RUTLEDGE ATE DINNER IN THE QUIET little restaurant attached to the hotel. Most of the other diners were local people, and he belatedly remembered, thinking about it, that it was Saturday evening. The hats of the ladies lacked style but were worn with pride, and the suits of the younger men were pre-War, ill-fitting, as if the weight lost in whatever theater they’d served hadn’t been regained. Couples chatted self-consciously, keeping their voices low and falling silent from time to time as though they had no idea what to say to each other. Four-five years of war left gaps in their lives that would be slow to mend.
He wondered what Jean had to say to her Canadian diplomat. How long, even, she had known him. Not that it mattered…
As the door from the lounge bar opened, Rutledge looked up. In that brief instant he thought he recognized the man standing by the hearth drinking down what appeared to be a Scotch and water. But when the door opened again the man was gone.
It was the same man he’d seen bringing in the boat at the Osterley quay, he was nearly sure of it. Edwin, his name was…
The hotel’s food was simple but well cooked: carrot soup, roast mutton and potatoes, with a side dish of cabbage and onions, and an apple tart to finish. With only Hamish for company, Rutledge’s mind, unbidden, returned to the murder of Father James.
Why is it, he found himself thinking, that there has to be meaning in an unforeseen death? All of nature kills without compunction. Why should Everyman die with a fanfare of trumpets, like another Hamlet? In London he, Rutledge, had seen his share of wanton murder, where life had been snuffed out callously. And yet Father James’s friends had searched for purpose in his death, as if this somehow provided a legacy…
Hamish, with relish, reminded him that there was no longer a case. “If yon Strong Man is the murderer, it’s no’ your duty to finish the investigation.”
Rutledge heard him, and even agreed. But he was not satisfied.
If he was guilty, Walsh’s motive had been theft. To pay for his new cart. And Father James most certainly would have recognized him. Even in a dark room, the sheer size of the man would have given him away. That alone might have turned Father James toward the window to call for help. On the other side of the coin, if Walsh had been startled to find someone walking into the study, he couldn’t have guessed that the priest was not likely to press charges. Cornered, he would have tried to protect himself as best he could, and once the crucifix was in his hand, it was a very small, frantic step to using it. A frightened man, looking for a way out…
What would Mrs. Wainer have to say to that? Or Monsignor Holston?
Even Inspector Blevins, with his man apparently safely tucked away in a cell, had asked Rutledge to stay on in Osterley.
Why?
By the time Rutledge had reached his dessert, he had come to realize that each of Father James’s defenders had spread over the indignity and degradation of murder a cloak of tragedy. But even their vision of that cloak was different.
What was it about this priest’s death that made everyone wary of the simple truth? Or made the simple truth a very odd choice? What had they failed to tell their visitor from Scotland Yard?
Hamish interrupted him to ask why a Protestant in apparently good standing with his own pastor would suddenly demand to see a different one-and one outside his own faith? It was not something that set well with his Covenanter’s view of things. Come to that, he persisted, why would Father James feel concerned about that dying Protestant’s mental stability?
Rutledge was moving on to the lounge for his tea. In a quiet corner, where the bay window looked out over the dark gardens, he discovered that he was staring at his own reflection in the uneven, two-hundred-year-old glass. It distorted his features, giving him a sinister look. But mercifully, the chair had been set at an angle, the reflection of Rutledge’s right shoulder masked by the shadows of the velvet drapes, and there was no way to tell if there was anyone standing behind him- A shiver ran through him and he turned away from the window. Even the teacup in his hands couldn’t warm the coldness that had touched him-what if the chair had been placed only another few inches one way or the other, and he had stared without warning into a bloody and accusing face?
Hamish prodded again, the voice just out of Rutledge’s line of sight. Still shaken, it took him several minutes to answer.
Confession was a sacrament in the Catholic Church… The stricture on silence was not as strong in the Church of England.
If there had been something on the old man’s conscience, something serious enough for confession to ease his dying, he might well have chosen not to tell his own Vicar. As Dr. Stephenson himself had pointed out, Sims knew the family-the wife, if there was one, the children. Instead Baker might have turned to a priest who not only was bound by secrecy but had no close ties with the survivors.
