RUTLEDGE WAITED NEARLY TWENTY MINUTES IN Dr. Stephenson’s surgery before the nurse, Connie, summoned him and led the way to the small private office in the rear.
Stephenson, looking at Rutledge over the tops of his glasses, said, “I’d heard you went back to London.” He collected the sheets of paper he’d been reading and set them in a folder. “Blevins is a capable man. I can’t quite see the need of someone from London looking over his shoulder. Most of the town feels satisfied that Walsh killed Father James, and if there’s been any evidence to the contrary, I haven’t heard about it.”
“When a man travels the country as frequently as Matthew Walsh did, his movements aren’t always easy to follow. And the timing on a given date can be critical,” Rutledge answered without rancor, waiting to be offered the chair on his side of the desk.
Stephenson nodded toward it, and Rutledge sat down. “Then what brings you here today?”
“Walk lightly!” Hamish warned.
“I wasn’t present when the body was found. I’d like to hear what you saw and noted at the scene.”
“I wrote everything down for Blevins. The next morning, in fact.”
“That’s the official report. Well-considered medical opinions designed to stand up in court. What I’d like is your personal opinion-whatever you felt and saw and thought, whether you could support it with fact or not.”
Stephenson leaned back in his chair. “I can’t think why! It was a clear-cut case of violent death. No question about that.”
Rutledge rejoined mildly, “Still, you might provide a small piece of the puzzle that’s been overlooked.”
Stephenson, a man used to judging people and tracking down the site of illness from small signs, considered Rutledge more sharply, his mind working swiftly behind the shield of his glasses. “You aren’t suggesting that someone in Osterley-”
Rutledge cut across what he was about to say. “For instance, Monsignor Holston tells me he was disturbed by the presence of something malignant and evil in that room. Mrs. Wainer on the other hand believes that the murder was motivated by revenge. But neither of them would write such impressions in an official report. Nor would you.”
Hamish was saying something, but Rutledge listened to the silence instead.
Stephenson scratched his jaw, a rasping sound in the quiet of the room. “I can’t say that I had an initial reaction. Unless it was disbelief. The constable who came to fetch me told me that Father James was dead. I was short with him, saying that it was my business, not his, to make that determination. After we got to the rectory, I remember thinking that this vigorous, intelligent man seemed smaller in death than he was in life. But we were standing over Father James rather than looking him in the eye as we usually did, which probably explained why he seemed- diminished. There were half a dozen people in the room and I could hear a woman sobbing somewhere down the passage. Mrs. Wainer, that was. After that I was too busy to do more than note the circumstances.” He stopped, looking back at the scene imprinted on his memory.
Rutledge said, “Go on.”
“He was lying by the window, facing it and partly on his left side, his left hand outflung and open, and I remember thinking that he couldn’t have seen the attack coming. But Blevins was pointing out the destruction in the study- chairs overturned, papers and books scattered about-and suggesting that Father James had walked in on this confusion and then gone to the window to call for help. That’s an old house, but the sashes work smoothly; I tested them myself. Still, even if Father James had been successful in attracting attention, it would have been too late. The bastard had found the opportunity he was looking for and struck hard. Nevertheless, the victim was facing the windows, and Blevins knows his business better than I do. Mine was to examine the body.”
Hamish said, “It wasna’ proper, surely, to influence the doctor’s view!”
“It’s done often enough. Setting the scene, as it were,” Rutledge silently responded. “Human nature to pay heed to it.”
Stephenson took a deep breath and studied the ceiling. “There had been an emergency on one of the farms around five that same morning-I was tired. And Blevins was taking it hard-he was one of Father James’s flock, as you probably know. I saw no reason to doubt what he was telling me.”
“How did Blevins look to you?”
“He was extremely angry, but his face was pale, his hands shaking. I thought it likely that he’d just vomited from the shock. He said two or three times, ‘I can’t understand killing a priest for a few pounds-I didn’t think we held life as cheaply here as in London.’ Or words to that effect.”
“Tell me about the room.”
“It’d been ransacked. You must know that. I could hardly set a foot down without tramping on papers or books and the like. I looked for evidence of a struggle, but didn’t find any. I said something to Blevins about that, as I remember. I’d always had the feeling that Father James could look after himself. I’d see him on the road on that bicycle of his at any hour of the day or night, and in any weather. I was surprised that he hadn’t made any effort to defend himself. Of course, that was before Blevins brought in Walsh.”
