Watchers of Time (51 page)

Hamish said, “Ye ken, murderers are always locked away. If they’re half mad, like you, it’s the cell, it’s no’ the rope.”

Iris Kenneth kept up her earnest defense of Matthew Walsh all the way to the hotel, one hand holding her skirts out of the rainwater washing down the street toward the quay. When they reached the door, she looked out at the marshes, and Rutledge could feel her shudder through the arm inside his. “What a dreary place,” she remarked. “Enough to turn anybody into a murderer, living here long enough!”

Mrs. Barnett stepped out of her tiny office and said, “Good morning, Inspector, you’re about early on such a nasty day. I believe Miss Trent and Monsignor Holston have been waiting for you in the lounge. Shall I bring tea to warm you up?”

“Meanwhile, I’ve brought you another guest—”

She reluctantly took charge of Miss Kenneth, eyeing her with some dismay. In the calm, gracious lobby of the hotel, Iris Kenneth’s style was decidedly out of place, garish, her voice a little loud, her clothes a little shabby, her face rather too heavily made up for a country town. Her rouge and the line of kohl beneath her eyes had run from her tears, giving her a clownish expression of surprise.

Iris Kenneth seemed equally reluctant to give up Rutledge’s company. She said, “You
will
take me back to see Inspector Blevins later?”

“Yes. And see you safely on your way back to London,” he promised, undone by the fear in her eyes. It was real, not feigned.

This woman had lived a life with little security, on the edge of poverty as often as not, and never climbing to the dizzying heights of the great names of the legitimate stage. It had already taken its toll in her skin and in the hard lines around her mouth. He remembered all too well the woman dragged from the Thames. Had she chosen the water rather than falling into prostitution? If Iris was despairing enough of her future prospects to swallow her pride and anger, and come to offer Matthew Walsh her support, she was desperate indeed.

Hamish said, clicking his puritanical tongue, “You’re a fool, and will be taken for one!”

“Hardly,” Rutledge answered curtly.

He left Miss Kenneth in Mrs. Barnett’s care and walked into the lounge, where May Trent was writing a letter at the small white desk and Monsignor Holston was reading a book. They looked up, their faces mirroring an expression of impatience.

“Where have you been?” Miss Trent asked. “We expected to see you at dinner last night or breakfast this morning!” There was neither censure or anger in her voice, but he detected an undercurrent of strain.

“I’ve been busy, I’m afraid,” Rutledge replied. “I’ve spoken with the Vicar, for one, and Peter Henderson after that. Peter tells me that Walsh walked away from Holy Trinity through the trees just south of the vicarage, and past the houses there, taking a southwesterly course, where he could make good time in the pastures beyond.”

May Trent said, “But you said Walsh hadn’t done any such thing! You said he’d taken that poor farmer’s horse! That’s why we said nothing—”

Monsignor Holston interjected, “If Walsh had come across a search party, he might have doubled back, found himself some faster means of getting out.”

“In his shoes, doubling back could mean certain capture. There were farms ahead—”

Mrs. Barnett came in with tea. “I’ve settled Miss Kenneth for now,” she said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she sleeps for an hour or so. She tells me she came all the way from London. It must have been a very difficult journey for her!”

Rutledge said, “Thank you. Er—I understand you went to see Father James, the same day that he died.”

“No, that’s not true—” She paused. “Oh. You mean to the
rectory
! I stopped to ask Ruth Wainer if I might borrow a roasting pan for the weekend, when there would be a christening party here. I didn’t expect to find Father James in—at that hour, he’s usually in the church.”

“Did you go to the kitchen door? Or to the front of the rectory?”

“To the kitchen door, of course. I was hoping Ruth hadn’t left.”

“Did you see anyone near the house when you went there?”

She smoothed the collar of her gray dress. “I don’t recall seeing anyone else. Should I have?”

“Peter Henderson was there, near the lilacs, waiting to speak to Father James.”

“No. But of course I wasn’t looking for him, was I? Why didn’t he speak?”

“Did you meet a member of Lord Sedgwick’s family, by any chance?”

