in the voice at the other end of the line.
“No, as a matter of fact, it doesn’t,” Rutledge responded. And after thanking Monsignor Holston, he hung up the telephone receiver.
Hamish said, “She wasna’ the kind of friend yon priest in Norwich would be told about. If she believed that Father James had ruined her life.”
“Yes,” Rutledge said slowly. “It’s an interesting thought, isn’t it? I wonder if she came to Confession every week to tell him how much she hated him. The skeleton at the feast, reminding the merrymakers of their fate. Or in this case, the priest of his failure.”
The dining room was closed, the French doors shut, and Mrs. Barnett was just coming out of the lounge with a tray laden with the cups and pots of tea that she had collected there.
The contrast with Priscilla Connaught was striking. Mrs. Barnett looked tired, her hands red from dishwater, and her black dress rumpled from the heat of the kitchen.
Rutledge offered to take the heavy tray, but she shook her head. “I’m used to it. But thank you.” She rested it on the polished wood of the reception desk, and said thoughtfully, “I didn’t know you were a policeman.”
“I wasn’t here in a strictly official capacity. Not at first,” he answered her. “But Inspector Blevins is understandably eager to complete this investigation. I’ve been asked to stay on until then.”
“Yes, I’d heard there was an arrest.” She looked around her at the lobby and the stairs to the rooms above. “I was glad it wasn’t someone who had stayed here, that week. That would have been shocking! We always have a few guests for such an event.”
Taking the opportunity presented, Rutledge asked, “Would you mind telling me what you know about Miss Connaught?”
Alarm filled Mrs. Barnett’s eyes. “I can’t believe she has anything to do with Father James’s death!”
“She offered some information, that’s all. I wondered if it was trustworthy.”
“Ah.” Mrs. Barnett turned the tray a little, thinking. “It probably is, because she has no particular reason to lie, as far as I know. She keeps to herself.” And then as if prompted by his attentive silence, Mrs. Barnett explained, “Which hasn’t endeared her to most of the women here in Osterley. Many of them have put her down as a snob. That reserve of hers shuts people out. My late husband always believed she’d been involved in some sort of scandal, and was banished from Society.” She tilted her head, in the way women did when amused about the antics of men. “Well, that’s the romantic view, anyway.”
“What’s the general impression?” Rutledge asked, as if merely curious.
“That the only reason she’d be content in Osterley for so many years is that she has nowhere else to go. Occasionally she’s invited to dinner, to make up the numbers, and if she accepts, she’s pleasant company. But not the sort of woman another woman would sit down and have a good gossip with. Men seem to find her rather attractive and well-informed. But she’s not a flirt. I’d always wondered if she was married to someone rather unpleasant and there was a nasty divorce. The woman who cleans for her helps out here at the hotel when we’re busy, and according to her, Miss Connaught has no photographs or other personal things in the house, as if there’s no past that she cares to remember.”
Hamish commented, “Or no future to fill…”
Realizing that she had said more than she intended, Mrs. Barnett reached for her tray. Glancing up at Rutledge, she added, “I shouldn’t have told you that! It’s no more than idle speculation and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t pass it on. As owner of the only hotel, my livelihood is dependent on my discretion.”
“I see no purpose in passing it on. You’ve helped me make a personal judgment, that’s all.”
Lifting the tray again, she smiled. “It must be the fact that you’re a policeman. You listen rather well, and before I knew it, I was rattling on. Or perhaps I’ve missed my dear friend Emily more than I’d realized, since she moved to Devon to be with her daughter!”
He opened the door to the kitchen for her, and said good night.