“Aye,” Hamish reminded Rutledge, “it’s a question you raised, yoursel’.”
Stephenson looked at the pen on his blotter. “I couldn’t find any scratches on the hands, nothing under the nails. No marks on the face. Rigor was present, and I was fairly sure he’d been dead for more than twelve hours.”
His eyes came back to Rutledge’s face, as if the medical details were more comfortable than speculation. “The back of his skull was crushed and that large crucifix lay on the floor near the body. I could see hair and blood on it quite clearly. I knelt on my handkerchief and someone held a lamp for me, so that I might examine the wound better. There had been at least three blows-I could identify the shape of the square base at three different points. I would say that the first blow stunned him, the second one killed him, and the third would most certainly have made it impossible to survive. Each blow was delivered with considerable force, judging from the compression of the skull.”
“Which confirms,” Rutledge said, “that the priest was standing, his back to the killer?”
“That’s true. I was told later that there were no fingerprints on the crucifix where it must have been gripped for leverage-either it was wiped clean or the killer wore gloves.”
“Women wear gloves,” Rutledge said thoughtfully, thinking of Priscilla Connaught, who was tall for a woman.
“I won’t tell you that it couldn’t have been a woman,” Stephenson answered, “but I find it hard to believe a woman would have struck more than twice.” He shrugged. “Still, it would depend on her state of mind. This was a bloody wound, and in my experience, few women are willing to splatter themselves with bone and blood and brain tissue, no matter how angry or brave they are. It’s not medical opinion, of course, but as a rule, women avoid that sort of unpleasantness. I pronounced him dead, and called it what it was: murder.”
Rutledge mused, “I come back to the question, what would I do if I walked in on a thief?”
“I’ve never faced an intruder in my house, Inspector. I’d feel violated, walking in on such wanton destruction-I know that-and damned angry as well. If I recognized the person, I’d tell him to stop making an ass of himself and get the hell out of my house, if he wanted to escape charges. I’d be in no mood to be charitable. And probably get myself killed for it. I’d be more wary of a stranger, not knowing what he was capable of, but I’d still go after him. But then I’m not trained as a priest. It would make a difference.”
Hamish said, “He was in the War, Father James. Would he turn the other cheek?”
As if he had heard Hamish’s comment as clearly as Rutledge did, Stephenson straightened the folder on his desk to march with the right margin of the blotter and added with an odd tension in his face, “If there was no thief-if it wasn’t Walsh-then Father James was confronted by an enemy.”
Rutledge said nothing.
Stephenson moved uneasily in his chair. “No, disregard that, if you will. Blevins is a good policeman-he wouldn’t have got it wrong!”
Again Rutledge let the comment stand. Instead he asked, “Did you know much about Father James’s past?”
“That’s the trouble with you people from London! You don’t live here, you don’t understand the people here. You look for complexity, and these are not complex people.” Rutledge started to speak, but Stephenson said, “No, let me finish! Some twenty years ago, we had discussions to see if anything could be done to bring back the port. Experts from London preferred to keep the marshes as a sanctuary for birds. We said, What about the needs of the families who had to scratch a living here? But nobody listened. This was a good place for marshes, and marshes we would keep,” he said with growing heat. “Well, I’m the man who sees the cost of the struggle to make a living out here. I knew that Romney Marsh had been drained to make it fit for sheep grazing, and we could do the same here, along with dredging the port, making it safe for small boats and a holiday place for people who haven’t the resources to travel to the southern beaches. The experts would have none of it. You’re the expert here; you want to find something to blame Father James for, something to excuse the time and money the Yard has spent in sending you here. Well, it won’t wash. I knew the man. You didn’t.”
“He’s avoiding the question, ye ken,” Hamish pointed out.
Rutledge said without rancor, “I’m not suggesting that Blevins is wrong. Or that Father James was guilty of some unspeakable crime. But none of us is perfect-and people will kill for reasons that you and I couldn’t comprehend. One of the worst murders I’ve ever seen had to do with a simple boundary dispute, where a hedge ran over the line. Hardly a case for violence, but it ended in one man taking the shears to the other.”
Dr. Stephenson looked at him for a long moment. Then, as if against his will, growing out of some inner need he couldn’t silence, he said, “In all my personal and professional encounters with Father James, I never felt any doubt about his integrity or his honor.”