“I canna’ see it makes sae great a difference! Unless the truth would prevent Baker from lying in consecrated ground.”
That was something Rutledge hadn’t considered.
“He wouldna’ fash himsel’ o’er small sins,” Hamish continued. “And I canna’ think whatever it was weighed sae heavily on his conscience, if he carried it about wi’ him to auld age!”
Rutledge agreed. Nothing so common as infidelity or an unpaid debt would send Father James to the doctor to ask questions about Baker’s sanity. And a man confessing to a sin, even to a crime long forgotten by everyone else, would present no question of conscience for the priest. A dying man was past trying in a court of law. Justice, after a fashion, had been done.
Father James had spoken of the dead man’s Will…
What if one of the inheriting children had no right to the family name?
“Aye. That,” Hamish answered his thought, “would be a serious matter.”
Or had another name that had been kept hidden for a lifetime Was that the secret the dying man wanted to impart to Father James? To leave behind a record of a child’s true heritage?
Was it that responsibility that had kept the priest pacing the rectory floor at night? Surely he might have felt he owed some duty there.
If it was a Confession, Father James wouldn’t have spoken of it to Monsignor Holston. He was bound by his vows not to tell anyone, even another priest. Or even to seek comfort in his own quandary. But Monsignor Holston might have been aware of some distraction, of a heavy burden that was never brought into the open…
It was an interesting dilemma, what to do about a Confessed sin.
And where there was a Will, there was a solicitor who had drawn it up. If there were dark secrets in the Baker family, perhaps he would also have a few of the answers. If there were none to be found…
“We’re back again to the War,” Hamish said without enthusiasm. “You ken, better than most, what secrets soldiers bring home with them. Or what secrets a man might confess before battle, no’ expecting to survive it!”
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?
The next morning Rutledge left the Norwich hotel and drove back to Osterley, Hamish battering at the back of his mind.
Rutledge hadn’t slept deeply the night before, unable to find a comfortable position. His chest had throbbed relentlessly, torn muscle overtired from fighting the wheel (Frances would have had his head if she’d known) and refusing to be eased.
Consequently he’d been subjected to a long and unpleasant interlude every time he’d roused enough to turn over. Hamish, for one reason or another, had taken a dislike to the damp, dreary weather and was in full form.
If he wasn’t comparing the rounded green land of this part of Norfolk to the great barren mountains and long glens of Scotland, he was reviewing the circumstances surrounding the death of Father James or mulling over the conversation with Monsignor Holston or Inspector Blevins. Awake, Rutledge was unable to let down his guard. Asleep, pain found him again in an endless, restive circle.
Hamish, Rutledge discovered he was thinking at some point, was a malevolent spirit with no need for sleep.
This morning, fighting a headache from the unpredictable shifts in subjects, some of them seeming to lie in wait for him and aimed with a deadly accuracy, others following the unsettled state of his own thoughts, Rutledge was glad to see a modicum of sunlight sifting through the overcast. It seemed to foretell a lifting of the clouds in his mind.
Hamish seemed to find it more to his liking as well. As the land changed a little, announcing their approach to the sea, Hamish unexpectedly said, “It isna’ a verra’ pleasant thought, returning to London. I canna’ ken why people live in cities, jammed cheek by jowl like so many sheep off to market!”
Rutledge agreed. His cluttered office was claustrophobic when rain ran down the soot-blackened windows, shutting him in with the lamplight and the musty smell of cigar smoke and wet wool. When it rained, Old Bowels’s moods were as unpredictable as the shifts in Hamish’s trains of thought.
Nor was he eager to return to Frances’s watchful care. His sister was a master at concealing her worry behind a light facade of humor, but he knew her too well to be taken in by it. He said aloud, in the silence of the motorcar-a habit he found nearly impossible to break“I’ll be here at least one more day. It will do no harm.”
A lorry, bound from King’s Lynn to Norwich, sent an arc of muddy water across Rutledge’s bonnet as it passed in the southbound lane. He blinked as the spray washed the windscreen and left behind a dark and odiferous residue that slowly vanished in the drizzle that had resumed, swallowing up the sun.
