STILL MULLING OVER HIS CONVERSATION WITH Priscilla Connaught, Rutledge went out the hotel door into the evening air. The wind had picked up off the sea, cold as night, and he shivered. Turning toward The Pelican Inn, he made his way up Water Street to the main road, stopping for a time to look up at Holy Trinity. The church had beautiful proportions in this light, standing stark against the sky and framed by trees that marched south of it. Whoever had built it had had an eye for setting as well as architecture. Castles usually went up on the highest point in a district, but here it was the church. It must have been built after the Black Plague and the worst of the Wars of the Roses, because there were no defensive aspects in the design. Gracefulness was its hallmark, and the long windows, the high clerestory, the rise of the roof gave the tall tower at the west front and the round beacon tower at the chancel an elegance of their own.
Among the trees in the churchyard, Rutledge’s night-accustomed eyes picked out a solitary figure, head bent, standing among the gravestones. Then the figure straightened to stare up at the night sky above the towers. A mourner? Or another lonely soul with no home he wanted to go to?
“Like you?” Hamish asked softly.
Turning, Rutledge walked along the main road, passing the darkened windows of Dr. Stephenson’s surgery, the brightly lit ones of the police station, and what appeared to be a small country solicitor’s office tucked-with a prosperous air-into the corner where Water Street and the Hunstanton Road met.
His mind kept returning to the different view of Father James that Priscilla Connaught had presented to him, and before he could sleep, he wanted to think it through. Right or wrong, she herself believed it implicitly. Until half an hour ago, he’d believed that everyone had mourned Father James, the man and the priest, in equal measure.
“Relegating the dead to sainthood,” Hamish pointed out, “is no’ uncommon. No one wants to speak ill of the recent dead.”
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.”
He stopped, appalled, and turned to Rutledge, heedless of the brush in his hand dripping onto his shoes, exclaiming, “I’m sorry! I don’t know where that came from! You’re not here to listen to me, you’re here about Father James.”
“You’ve answered me,” Rutledge said, “in your own way.”
But Sims shook his head. And with a lightness that was assumed to hide much deeper feelings, he said, “If I had your skill at listening, I’d be a very grateful man!”
“It has haunted you, that skill,” Hamish said. For Rutledge remembered clearly every word Hamish had spoken in the trenches, as if each was carved into the depths of the soul, out of reach and never worn away.
After a moment, Sims went on. “Father James had no ambition to rise in the church, even though his Bishop liked him immensely. He was content where he was. He gave himself unstintingly to anyone who needed him, and he was-as far as I could see-a happy man.”
“Aye,” Hamish agreed, “with promotion a man is thrust into the glare of public notice. Was that what kept him content, anonymity?”
“I’ve been told,” Rutledge said slowly, “that his advice- well meant as it may have been-has sometimes caused great hardship for people.”
Sims knelt to work under the sill. “We talked a good deal, he and I. Well, we were both bachelors, and on occasion I’d dine at the rectory or he’d dine here, and we’d spend hours on whatever topic was uppermost in our minds. Sometimes we both feared we hadn’t given the best advice. That’s an occupational hazard. Are you infallible as a policeman? Do you know one who is?” The Vicar glanced up with a wry smile.
“That’s a tidy answer for the seminary,” Rutledge answered. “Perhaps in the scheme of a man’s life-or a woman’s-well-meant advice leaves abiding scars and misery.”
“We try,” Sims said, sadness in his voice. “We pray for solutions, for guidance. For understanding. It isn’t always forthcoming. And so we do great harm sometimes.” He moved on to the next windowsill.
“Enough harm that a man might turn on a priest and kill him?”
Startled, Sims swung around to face Rutledge. “God- I wouldn’t want to think about that!”
“But it isn’t impossible.”
He put the paintbrush down. “I-no. By the same token, you must understand that when a human being commits a sin, he’s well aware of it. He doesn’t come to us to be told that; he comes for a solution. A clergyman must address the fact that the cost of paying in full may be heavier or more difficult than the sinner expects. Seeing him through becomes our duty. We can’t self-righteously wash our hands of him and leave him to it!”