A but hung in the air between them, like a shout that couldn’t be ignored. Rutledge waited, silent.
And as if goaded by that, the doctor said, “Damn you! I don’t know why I’m telling you this. But there was something years ago that puzzled me, and I suppose that’s why I couldn’t put it out of my mind. It had to do with the sinking of Titanic. Once when I walked in on him-this was several months afterward-there was a great pile of articles spread out across Father James’s desk. A hundred or more cuttings, with notes in ink in the margins, and even photographs of passengers and recovered bodies. He saw me looking down at them, and before I could say a word, he’d gathered up the lot and swept it out of sight into a drawer, as if it were somehow… obscene material. I made some remark about the disaster, and his interest, and he said, ‘No, that’s nothing to do with me.’ It was odd, to hear a priest lie, and about something so- ordinary.” Dr. Stephenson frowned. “He never spoke of it again, and nor did I. But the lie never set well with me. I- In some fashion it altered my view of the man.”
He studied Rutledge’s face.
Rutledge said. “Perhaps he knew someone who had sailed on her.”
“I wondered about that, but people in Osterley seldom travel beyond Norwich or King’s Lynn. They most certainly don’t have the money for passage on a ship like that. I myself know of only one person who sailed on Titanic, and she didn’t live here at all. I can’t believe that Father James had more than a passing acquaintance with her.”
“Who was she?”
Stephenson answered testily, “Lord Sedgwick’s daughter-in-law. His son Arthur’s wife. An American. It was hushed up at the time-she’d left her husband and sailed for New York without a by-your-leave. Sedgwick and young Arthur had searched everywhere, they’d no idea where she went or why. She simply vanished. Until the ship went down, and someone found her maiden name in the passenger list. Terrible shock to the family.”
“Was her body retrieved?”
“I believe it was. The family held a private service on the estate. Look, I should never have spoken of this. For all I know, Fa her James had dreamed of running away to sea as a boy! Titanic was a marvel; she caught the fancy of the entire country. He was probably embarrassed to admit to sharing that excitement.” Stephenson took out his watch. “I’ve three more patients to see before I can go home for my dinner. Is there anything else you want to know?”
He made it sound as if Rutledge had been prying, vulgar curiosity driving him.
Rutledge rose and thanked him for his time.
He reached the door and was just putting his hand on the knob when the doctor said swiftly, for a second time, “Look, forget what I just told you.” There was a harsh expression on Stephenson’s face, a fierce desire to recall his words, and a strong dislike of the man who’d heard them.
As Rutledge walked down Water Street, he found himself wondering if indeed Father James had lied to the doctor. It was a small lie, of no great importance. Unless it was nested in a pattern of lies? This was perhaps what lay at the center of the doctor’s unease.
In the hotel lobby, Monsignor Holston rose from one of the chairs there and said, “I’ve come for lunch. Will you join me?”
It was an unexpected invitation. Rutledge said, “Yes. Let me wash up first, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.”
Rutledge took the stairs two at a time, wondering what had brought the priest here from Norwich.
“He canna’ stay away, for a man who doesna’ wish to stay here,” Hamish commented dryly.
Busy with that question, Rutledge reached the head of the stairs, turned toward his room, and in the narrow passage nearly collided with his fellow guest coming the other way.
“I beg your pardon!” he said, catching her arm to steady her. “I was in too much of a hurry.”
Startled by his sudden appearance, May Trent said hesitantly, “It was my fault as well. I had just knocked at your door. Today in the churchyard I should have apologized for last evening. You were trying to help, and I turned on you like a termagant. It was rude and ungrateful of me!” There was a rueful smile in her eyes.
“Not at all,” he said lightly. “You had no reason to believe my methods would work.”
“I had no cause not to believe in them. But I have a way of collecting lost sheep, and then defending them from imaginary wolves. When I returned to my table, my friends had a few pithy comments to make. You may consider me chastised and properly chastened.”
Rutledge laughed, and received a deeper smile in return. He noticed a flicker of a dimple in one cheek, and on the spur of the moment said, “I have a friend who has come to take lunch with me. He’s a priest, and should know more than most about the old churches in this part of Norfolk. If Mrs. Barnett can accommodate us, would you care to join us?”
Hamish grumbled that it was unwise.
For an instant Rutledge could see that she was tempted, but she shook her head. “That’s kind of you. My friends are leaving for London tonight, and asked me to come with them as far as King’s Lynn. I’ve promised.”