As he drove into the town, Rutledge saw people hurrying toward Holy Trinity, bound for the service. He recognized a few of the faces from his brief visit on Saturday- the farmer and his sons who had successfully purchased the prize ram, the young woman he’d seen earlier in the churchyard, the barmaid at The Pelican, and two of the children who had been playing in Water Street. The familiar habit of Sunday worship comfortably being followed: occasionally greeting a friend, often looking up at the great tower that marked their destination as if already focused on the service. There was something very English about it.
He had the odd feeling that he had come home.
The constable on duty in the police station informed him that Inspector Blevins was at Mass, and had left word that he would expect his London counterpart after lunch.
“If there’s a Mass, there’s a priest,” Hamish told Rutledge as he walked back to the motorcar.
“Yes. I’d like to see who has been sent to conduct it.”
He turned the car and drove to St. Anne’s. The watery sunlight brightened.
Stopping in the drive beside the rectory, Rutledge sat back in his seat, trying to ease the tense muscles in his chest, massaging his upper arm near the shoulder, commanding it to relax. He’d nearly succeeded by the time the first of the parishioners came out of the service and walked away down the street.
Watching them, he wondered which had been under suspicion before Walsh had been taken into custody. Surely Blevins had considered a good many of them, before the investigation had widened.
In a few moments, Monsignor Holston stepped out of St. Anne’s and stood by the door, speaking to each family as they left the service. Rutledge, watching, could see that Monsignor Holston knew a number of them, and found a brief word even for those he didn’t. For a scholarly man, the priest had a remarkably affable manner with people. Inspector Blevins, in the middle of a group, stopped to make several remarks, and the priest’s face lighted a little. But there was doubt in his expression as he turned his head to follow Blevins and his family as they walked on. A trio of elderly women, dressed in black and very eager to take Monsignor Holston’s hand in their turn, brought up the rear of the procession of people. He reassured each woman, bending to hear what the eldest, stooped and leaning on a cane, had to say. But in the end he shook his head.
Hamish said, “He doesna’ know who will replace Father James.”
“I have a feeling the Bishop may wait until the police have finished their job.”
As the women moved off down the path, Monsignor Holston turned to go back into the sanctuary, and then saw Rutledge for the first time, hailing him.
Rutledge got out of the car and strode toward the church.
“Well met,” the priest said. “Come and talk to me while I change out of my robes.”
Rutledge joined him at the door. “I see you were sent here to conduct the service. Does this mean the Bishop has made no decision about Father James’s successor? Or are you taking up residence now?”
“The Bishop’s biding his time. I think he prefers to wait until there’s some news about the killer. Not wanting to be seen to be filling Father James’s shoes with unwarranted haste. But he can’t leave it much longer. There are needs here that I can’t meet, coming only for a day. And most of all it’s a need for continuity, a sense of order having been restored.”
They went into the sanctuary together and down an aisle. “This is a very lovely church, you know.” Monsignor Holston gestured to the stark simplicity surrounding them. “Father James used to say that it was stripped of all pretension, down to the bare bones of faith. Architecturally, that’s quite true. And I think he carried that message through into his pastoring here. But this is a dying parish; there’s no work for the young people here along the coast. The Bishop should find a young priest with energy and ideals to fill Father James’s shoes. One who might reach them before they wander off to work in Norwich or King’s Lynn or Peterborough. You could see for yourself how many of those present this morning were over forty.”
“Yes, I had noticed. Is this considered advice? Or an offering to the gods to keep you safely in Norwich?”
Opening the vestry door, Monsignor Holston smiled. “Yes, there’s that. I don’t mind coming here for the services. I just don’t have a fancy for staying.”
“I should think with Walsh’s capture that much of the strain would begin to dissipate.” To soften the remark, Rutledge added, “Although that will take time, I’m sure.”
Monsignor Holston shook his head. “There’s still something in that house”-he gestured toward the unseen rectory-“that would keep me awake at night!”
“The coffin door knocker, for one?” It was said lightly.
