Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [112]
Rutledge said nothing.
Blevins smiled ruefully. “Well, I’m glad of course for Iris Kenneth’s sake that she’s alive and safe, but it would have helped our case against Walsh if we could have charged him with her murder as well. Your Sergeant Wilkerson is sure, is he?”
“The other roomers in that boardinghouse had no reason to lie.”
“No.” He moved papers around on his desk and then said, “It has to be Walsh! There’s no one else it could have been.” His eyes, looking up suddenly, dared Rutledge to refute it.
“He has the best motive for murder that we’ve found so far,” Rutledge answered neutrally. “That has to count for something. Will you tell Walsh, or shall I? That Iris Kenneth is alive?”
“I’ll tell him.” There was resignation in Blevins’s voice. “We can’t charge him for the real drowning victim’s death, can we?” It wasn’t meant to be answered; it was no more than a reflection of his mood.
“Ever hear Father James speak of an interest in ships?”
“Ships? He was interested in the small boats around here. Handled the oars like a man used to the water. We’ve been out fishing a time or two, but he never said anything to me about ships. Why?”
“I wondered, that’s all. I found some cuttings among his papers. They had to do with Titanic sinking.”
“I’m not surprised. Shocking, the loss of life. We all felt it.”
“Yes.” Rutledge let the silence lengthen before adding, “And Lusitania. Did he ever speak of her?”
“I’m sure he was horrified, everyone was. What’s this in aid of?”
“I don’t know,” Rutledge answered. “At the moment, very little.”
Blevins grinned without humor. “You’re reaching, man!”
At the dinner hour Rutledge found his place at the only table set. Mrs. Barnett said, “I’m afraid it’s rather lonely tonight. Thursdays often are.”
Later, as she brought his main course, she informed him, “I’ve had no word from Miss Trent. Were you expecting her to join you for dinner?”
“No. Yes. I’ve some questions to ask her.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Oh?”
Rutledge smiled. “I wanted to ask her about a photograph I found. I thought it might be of interest to her.”
“I can’t imagine how. She isn’t local. Perhaps I could help you?”
“It’s in my room. I’ll bring it down after dinner—” The front door opened, and someone came into the lobby. Both Rutledge and Mrs. Barnett looked up.
It was May Trent.
She found them staring at her, and it seemed to startle her, but she said nothing, going directly to the stairs and starting up them. Leaving his meal to follow her, Rutledge caught up with her on the landing.
“I need to speak to you,” he said.
“I’m tired—”
“No, I don’t want excuses. If you don’t mind coming to my room, it will take no more than five minutes.” When she seemed on the point of arguing, Rutledge said, “My food is getting cold. Will you come with me or not?”
She looked back down the stairs, as if hoping to see Mrs. Barnett staring up at them. But she found no help there. The innkeeper was in the kitchens.
“All right. Five minutes.”
She went ahead of him, and he opened the door of his room for her, leaving it standing wide. There was no one to overhear their conversation.
May Trent looked about her with interest, as if mentally comparing his accommodations with her own.
He went to the desk drawer, and on a sudden whim, took out the photograph first.
Handing it to her, Rutledge said, “Can you identify this woman?”
It was a natural question. He had no intention of upsetting her and was completely unprepared for her reaction. Her face crumpled, as if she was on the verge of tears. But none came. Her eyes were dry and furious.
Jerking the photograph from his hand, she turned it on its face and dropped it on the bed, as if it had burned her fingers. “No. I won’t talk to you! I won’t!” She moved to go, and he stopped her, his hand on her arm. “Let go of me!” she cried, color flaring in her face.
“You can talk to me here, or you can talk to me at the police station,” he said angrily. “Your choice!”
“I’m leaving Osterley. I’ve only come to pack