She started past him, to the top of the stairs, but he put out a hand to stop her. “Miss Trent, I need to ask-it’s a matter of police business. Are you aware that Father James has left a bequest to you in his Will?”
“Bequest? There must be some mistake.”
“His solicitor has had some difficulty carrying out Father James’s wishes, because neither he nor the housekeeper has been able to find the item-”
Miss Trent shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve heard nothing of this-and I know of nothing that Father James might wish me to have.” She was clearly mystified, and a little apprehensive.
“It was a photograph. It was kept in the drawer of his desk, but apparently it isn’t there any longer. Did he by any chance give it to you himself?” And perhaps hadn’t got around to rescinding the codicil.
…
She said, “No. He gave me nothing, and he said nothing about a bequest. Are you quite certain-why should he leave me a photograph?”
“Perhaps you should speak to the solicitor about it. The name in the Will is Marianna Trent, of London.”
“But I haven’t used Marianna since I was a child. Everyone calls me May. Marianna was also my aunt’s name, you see, and perhaps he meant her? Although he never said anything to me about knowing her-” The confusion in her face seemed genuine.
“Did he ever show you a particular photograph? Of himself, of his family, possibly of someone who was in some fashion dear to him? Someone he discovered you had known as well?”
The confusion cleared, but a frown took its place, as if the reminder was not welcome. “I think-it’s possible I know what you mean. But I haven’t the time to discuss it now. I’m already late; my friends will be waiting. When I come back to Osterley tomorrow? Will that do?”
He wanted to tell her that it wouldn’t. But she was eager to be gone, and he had no choice but to step aside and let her pass. She went quickly down the stairs, her heels clicking softly in the carpeting, and he heard the door to the street open and close behind her.
Hamish said, “It doesna’ seem to be of importance to her, this photograph.”
“On the contrary,” Rutledge answered thoughtfully. “I believe she would much prefer not to talk about it at all.”
Mrs. Barnett had already seated Monsignor Holston, and was chatting with him at the table. She looked up as Rutledge came striding through the French doors, and smiled. “Here he is now,” she said. “I’ll just go and fetch the soup.”
Except for the two men the dining room was empty, no other tables set, no other guests expected.
The scent of warm bread rose from a basket on the table as Rutledge took his chair next to the window.
“I have it on the best authority,” Monsignor Holston was saying. “This is one of the tallest loaves ever to come out of her ovens.”
“I’ve had no complaint about the food here,” Rutledge agreed. “I don’t see how she manages the hotel without more help. I’ve seen a maid upstairs a time or two, and there’s someone in the kitchens to do the scullery work. But Mrs. Barnett appears to do most everything else. She’s a widow, I think?”
“Her husband was quite a gifted man. He could turn his hand to anything-and it would flourish. But Barnett died just before the War, of a gangrenous wound. A horse stepped on his foot, and infection set in. They amputated the foot, then the leg, and in the end couldn’t do anything to save him. She watched him die by inches, and nursed him herself.”
“Did you know him?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. He’d been hired by Father James for work on the rectory, and I’d approved the cost at the Bishop’s request. Barnett was working there when he was injured.”
“You seem to know the parish here rather well. Are you equally knowledgeable about all of them?”
“No more than most. Old churches and rectories require an enormous level of upkeep, and while the local priest does as much as he can, the diocese has to fund many of the major repairs. Which means that I inspect and report, approve agreements, and pay the workmen.” He grimaced. “A far cry from the office of priesthood I prefer. That’s why I’m under consideration for St. Anne’s, because I’ve asked to serve a church again.”
Dishes of hot soup arrived on the tray Mrs. Barnett held aloft, and she set them before the two men with an unobtrusive grace. Vegetable, Rutledge decided, in a rich beef broth. He realized he was ravenous.
Cutting through the crisp crust of the loaf of bread, Rutledge said, “Did Father James find his parish troublesome? That’s to say, the kinds of problems he had to deal with here? I should think it would vary from church to church.”
“Human nature is human nature, everywhere. Still, this was once a rich parish, and now it’s not. The kinds of problems shift with the economic balance.”
“Give me an example.”
Monsignor Holston was suddenly uneasy. After some seconds, he began slowly, “A priest counsels broken marriages and intercedes in disputes. Sometimes he has to take sides, and that’s never simple. He tries to set the moral character of his parish; he keeps an eye on wayward children. God knows there are enough of those, thanks to the War.”