She considered the question. “Not Lord Sedgwick, no. I did pass his motorcar near Gull Street. I didn’t see who was in it, the lamps were right in my face, and it was traveling fast. It went on toward Wells, as far as I could tell. Occasionally that chauffeur of his takes it to The Pelican, if Lord Sedgwick is out of town. It could have been Edwin. He’s a fast driver, like his brother.”

“Do you know the Randal farm?”

“Oh, yes. Everyone does. I used to buy cut flowers from his wife, for the dining-room tables. She was a wonderful gardener.”

“Whose property is adjacent to Randal’s, to the south?”

“My guess is it belongs to the Sedgwick family. Lord Sedgwick has made a practice of buying up acreage when he can. I shouldn’t be surprised to hear he’s bought the Randal property, when Tom’s too old to run it himself. There’s no close family, you see.”

What she’d told him agreed with the map he’d seen in Blevins’s office. “Thank you, Mrs. Barnett. You’ve been very helpful!”

“Will you be staying in for lunch?” Her glance ran around the room.

“Yes, if that’s convenient,” Rutledge answered for them.

“You know something we don’t,” Holston said, as the door closed behind Mrs. Barnett.

“Little things. Henderson saw Lord Sedgwick arrive at the rectory just after Mrs. Barnett left. When there was no answer to his knock, Sedgwick went inside. Furthermore, if Sedgwick’s property adjoins the Randal farm, it’s very likely he’d also know about the horses—and that the old man is hard of hearing.”

Monsignor Holston said, “I don’t follow you—are you telling me that
Sedgwick
arranged for a horse to be available to Matthew Walsh, once he escaped?”

“No,” May Trent said slowly, watching Rutledge’s face. “No. He thinks someone else rode that mare.”

She was quick. . . .

“It’s possible,” Rutledge agreed. He saw again the hammer wound on the dead wife’s temple. All those years ago— Reaching into his experience and deeper into his intuition, he said, “When Matthew Walsh escaped from his cell, it was seen as an admission of guilt. If he was killed before he could be recaptured and tried, all the better. With his death, the investigation would be closed. As it has been! If he’d been retaken and sent to Norwich for trial, anything could have gone wrong.”

“Insufficient evidence to convict him?” she asked, intrigued. “Then you’re saying that someone went after Walsh, and caught up with him not long after the mare cast her shoe—” Her face changed. “But, look here, if Walsh wasn’t riding it, he wouldn’t have been the one the mare kicked!”

“Interesting, isn’t it?” Rutledge smiled. “After luncheon, I intend to pay a call on Lord Sedgwick.”

Monsignor Hols on said, “Good God, are you telling me that his son
Arthur
is behind all this killing? I’ve met the man—you’ll never sell him to a jury as a cold-blooded murderer! Charming and very well liked.”

“We were all searching for Walsh. And by sheer luck someone caught up with him. In my opinion that’s what happened. There’s a torn patch of grass, just a few feet from where the body lay. Some sort of struggle went on there. But no one’s going to tackle a man Walsh’s size, it would be suicide. Unless Walsh was on foot, and his
killer
was on the mare.”

“Which brings us back to Lord Sedgwick. If he was at the rectory when Father James was killed,” May Trent said, “then he’d want Walsh dead.”

Monsignor Holston said, “No. What I think Rutledge is saying is that just as Peter Henderson was a witness, so was Sedgwick. Without necessarily knowing the importance of what he saw.”

May Trent’s eyes, on Rutledge and speculative, were skeptical.

Rutledge looked at his watch. “We have five minutes before the dining room opens. I should go upstairs and change out of these wet clothes.”

As he closed the lounge door behind him, he overheard Monsignor Holston commenting to May Trent, “When I asked my Bishop to send for the Yard, I thought I was doing something good.
What have I unleashed?
”

Luncheon passed in relative silence, each member of the small party lost in his or her own thoughts.

Over the main course May Trent said suddenly, “I’m going with you. When you call on Lord Sedgwick.”

“It’s not a very good idea,” Rutledge answered.

