Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [147]
He and May Trent stood waiting by the road while Rutledge went to knock on the door of the rectory.
Bryony opened it, beamed at Rutledge, and asked after greeting him, “Will you be staying for tea? I’ve got such a lovely bit of French cake for Himself, and—” She broke off as she saw the two people behind him, looking up at her from the street. “Ah, this’ll be business, then!”
“I still wouldn’t say no to tea,” Rutledge assured her, smiling. On their way south, by mutual agreement, the three travelers had agreed not to stop for lunch.
May Trent closed her eyes, as if shutting out the watery sun that had been threatening rain for two hours or more. Bryony saw it, and called to her, “Come inside, madam, and let me take you upstairs for a bit. You look like you could do with a rest.”
She only smiled and shook her head. “No. But thank you!”
They were ushered into the study, where Monsignor Holston looked up from his book in surprise.
“I didn’t remember visitors were expected!” he said to Bryony, setting the cat, Bruce, on the floor.
“The Inspector has come again, Monsignor, and brought guests with him.” She quietly closed the door as he greeted Rutledge warmly. Then he smiled at the Vicar and shook his hand, before the introduction to Miss Trent was made. Their host seated her with courtesy and said, “Father James spoke to me a number of times about the manuscript you’re completing. It’s quite an undertaking. If I may be of any assistance, you need only ask. Norfolk has a good deal of material to draw from.”
“As I’ve discovered!” She thanked him, managing to smile. “Memorials, even so, are often an excuse to go on mourning. He tried to tell me that as well.”
“I expect time will take care of that, too.”
Rutledge said, “We’re here about Father James, as it happens. Walsh is dead. He—died—last night, trying to escape.”
“Killed?” Holston asked. “By the police?”
“He was kicked by a horse. At least that’s what the evidence suggests. There’ll be an official inquiry, as a matter of course.”
“God rest his soul!”
Sims said, “Altogether, it was a harrowing night for everyone.”
“Walsh appeared to have the best motive,” Rutledge said. “There was a certain amount of evidence against him, but not all of it was conclusive—or satisfactory. On the other hand, I’ve been exploring Father James’s movements during the fortnight between the bazaar and his death.” His eyes turned toward Holston. “And I need to learn from you, Monsignor, what Father James told you about the Confession of Herbert Baker.”
Completely unprepared for the question, Holston said, “I couldn’t, even if I—”
“I’m not asking for a revelation of Herbert Baker’s last words. What I want to know is what Father James told you about this man.”
“He never spoke to me about Baker or his family—”
“I’m sure that’s true. But he came here one day shortly before he died and told you that he had just been given information that had upset him, and that the person who had passed on this information had had no idea of its importance to Father James personally.”
It was an arrow shot into the air. But the sudden tightness of Monsignor Holston’s face told Rutledge that it had come very close to its mark. “No, it wasn’t that—”
“Did he also tell you that he was helpless to do anything about it?” Rutledge kept his voice at a conversational level, as if he was continuing to confirm knowledge he already possessed.
“There was nothing he could—” Monsignor Holston stopped. Then he said, “Look, he didn’t confide in me. Or confess to me. He didn’t tell me the circumstances. But I could see he’d come for comfort—from a friend, not a fellow priest.”
“How could you see that?”
“He walked in that door and paced the floor for over an hour. I didn’t ask him why—we’ve all been through that kind of personal despair. To tell you the truth, there was one family in particular that he was deeply concerned about. I thought his visit had to do with them. When he sat down in that chair, where you’re sitting now, I made