“Which tells me he knows the secrets of dozens of people.”
Monsignor Holston shook his head. “We’re not speaking of the confessional.”
“Neither am I. Only of secrets that might be more important to someone than we realized.”
“The Vicar at Holy Trinity can tell you much the same story, if you ask. Hardly the stuff of revenge, if that’s what you’re getting at. For instance, there was a youngster here in Osterley. Wild and heading for trouble. We discussed what to do about him. How best to redirect his energies. Father James discovered that the boy was interested in motorcars and aeroplanes, and was all for becoming a mechanic. His father was set on making him a farmer, like his forebears. It took some persuasion, but the father finally relented and let the lad learn a trade.” He smiled wryly. “It isn’t always quite that easy. But that’s more or less typical, all the same.”
“Not as typical as telling a straying husband that he has to confess to his wife that there’s a child out of wedlock. Or telling a man angry with his neighbor that he has to apologize and make restitution for whatever he’s done. That’s more the stuff of revenge.” Leaving the thought lying there, Rutledge changed the subject. “Tell me about Father James’s interest in Titanic.”
Surprised, Monsignor Holston stopped with his spoon in midair, staring at Rutledge. Then he said slowly, “I suppose he was overwhelmed by it, like the rest of us. And of course Lusitania as well. There’s great loss of life when a ship goes down. It’s almost incomprehensible.”
Hamish said, “He willna’ gie ye a straight answer!”
“There was a particular photograph Father James wished to bequeath to someone. The solicitor can’t find it. It wasn’t in his desk, where he’d indicated it would be found.” Rutledge broke off a piece of bread.
Monsignor Holston put down his spoon. “Let me see. There were the usual photographs from seminary, quite a few of his family, that sort of thing. He liked Wales, he’d walked there a number of times on holiday. As I remember, he’d had a number of those framed, and of course a few from the Lake District, too. Speak to Ruth Wainer. She will know.”
“I have. She doesn’t,” Rutledge said baldly, and paused, to let Monsignor Holston finish his soup. When the plates had been removed, he went on. “What did you know about Father James that frightens you so much? Did he have another side that we haven’t stumbled across? A secret life, perhaps.”
An angry flush rose under the priest’s fair skin. “That’s ridiculous! You know it is!” He considered Rutledge for a moment and added more calmly, “I thought the matter was settled. That it was Walsh who’d done the murder!”
“I have a feeling you aren’t satisfied with Walsh as the killer either. You wouldn’t still be afraid of that rectory, if you were. And it’s true-there are holes in the evidence against him. Even Inspector Blevins is aware of that. The question is where to look if Walsh is shown to be innocent. I have no allegiances here in Osterley, you see. Or to the church that Father James served. I’m not afraid to turn over stones and see what’s there… I think the time has come for you to tell me what’s behind your fear.”
Monsignor Holston said earnestly, “Look. I’m in no position to tell you whether Walsh is guilty or not. What I can tell you is that Father James had no secret life-”
“He was-apparently-fascinated by the Titanic disaster-”
“So you say!” Monsignor Holston interrupted. “But he never told me the disaster fascinated him. For God’s sake, even priests have a life of their own. I know one who has written quite knowledgeably about butterflies. Another who collects front-edge paintings, and one who prides himself on having grown the finest marrows in Suffolk. I have an interest in grafting fruit trees. I can’t say that I talk about it very often. But it’s a way of relaxing, when I have the time.”
Hamish said, “He’s a bloody master at shifting your questions… .”
“Mrs. Wainer believes Father James was killed for revenge. Why would she tell me that, if he had no enemies?”
“You’ll have to ask her!”
“And there’s a Priscilla Connaught, who said that Father James ruined her life, and she hated him. It must have been true. I watched her eyes as she said the words. There’s a man called Peter Henderson, whose father disowned him, and Father James did his best to heal the breach, to the anger, apparently, of both parties. Failures, both of them! Potential murderers? Who knows?”
Mrs. Barnett came with another tray laden with dishes. She took one look at Monsignor Holston’s stormy face, and at the coldness in Rutledge’s, and made no effort to talk to them as she deftly arranged the dishes of vegetables and roasted potatoes, then set in front of them the heavy platters of baked fish.
