Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [109]
“Yes. He came into the parlor and the Bakers offered him a cup of tea. He was tired, but he sat down and—in my opinion—made the family feel a little more comfortable about what Baker had done, in sending for a priest.”
“Did he bring anything with him, that Baker might have given him? An envelope, a small package—” He left the sentence unfinished.
“No. He had his small case with him. With consecrated wafers and wine. If there was something Baker had wanted him to have, it was small enough to fit in there. Or his pocket. Why? Does the family think anything is missing? I can’t believe—”
“Nothing is missing,” Rutledge replied quickly. “I found myself wondering if perhaps Baker had given him a letter to post. It’s as likely an explanation as any for Baker’s whim.” He shrugged, as if it wasn’t important. “Put it down to curiosity—the besetting sin of a policeman’s mind. No, what actually brought me are these.”
He had folded a half dozen of the cuttings to fit into his breast pocket, and now he took them out to hand to the Vicar. “Tell me what you make of these.”
The Vicar unfolded them and began to sift through the cuttings. “They appear to be news articles of the ship that sank back in ’12.” He looked up, a question on his face, as if uncertain what Rutledge wanted from him. “Were they Baker’s?”
“I shouldn’t think they have anything to do with Baker. No, I found them among Father James’s papers. And this—” He took the photograph from his pocket and passed it across the desk.
Something changed in Sims’s expression. “How did you come by this?” His voice was carefully neutral.
“Do you recognize the woman?”
“No, I think you must tell me first how you came to have this!”
“It was also in Father James’s possession. From what I’ve learned, just before his death he chose to add a codicil to his Will, leaving what I believe to be this photograph to someone—”
The Vicar’s face had paled, as if the blood had rushed to his heart and left his skin without its natural ruddy color. “Not to me! He would never have bequeathed it to me!” His voice was constricted by a tight throat. But he couldn’t take his eyes from what he held in both hands, as if it were a treasure—or a dangerous thing.
Rutledge, watching him, said, “Why not? If you know the woman?”
“I know—knew—her.”
“Can you tell me her name?” He moved gently, carefully, keenly aware that he was trodding on very emotional ground.
“She’s dead! Let her rest in peace. She had nothing to do with Father James—”
“He never met her?” Rutledge deliberately took the words literally.
“Of course he’d met her—but she wasn’t a member of his parish, she didn’t live in Osterley—” His words were disjointed, as if he spoke without thinking, responding to the tone of voice and not the sense of Rutledge’s questions.
“Then she was a member of your parish.”
“No. Not at all.”
With an effort, the young Vicar handed the framed photograph back to Rutledge. It was an act of denial. As if by giving it back, he was absolved of any more questions about it.
“You haven’t given me her name,” Rutledge reminded him.
“Look,” Sims said, his eyes wretched with pain, “this is a personal matter. She had nothing to do with the priest or his church or his death. How could she have? She had nothing to do with me, not really. Not in the true sense. It’s been seven years—she’s been dead for seven years! Just—leave it, will you?”
“I can’t. Until I’m satisfied that something Father James kept seven years and then felt was important enough to bequeath to someone in his Will, shortly before his murder, is not a matter of grave concern.” He chose the word purposefully. Not death. Murder. Violent and intentional murder.
It brought Sims out of his shock. His face seemed to collapse, as if Rutledge had so completely broken down his defenses that he had nowhere left to turn. He had never been a forceful man, he had never had the strength of a Father James, and yet in his own fashion he did have the ability to face the truth.
“For God’s sake—” he asked, “— did he leave it to me?” When Rutledge