“But what if the payment for a sin is out of all proportion to what the sinner has done?” Rutledge asked, thinking of Priscilla Connaught’s face.
Sims said, “That’s where forgiveness comes into the picture. When restitution as such is not possible.”
Hamish growled a comment.
Rutledge, who understood better than most what restitution and forgiveness meant, didn’t answer. Instead he changed the subject. “Tell me about Herbert Baker.”
“Herbert Baker? Good heavens, what has Baker got to do with Father James?” Surprised, Sims stared at him. “Oh-you must be referring to the fact that he sent for a priest! I don’t know where you heard that story, but it isn’t so remarkable. A dying man is likely to worry about his soul in ways that we, with time to make amends still stretching out ahead of us, can’t imagine. What would be on your conscience that you’ve never told any other person?”
The question was rhetorical. But Rutledge’s face answered him.
“That’s what I mean,” Sims went on, “when I tell you that a dying man is not like other penitents. Baker asked for Father James, and he came as a kindness. I can’t tell you what passed between them. But Father James never gave me any cause to think he was worried about what was said to him that night.”
Hamish, judgmental in his own fashion, said, “Aye, but would he? The Vicar is no’ a man long on wisdom.”
“Did Herbert Baker confess to you?” Rutledge asked Sims.
Sims said uneasily, “Yes. I’m not at liberty-”
But Rutledge interjected, “I’m not asking you to tell me what he said-”
Sims, in his turn, interrupted him. “If you’re asking me if there were shocking revelations, no. I will say he was mainly afraid that he had loved his wife too dearly, and God would hold that against him. She’s dead, has been for a number of years. Apparently they were quite close.”
“And the dead man’s Will, what about that?”
“I expect it was in order. There’s not a lot of money here in Osterley to squabble over. I daresay the house was left to the elder son, but Martin is a very conscientious man. He’ll see his sister and his younger brother right.”
Leaving the vicarage, Rutledge crossed the road and walked up the hill to Holy Trinity. When he tried the north door, he found it was unlocked. Lifting the latch, he went inside, his eyes adjusting to the darkness.
Over his head the king-post roof was dark and lovely, and the sun spilled through a great stained-glass window leaving puddles of color on the stone floor. Looking up he saw that it depicted orders of angels-he could recognize the archangels and angels, seraphim and cherubim in rich shades of yellow and blue and blood red. The orders were a very popular theme in East Anglia. In the center was the symbol of the Holy Trinity, and at the bottom were four figures he couldn’t identify, although one looked suspiciously like early portraits of Richard II and another was self-proclaimed by the scroll spilling across his lap as the Venerable Bede.
Hamish, to whom stained glass was iconography close to idolatry, was more interested in the construction of the marvelously carved wooden roof. Rutledge walked down the nave past benches capped with ornate poppy-heads, like inhabited fleurs-de-lis, and armrests carved as small animals, from dogs to griffins to ponies.
His intention was to take a closer look at the window above the high altar, but as he entered the small choir he nearly stumbled over a box of charcoal and a knee.
The woman he’d spoken to so briefly the night before was sitting on a hassock making drawings of the odd figures on the misericords-those half-seats on which a monk might rest his posterior without actually sitting down in the choir chair assigned to him.
She looked up, as startled as he was, and said, “Sorry!”
Hamish, remembering Lord Sedgwick’s comment, said, “The religious woman.”
“Did I hurt you?” Rutledge asked in concern.
“Oh, no. And it’s my fault for sprawling across the floor with my kit.”
He looked down at the drawing she was making, of a nun with ragged teeth, dramatic and lifelike in bold strokes of charcoal. “That’s quite good.”
Her expression became defensive. “It’s a hobby,” she said curtly.
To shift the subject, he gestured around him. “This is a remarkably fine church.”
“Yes, it is. I knew someone who was writing a book about old parish churches. He brought it to my attention.”