The smile returned. “That was a bit of whimsy on some Victorian priest’s part. A reminder that dust to dust is everyone’s fate.” He took off his robes and laid them carefully in the small black case on the table. After a moment he said, “I was surprised to see you still here, Inspector. I had thought you’d go back to London, duty done.”
“I had every intention of going,” Rutledge answered. “But Inspector Blevins has asked me to stay on a day or two. Until they are sure that this man Walsh is the one they want. They only brought him in yesterday, and there’s still a great deal to find out about his movements.”
Monsignor Holston nodded. “Blevins spoke to the Bishop last night. ‘Early days’ was what he said, but I think he’s very hopeful. Bishop Cunningham asked to be kept informed.”
“Blevins would also like to see this ended.” Rutledge paused, watching Monsignor Holston as he added the consecrated wafers to his case and closed the lid. As they walked out the vestry door into a spreading patch of sunlight, he said, “I’m just going to the hotel to see about a room. Will you join me for lunch?”
Monsignor Holston sighed. “I’d like that very much. But I have to be back in Norwich for a service tonight. If you’re here next Sunday, I’ll accept.”
“If I’m still here,” Rutledge agreed. “Where did you leave your motorcar?”
“Behind the rectory. Look, if you are staying on here, will you keep me apprised of the situation? I’m sure Inspector Blevins will have his hands full. And-I’d appreciate it.”
“Yes, I will.”
And Monsignor Holston was gone, hurrying around the apse into the churchyard, lifting a hand in farewell as he disappeared in the direction of the rectory.
Hamish said, “He left with indecent haste.”
“Yes. I don’t know what he’s afraid of, but Monsignor Holston is a man looking over his shoulder. He wanted me to come inside with him because he didn’t want to be in that church alone. At a guess I’d say he’s not sure the evidence against Walsh will stand.”
“Aye,” Hamish said thoughtfully. “There’re ghosts there. But of his making or are they real?”
“I wish I knew!” Rutledge answered, walking back to his own motorcar.
The Osterley Hotel had once been grander, when the town was closer to the sea. Now it offered comfort to what travelers there were and to families and merchants staying for market day. Rutledge thought it might also be the only lodging within several miles where townspeople could put up guests.
The hotel stood on Water Street, where the road ran along the quay, and was built of the ubiquitous flint, three stories with windows looking out over the marshes or onto a courtyard at the side of the building, where carriages and motorcars could be left.
The woman who came to the desk as he entered was nearing fifty, he thought, her graying hair tidily pulled back into a soft knot at the nape of her neck. Clear gray eyes met his when he asked for a room. “For the night?”
“For several days,” he said.
She nodded, pleased. “There’s a nice view of the sea from number seventeen. If you have keen eyesight,” she added with a smile. “What brings you to Osterley? We don’t get many holiday-makers this time of year.”
“A matter of business,” he said pleasantly. “When did the sea recede?”
“Not in my lifetime. The early years of the last century. Though they say that the storms since 1900 are eroding the beaches again, and we might see the water return within the next ten or twenty years. That would be nice!” There was more hope than certainty in her voice. “We serve breakfast at seven, later if you prefer it. And if you’ll be in to luncheon, we’d like to know. It’s generally served at half past twelve. Dinner is from seven to nine. Then the cook wants to go home. You can also find a meal at The Pelican when we’re closed. That’s the pub at the end of the quay.”
She was leading him up stairs that had been painted a soft green to match the carpet running down the center of the first-floor passage. A line of photographs in gold-trimmed oak frames had been hung along the walls, and he saw that they were early photographs showing Osterley when it still managed to attract a few bathers. Dark and faded, but fascinating as history: Victorian women in black silk gowns and bonnets strolling by the sea with black silk parasols shading their faces from the sun; small boats coming in to the quay in deeper water than existed now; and a fisherman proudly displaying his catch, his cap at a jaunty angle. There was a very early photograph of a coaster unloading freight, boxes and bales and barrels, just beyond The Pelican. And next to that, children forming a ring of curious faces around a pair of seals on the strand, their sleek, wet heads cocked in wary uncertainty. In this one, the marshes were a thickening line of reeds and grasses, more prominent to the east, leaving the western side of the narrowing harbor as a last sacrifice to the encroaching silt.
