Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [108]
Or was it far more personal than an exercise in the definition of God?
He went back to work, rubbing his shoulders as he concentrated on the cuttings, looking for a clue.
And in the end, he found not what he was looking for, but what he had not expected to see in these articles.
The name of Marianna Trent . . .
She had been dragged into one of the lifeboats, unconscious from a blow to the head. A blessing perhaps, with fractured ribs and a broken leg. Speculation was that she’d been struck by another boat while floating in the water. A sensation at first, for she had no name, and later of no interest to journalists hungry for fresh news. She must have remained in hospital in Ireland for some time, because there was a small cutting dated three weeks after the disaster, relating that this woman had been released and was returning to England, her leg still in a cast but healed sufficiently to travel. The article also contained a small and telling final paragraph.
“Miss Trent, whom the doctors have pronounced fully recovered, has no memory of the tragedy, but says that she dreams at night about falling into black water. When interviewed by the shipping authorities, she could provide no new information about the collision or the subsequent actions of officers or passengers to save the doomed ship.”
How well, Hamish asked with interest, did Father James know this woman before she came to Osterley? Titanic went down in April 1912—
It was, Rutledge thought, a question to pursue.
In the end, Rutledge went not to Inspector Blevins but to the Vicar of Holy Trinity as the most likely person to give him the truth.
Mr. Sims had been sitting in his study, working on his sermon for the coming Sunday service, and he led Rutledge to the cluttered, book-filled room with the air of a man just released from prison.
“You’d think,” he said ruefully, “that for a man of the Cloth, divine inspiration would pour forth like water from a holy spring. I’ve agonized over this week’s message for hours and still have no idea what I’m trying to say.”
He looked tired, as if he hadn’t slept, shadows emphasizing the blueness of his eyes.
“How is the painting coming?” Rutledge asked, for the smell of wet paint was still pervasive.
“With greater speed than my persuasive powers. My sister is wary about changing schools this far into the year. Her children are sad to leave their friends. Her own friends are asking her if she’d be happy here in the Broads. I have run out of words for her, too.” The last was said on a sigh.
When they were seated in the study, with its dark paneling and almost grimly Victorian austerity, Hamish said, “This is no’ a place of inspiration!”
Rutledge had to agree. The gargoyles that surmounted the hearth, and the agony-stricken caryatids that supported it, two well-muscled monsters with their mouths twisted open with effort, were depressingly vivid.
Catching his expression as he glanced at them, Sims smiled. “I find this room most useful when I’m discussing appropriate behavior in church with small boys. They can’t take their eyes off the figures, and it drives home my message quite well.”
“I think I’d find it more comfortable writing with my back to them.” Rutledge’s voice was light. “Unless the subject was Judgment and Damnation.”
Sims laughed outright. “It never occurred to me. This was the study of the Vicar before me, and I’ve tried to follow his example.”
“Better, surely, to follow your own? There must be any number of rooms in this house that are more cheerful.”
Sims nodded. “Actually, there is a small office I’m fond of. Now, tell me how I can help you with your problems? Any news on the man Blevins is holding?”
“The police are still tracing his movements.” Rutledge gave the stock answer. He waited for a moment, and then asked, “You were there, when Father James left the bedside