“I shan’t distract you, I only intended to look at the glass here.” He walked on, examining the window with its fine colors and vividly detailed figures.
To his surprise, she said to his back, “You’re the policeman from London, I think?”
“Yes.” He didn’t turn.
“Perhaps you could tell me-is it true they’ve caught the man who killed Father James?”
Rutledge turned slowly. “You knew him? Father James?”
“A little. He was interested in work I was doing, and I found him quite knowledgeable about East Anglian church architecture. He was generous with his time and I valued that.”
Rutledge walked back to her. Her upturned face was attractive, with intelligent gray eyes and a determined mouth above a very pretty chin. The dress she was wearing, a mossy dark green, was very becoming, but without the drama that was part of Priscilla Connaught’s apparel. “We don’t know if we have the right man in custody. There’s a good deal of work to be done before we can be certain of his movements between the day of the bazaar and the murder. But Inspector Blevins expects to clear that up quickly.”
She nodded, as if satisfied.
Yet something in her voice-or the way in which she had waited until his back was to her-had touched that deep well of intuition that Rutledge had always relied on. There had been some deeper interest than mere curiosity in her question, he thought. Probing, his mind still on Priscilla Connaught, he asked, “Were you here in Osterley when the bazaar was held?”
“No, I was in Felbrigg, having dinner with friends.”
Rutledge shifted to another direction.
“Did you see Father James the day he was killed?”
“No-”
“Was there anything about his death that worried you?”
He waited, continuing to look down at her. It seemed to make her uneasy.
Reluctantly she tried to explain. “I haven’t had much experience with murder investigations. It was probably more my imagination than anything else. But Father James had asked me a question on the last evening I dined with him. It was on my mind for several days, and after he- died-I found myself wondering if it might be important. But if you’ve arrested your man, then of course I was wrong! It doesn’t signify now.”
Rutledge replied carefully, “Who can say? Perhaps it still has some bearing on the case. Have you spoken of this to Inspector Blevins?”
She frowned. “No. I thought it best not to say anything. Inspector Blevins seemed convinced that the motive for the murder was theft. Not ancient history.”
“Will you tell me what it was? My name’s Rutledge. Scotland Yard sent me to Osterley because Father James’s Bishop expressed grave concern over the time it has taken to clear up this business. It isn’t idle curiosity behind my questions. And I won’t repeat what you tell me to anyone else-until or unless I see the need.”
The woman picked up her charcoal again and began to put wrinkles into the wimple of the nun, capturing them perfectly. “No, I just-Father James was so kind that I- sometimes one wants to help so badly that one starts to imagine that what one knows is important. I’ve already explained: The matter he was referring to had happened some time ago, years in fact, and really had nothing to do with Osterley or anyone who lives here. It was only the importance that Father James seemed to attach to it that made me remember it at all.”
“Was it a church matter? Or a personal one?”
“I rather thought it was personal. Most certainly the subject was a painful one for me, and he-Father James- was helpful in dealing with that. In return, I tried to answer his question, and failed. A disappointment to him, and a regret for me. But it had nothing to do with Osterley, I give you my word.”
She bent her head over the drawing, and Rutledge, looking down at the nape of her neck and the dark sheen of her hair, decided that this was not the time to press her.
“If you change your mind, Mrs. Barnett will see that any message reaches me.”
“Yes. Of course.” It was said with grave politeness, but he knew she had no intention of doing any such thing.
He waited for a count of ten, but she seemed to be absorbed in her work, as if unaware that he was still there.
Hamish scolded, “You canna’ leave it!”
But Rutledge was already walking through the nave, listening to the silences of the shadowy church around him. He was thinking that Mrs. Barnett would give him the name and the direction of this woman, and he could put Sergeant Gibson on to searching for her background, with emphasis on what connection she might have to Osterley or East Anglia…
He had learned early on in his career at the Yard that people who did not want to talk to the police could not be made to do so. But he wanted very much to know what it was that Father James had asked of a comparative stranger that had left behind it such unease.