Noticing Rutledge’s interest, she said, “My grandfather took those. Avid photographer with a keen eye for such things. He was lucky with the seals-they don’t come this far south very often.” She stopped before number seventeen and opened the door.
It was a bright room, flooded with light from a double pair of windows. Large, well furnished with a bedstead of mahogany wood, a dresser with a mirror, and a clothespress that matched. A painted washstand stood in the corner. Two comfortable chairs framed a table under the first pair of windows, and a desk was set under the second.
“The finest room in the house,” Hamish murmured.
“I’m Mrs. Barnett,” she told Rutledge. “If I’m not in the office, I’m in the kitchen or out to do the marketing. Leave a note if you can’t find me.”
“I will. Thank you.”
“Do you care for luncheon today? As it’s Sunday, The Pelican is closed. You’ll have to drive inland some distance.”
“If that’s no trouble.”
“We have one other guest at the moment, and she’s staying in. Not a very agreeable morning for exploring the countryside! But I think it will clear by afternoon.”
She cast one last glance around the room, nodded, and closed the door.
Rutledge went to the windows and looked out. From the first floor he could indeed see the water, a thin line of waves curling in, gleaming dully, and a flight of birds rising from the shingle strand. The hummocky, marshy ground filling the harbor from the headland to his left as far as the great hook of land that served as a natural breakwater on his right appeared to be threaded with foot-wide rivulets of no great depth, as well as the little stream that was all that remained of the harbor.
Having seen the photographs in the passage, he realized that the buildings that had once served the sea-shops selling ship’s stores, fish markets, taverns, yards-had long since been turned to other uses. He had noticed one sporting a sign proclaiming a branch of the wildfowl trust. Another had become a smithy-cum-garage.
Hamish said, “I ken the sea taking a man’s livelihood. Storms scour the coast of Scotland. Men drown, ships are lost. It’s a hard life. But here…”
“They turned their hands to other things, I expect. Norfolk is sheep country. Or people simply moved on, those with a skill to offer somewhere else.”
For a time he stood there simply enjoying the view, his windows open to the cry of the seagulls and the light breeze that was rapidly clearing the rain out. But the air here was fresh and clean, a tang of salt in it; the houses and shops seemed richly colored in the warming sunlight, their flint and brick walls holding the very character of Norfolk. Many of the streets of this village now looked inland, as if growing accustomed to accommodating the missing sea, but Water Street still ran toward it and then turned when it reached the quay. The pale line of water out beyond the ridges of grass seemed to lack the energy to find a way back, a wan lover with no real passion for a reunion.
Hamish said, “No one remembers when the storms brought the sea inland. I wouldna’ hae wanted to live here then!”
Which was, Rutledge thought, a perceptive remark. He noticed an elderly man in a small boat rowing up the stream, heading in to Osterley. He rowed smoothly, back bent, arms moving from long practice in the even, easy strokes of someone brought up on the water. Muscles bulged where the sleeves of his darned sweater had been rolled back to the elbows, and the heavy corduroys he wore were well worn. Watching him pull for the quay, Rutledge realized suddenly that he envied the man, drawn to the water as he himself was.
Though the harbor had vanished-even most of the little boats themselves-the gulls, ever hopeful, could be heard heading toward the lonely rower or wheeling just out of sight above the hotel-as if searching the marshy silt for the next wave. Lacking a boat, he wondered if it was safe to walk down to the distant beach, or if there was a track he could follow.
He straightened, and brought his mind back to the present. His suitcase was in the boot; he would have to fetch it. The tips of the fingers on one hand absently massaged his chest. Too much driving had aggravated the blow he’d received yesterday. Damn the man Walsh! But it hadn’t been his fault. Rutledge had been in the wrong place.
Looking at his watch, Rutledge realized that it was nearly twenty-five after twelve. His baggage could wait. He washed his hands in the basin and dried them on a towel embroidered with an OH-Osterley Hotel-ringed with blue forget-me-nots. The room was scrupulously clean and in good order. Mrs. Barnett was conscientious about her guests’ comfort.
