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By Root 1210 0

remember who lived and—and who died. It is such a terrible thing, to drown. I nearly did—someone hauled me into a boat, like a bundle of wet rags, and I was coughing and sick and so frightened I couldn’t speak. There were others in the water—” She gulped for air, as if drowning again, and said quickly, “No, I won’t go back there!” She stopped and looked at the hearth, as if to find something new to pin her attention on. After a moment she continued, her voice uncertain. “Father James had worked with the wounded during the War. He told me that talking might help stop the pain and the dreams. But I’d buried it for so many long, difficult years. I’d reached a plateau of sorts, where I was someone else. People no longer remembered that I’d been on Titanic. When the War came, I was planning to be married and looking ahead to a future that would be happier than the past. But it was—I never told Roger about what had happened to me, I thought that if he didn’t know, I’d not see the reminder of my pain in his eyes, and be forced to look back. Someone else told him. A friend, who believed that Roger would want to know the truth and be better able to comfort me when the dreams were—worse than usual. That’s why I’m finishing his work. I had already decided to break the engagement, once he was safely home. But he never came home. And I carry that guilt, too.”

She looked from one to the other of the three men. “I didn’t know Father James had his own nightmare. I wasn’t much help to him, I’m afraid.” There was a faint quality of the child in her voice, begging forgiveness. “I didn’t understand how great his need was!”

Rutledge sat down heavily, trying to bring himself back to the task at hand. He wished that the Vicar and May Trent had taken the train, and he could drive back to Osterley—or anywhere—all alone. Except for Hamish, who never left him alone.

The Vicar said, into the silence, picking his words, “Virginia Sedgwick was a woman hungry for affection. I watched her—I was invited to several of the parties at Sedgwick Hall after she married Arthur. She believed her husband loved her. She most certainly loved him. But he was mad for racing; he lived in a world of fast machines and dangerous sport. As far as I could tell, he was oblivious to her dislike of living alone out in the middle of Yorkshire, where she had few neighbors and fewer friends. He expected her to find pleasure in running the house, as his mother had done—she was a well-known hostess, and quite clever at smoothing over her husband’s connections with trade. It never worked, their marriage. When I heard Virginia had left him and gone back to America, I was— glad it was over. I couldn’t bear to watch her suffer.”

Rutledge, grateful for the change in subject, asked, “You spoke of friends. Were there any close friends she confided in?”

“No.” As if to soften the harsh negative, Sims added, “She found it hard to find common ground with women of her own class, and was too friendly with the servants. They took advantage of her. That’s why she came to the vicarage to talk with me, using whatever flimsy excuse she could think of. Father James and I were safe, you see. Clergymen, not likely to take advantage. In any sense.”

Intrigued, Rutledge asked, “What did she talk about?”

“The flowers. The music. She liked music. Services for the family were usually held at the church on the grounds of the estate. She preferred Holy Trinity because it was so beautiful. She’d spend hours sitting in the nave polishing the benches or mending the cushions. I found her one day on a ladder, cleaning out the cobwebs around the stained-glass windows. Impeccably dressed, her gloves filthy—” He stopped. “They closed the house in East Sherham when Sedgwick went to London, and she was sent back to Yorkshire, then.”

Monsignor Holston said, “Father James met her in London, just after she’d come to England. They served on some committee or other together. He said she was the happiest woman he’d ever seen. And he was the man she turned to when the marriage soured. She was a woman of strong faith,