“It probably isn’t,” she agreed. “All the same, I’m going.”

But they were held up. A fire in one of the houses west of Water Street jammed the road with firefighters and a tangle of buckets, people, and frightened horses. The pouring rain, dropping out of a gray and light-absorbing sky, soon accomplished what the firefighters couldn’t, and the smoking, blackened rafters filled the air with the reek of burned wood as they loomed starkly against the clouds. But much of the house survived, and a great many of its contents had been saved.

One of the men fighting the blaze was Edwin Sedgwick, sleeves rolled high, face smeared with sweat and soot. As Rutledge joined the line, passing buckets from the well, Edwin shouted orders and encouragement, taking charge as if by right, and showing unusual skill at coordinating the mob of people.

Observing when he could, Rutledge saw that Edwin’s skill lay not so much in cajolery or good-humored bandinage but in the role of the local squire, the natural leader everyone turned to in time of trouble or danger. It was a role Edwin’s father played to the hilt, and the son had learned well. He took full advantage of it now.

Hamish said, “He’s no’ sae overbearing as his father.”

As Rutledge spelled an older man needing a breather, he agreed with Hamish. Command came more naturally to Edwin, as if by this generation it was bred in the bone, not learned.

Edwin was everywhere at once, taking as many risks as the next man and not complaining about lending his weight where it was needed. A hand on a tired shoulder, a word of support, swift advice, a cry of warning.

Hamish, whose independent Scottish spirit seldom allowed him to bow his neck to any man, commented, “He’s no’ the elder brother. He willna’ be the laird in his turn.”

Rutledge cast a glance around, to find May Trent not in the motorcar watching from a safe distance but busy comforting the distraught woman lamenting the overturned lamp that had started the fire.

Picking up the thread of Hamish’s remark again, he found it interesting. While Arthur had been buried in Yorkshire’s dales with his young wife or racing across France, Edwin’s had been the face that Osterley had seen most frequently.

This presented a different aspect of the man Rutledge had encountered returning from boating in the marshes with his dog and drinking alone in the lounge bar of a tiny hotel outside Norwich. What had taken Edwin there?

Hamish answered, “Mischief.” And perhaps there had been a woman with him that night.

Their work done, the firefighters began the onerous task of cleaning up the muddy yard and trying to get the salvaged belongings under cover.

Edwin Sedgwick accepted the gratitude of the householder as if it were his due,
noblesse oblige,
and to satisfy the general euphoria, he shook hands with all comers. When he reached Rutledge, he smiled and added, “Thanks for your help. We needed every man.” Treating him casually, as an outsider.

Nothing in his demeanor indicated that he was aware of Rutledge’s close observation, but Rutledge had the feeling that Edwin Sedgwick, like his father, was a man used to battling the world and winning. He would be mindful of the smallest detail.

As Rutledge turned to collect May Trent, Sedgwick retrieved a motorcycle from the side of a tree, and roared away toward East Sherham. In the distance, caught by the echoes of the rolling land, the sound dulled from thunder to a quiet chuckle.

It was Hamish who called his attention to that.

Rutledge spent what was left of the afternoon asleep in the chair in his bedchamber. He was awakened by Mrs. Barnett in time to arrange for Iris Kenneth to speak to Blevins again, and it was close to six when he saw her off to King’s Lynn in a lorry that had brought boxes of hams to the butcher in Osterley and as far east as Cley. He also made certain that she had money enough to make the journey in reasonable comfort, and she thanked him profusely.

“Matthew wouldn’t have hurt anyone,” she said earnestly. “That Inspector Blevins won’t believe me, but I hope you will. I can’t say any fairer than that!”

He helped her into the lorry. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, Miss Kenneth.”

At the last moment she leaned down, speaking for his ears alone. “I owe you. And I pay my debts. A friend of mine did a bit of work once for a man in Norfolk. I never knew what village, but he was rich, and he paid her well to impersonate a lady. But she never did live to enjoy the money. I always thought he’d killed her. Two months later, they found her in the river, like that poor girl you thought was me. Naked as the day she was born, and drowned.”