Down the passage he heard another door open and then close. The carpet muffled footsteps. The other guest? He wasn’t in the mood for conversation…
He waited for a count of twenty, opened then shut his own door, and followed down the passage and the stairs. The French doors to the right of the lobby stood open now, and there was a long dining room with some twenty tables covered in white cloths with green serviettes. But only two by the long windows had been set for the meal. Farther down the room, a woman with a book open in front of her was already spooning her soup. All he could see was the top of her dark head.
Rutledge took his own place, with his back to her, and looked out the windows. Here there was no verandah with white painted chairs, waiting for people to sit in them and watch the water. Those belonged to the south coast of England, where the sun shone with more warmth and regularity. Flowers, nearly withered in the October winds, stood in boxes by the door. A few were still colorful in the brief shelter of the wall.
The dining room with its ornate glass chandeliers was very pleasant. Once it must have been filled with guests, with a large staff to see to them. Now it appeared to be only Mrs. Barnett who served the meals. She came through the swinging doors from the kitchen carrying a tray with his soup on it and a basket of fresh bread.
With a smile she served him and was gone, not lingering to talk. It was excellent soup, a mutton stock with vegetables and barley. He ate with relish, feeling hungry. Hamish, at the back of his mind, was occupied with the street outside.
There were quite a few people about, their shadows barely visible in the pale sunlight. But there was a patch of blue sky to the north, growing steadily larger. Rutledge saw Blevins walk past, lifting his hat to a young woman who held a shy little girl by the hand. A heavy-shouldered man, who looked more like a blacksmith than a farmer or fisherman, his hands gnarled and ingrained permanently with black, was talking to a thin man with the pale face of a schoolmaster. Three laborers, awkward in their Sunday best and deep in conversation, made way for a dray pulled by a farm gray. It passed them in a rumble of wheels, and disappeared around the bend.
A well-dressed man about sixty-five years of age passed through the outer door and opened the inner door to the lobby. His footsteps could be heard approaching the dining room, and he came through the French doors with an air of command that matched the craggy power of his face.
“Susan?” he called.
After a moment Mrs. Barnett appeared in the kitchen doorway, and something in her eyes instantly altered as she saw who had come to dine. She walked forward slowly, her expression a careful blank. Rutledge, keeping his attention fixed on the last of his soup, couldn’t avoid hearing the ensuing exchange.
“I’m in town for the afternoon and felt sure you could accommodate me for luncheon today.”
“My lord, it isn’t possible-there’s no table made up.”
“Yes, yes, I know, I should have called ahead. But I didn’t expect to be delayed beyond an hour. Now I’ll be lucky to get away in three.” He looked around. “I’ll join that gentleman by the window, shall I, and save you the fuss of preparing a place for me.” His eyes swept the room again, empty but for the two hotel guests, and then came back to Rutledge. Crossing to the table, he said, “May I join you, sir? It would spare Mrs. Barnett a good deal of inconvenience if you allowed me to share your table.”
Behind his broad back, Mrs. Barnett grimaced. Rutledge said, “The question, I think, is whether Mrs. Barnett can manage in the kitchen. If she can, then I shall be happy to have you join me.”
“Susan?” She nodded with what grace she could muster. Rutledge wondered if it was her own luncheon that would appear on the extra plate. “That’s settled then,” the man declared. As she went to fetch plates and cutlery, he pulled out the chair opposite Rutledge and said, “Sedgwick is my name. I live in East Sherham, not far from Osterley. But a long way to drive home for my lunch. A guest here, are you?”
He settled heavily in his chair.
“Rutledge.” They shook hands over the silver salt and pepper shakers. “For a few days. On a private matter.”
“Yes, that’s what brings most of our visitors these days. Business, not pleasure. I understand the town was once quite famous for fish and the fine bathing.” He looked up as Mrs. Barnett set his place and then brought his bowl of soup from the tray. “Thank you, my dear! And don’t stand on ceremony. Mr. Rutledge has finished his soup; he’s ready for the next course.”
As she set the bowl in front of Sedgwick, her eyes met Rutledge’s. He had the distinct impression that she would have enjoyed nothing more than pouring the lot over Sedgwick’s head.