When she had gone, Monsignor Holston tried to recover his equilibrium. Struggling with something he himself found it difficult to express, he made an effort to explain. “The boy who wanted to be a mechanic had secret dreams he couldn’t tell his own father. But he told Father James. People do confide in priests: their dearest hopes, darkest fears. But we aren’t perfect, and we aren’t always going to get it right. Failure means the person wasn’t ready to come to terms with a problem.”
“Perhaps a comfortable conclusion to draw as an excuse to walk away.”
“We can’t work miracles where none is wanted. And sometimes we can’t stand up in a court of law and tell the secrets of others-” The words had slipped out, and the priest’s eyes told Rutledge that he was instantly regretting them.
“Are you trying to say that one of the secrets Father James kept had to do with breaking the law?”
Monsignor Holston lifted his serviette to his mouth, giving him time to find the words he wanted. “I’m telling you that Father James never led a double life. I would swear to that. In your courtroom. As for what his parishioners confided in him, Father James took his knowledge of that to the grave. I was never a party to it, unless there was some way in which I could help. Which is as it should be. What I don’t understand, if we’re getting down to bitter truth, is why you’re still asking me questions when there is already a man in a cell. If as you say, I have a feeling of dissatisfaction, how do you define your own persistence?” Monsignor Holston let that lie between them for a moment, then added, “You haven’t been exactly open with me, either, have you?”
Hamish, who had been listening carefully, said to Rutledge, “He doesna’ want you to stop searching!”
Rutledge didn’t answer, his eyes on Monsignor Holston’s face.
“Did Father James ever speak of Matthew Walsh to you? During the War or after it?”
“That’s the name of the man Blevins brought in, isn’t it? No. Should he have?”
“Just closing a circle.” And then Rutledge changed the subject entirely to something more pleasant. But he’d learned what he wanted to know. Not even for the deep friendship that had existed between the two priests was Monsignor Holston willing to break whatever rules bound him. Or it could be that he suspected that something had disturbed Father James over the same period during which Mrs. Wainer had noticed a similar uneasiness, and was afraid to speculate aloud on the reason for it, because if he was wrong, he might reveal matters best left hidden.
“Aye, he canna’ tell you the lot, and let you sort through them!” Hamish agreed.
If the murderer was afraid that what one priest knew, he might pass on to another, surely that pointed away from a parishioner at St. Anne’s? And toward someone who wasn’t clear on how the priesthood worked.
It was an interesting avenue to explore. Rutledge had a sudden feeling that Blevins was right about one thing- that it wasn’t the collar that had made Father James a victim.
For the remainder of the meal, Monsignor Holston appeared to be distracted, as if behind the now ordinary conversation he was conducting with Rutledge, he was weighing what he had said earlier-and what conclusions the man from London would have drawn from his words.
As they rose to leave the dining room, the Monsignor paused on the threshold to the lobby, his eyes heavy with a personal guilt. “I’m a clever man when it comes to the faith I uphold. I understand the nuances of Church Law, and the responsibilities I’ve undertaken. Father James was a man who carried that a step further. He was deeply involved with the needs of people. That’s why he was still a parish priest, while I had moved higher in the Church hierarchy. If he hadn’t been a priest, I think he would have been a teacher. Please keep that in mind as you go digging through his life. You could do a great deal of harm, without ever intending to do it.”
Rutledge understood what he was trying to say-that it was important to exercise discretion in what was brought out into the open.
Monsignor Holston went on wearily, “I’m not sure what I believe anymore. Whether there was a sense of evil in that study or not. I could have imagined it, just as you suggested the first day we talked. I could have been searching for a way to explain the death of a friend. I don’t even know how I feel about Walsh, whether I have compassion for him or not. In the days just after the murder, I was haunted by the need for action, for answers, for proof that this death mattered to the authorities, that out of the shame of it would come some meaning, a memorial to a good man.”
Rutledge said, “I don’t believe you were necessarily wrong about the sense of evil there in the study. My only question from the beginning has been, why should evil reach out to touch a parish priest in a small town, hardly more than a village, on a bleak and marshy stretch of coast? That’s the answer I have to find.”
Monsignor Holston started to say something, then bit back the words. Instead he reached out and clapped a hand on Rutledge’s shoulder. “I’ll make a bargain with you-with the devil, as it were. If you come to me with the truth, and I recognize it, I’ll tell you so.”
And with that he was gone, leaving behind an air of contradiction that was the closest this Norwich priest could come to openness.