“I’ll wait,” Rutledge told her, and she left them.
Sedgwick ate with gusto. “I’m famished,” he said between spoonsful. “It has been a long morning and I breakfasted shortly after six. Is that your motorcar I saw in the hotel yard? The four-seater?”
“Yes, it must be.”
“My younger son bought one like it a year before the War. Found it an admirable motor. Made the run from London in excellent time and never gave him any trouble.” He smiled wryly. “I’m at the mercy of gout, myself. Don’t fancy driving when my foot is aching like a fiend in hell.”
The conversation moved on from motors to unemployment and then to some discussion of the peace treaty that had been signed. “Is it worth the paper it was written on? I ask you! The French were vindictive as hell, and the Hun is too proud to live long under their heel!” Sedgwick shook his head, answering his own question. “Politicians are the very devil. Foolish idealists, like Wilson in America, or short-sighted and closed-minded, like that lot in Paris.”
Mrs. Barnett served them roasted ham and a side dish of carrots and potatoes, seasoned with onions, still steaming from the ovens. As she rearranged the salt and pepper to accommodate the various dishes, she asked Sedgwick if he cared for hot mustard sauce. He smiled and helped himself from the silver bowl she held for him, then sighed. “I don’t think anyone can match Mrs. Barnett’s mustard sauce. She won’t tell me how she makes it. And so I try to remember which days she’s likely to serve it. You’ll find it excellent!”
As she moved away after serving the sauce to Rutledge, Sedgwick added, “Know the Broads well, do you?”
“I’ve come here a time or two. A friend kept a boat west of here, but that was before the War. He’s not up to sailing these days.” Ronald had been gassed at Ypres; the damp ravaged his lungs now.
“Never been much for the sea myself. But one of my sons was fond of boats and took us out a time or two.” He smiled sheepishly. “Not the stomach for it, if you want the truth.”
Sedgwick was an engaging man, the sort of Englishman who could spend half an hour with a stranger without fear of encroachment on either side. Which told Rutledge, watching the sharp eyes beneath the gray, shaggy brows, that he was not what he seemed.
By the end of the meal, Rutledge had his man pegged. His accent was Oxonian, his voice well modulated, his conversation that of a gentleman, but he still had occasional trouble with his aitches. London roots, and not the West End, in spite of the heavy gold watch fob, the elegant signet ring on the left hand, and apparel that had been made by the best tailors in Oxford Street.
As they finished their flan and Susan Barnett brought the teapot for a second cup, the woman who had been sitting behind Rutledge some tables away rose and walked out of the dining room.
Sedgwick bowed politely, turning his head so that his eyes followed her through the doorway.
“An interesting young woman,” he said to Rutledge. “Religious sort, I’m told. She was at a dinner party given by the doctor here, and spoke very well on the subject of medieval brasses.”
It was almost condescending.
As if to underline Rutledge’s thoughts, Sedgwick added, “Spinster, of course,” settling the question of where she stood in his scheme of the world.
“Indeed,” Rutledge said, watching her walk across the lobby. The brief flash of a shapely ankle and the glossy dark hair above the straight back seemed at odds with Sedgwick’s opinion of her.
Sedgwick excused himself after his second cup of tea and spoke to Mrs. Barnett in the kitchen before leaving the hotel.
Rutledge himself rose from the table, dropping his serviette by his empty cup, and went into the lobby. There was a small sitting room beyond the stairs, the door standing wide. Inside he could just see his fellow guest reading her book. While the room was for any guest’s use, the occupant seemed to make it clear that she did not wish for company, her chair set at an angle that discouraged any greeting.
He turned and left the hotel to walk down the street toward the water. A chill wind blew off the North Sea and whipped the saw grass he could just see far out on the dunes. The single boat he’d watched coming in was now beached on the damp strand below the seawall, with wet boot prints coming up the stone steps and leading up into the town. He could follow them, as cakes of gray mud flecked off at each step.
Hamish said, “The priest’s killer wore old and worn shoes.”
“Yes. I hadn’t forgotten. The Strong Man, Walsh, was wearing boots. With hobnails. And his feet are large.”
“Aye. It’s a thought to bear in mind…”