Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [154]
He walked back to the car. It would be just as well to send Dr. Stephenson out to make a call, he thought. When the fury and the sense of being wronged faded, Randal would be hurting rather badly.
At least, he thought, bending to turn the crank, Priscilla Connaught hadn’t killed the man.
Rutledge left the Vicar at his front door. Sims looked up at the dark shadows of his house, and turned, as if half afraid to go in. Then, with resolution, he unlocked the door and closed it behind him.
Holston, on the other hand, refused to spend the night in St. Anne’s rectory. “It’s bad enough by daylight, but with the mists swirling about it and the churchyard, I’d just as soon be in a well-lighted hotel!” he said wryly.
And so Rutledge pulled into the hotel yard and delivered the remainder of his passengers into the care of Mrs. Barnett, who welcomed them with the news that dinner could be warmed if they cared to dine.
Rutledge, standing in the dark outside the door, could feel the fatigue moving through him like a sluggish stream. But he turned and went instead to The Pelican for his meal.
Betsy, the barmaid, who came to ask what he’d have as Rutledge took the last seat in the crowded common room, was buoyant. “We’re doing a fine business tonight,” she informed him. “Everyone slept away the day, and now they’re eager for company and gossip.” She looked around her, pleased, then remembered what the cause of her good fortune was. Her mood shifted. “They tell me, though, that the man is dead. Still, it’s a swifter way to go than a hanging, any day!”
“What are people saying about Walsh? Do they believe he killed Father James?” Rutledge asked, curious.
“Well, of course, he must have done! He escaped, didn’t he? Inspector Blevins was here no more than half an hour ago, and saying that he’d spoken to the Chief Constable in Norwich. Everyone’s relieved that the police have done their best. Even though there’s to be no trial.”
Looking around her once more, she waited expectantly for his order.
The death of Walsh, he thought, had been papered over. Justice had been served. Perhaps it was true. He was beyond caring. He ordered an ale and a serving of the stew, and Betsy brought him a covered dish of warmed bread from this morning’s baking and a slab of butter.
Hamish said, “Ye ken, you’ll no’ make any headway against what Blevins has been saying. And they’re eager to believe him. There’s the sticking point. It was no’ one of his friends or neighbors who killed the priest, and no’ one of theirs. That’s what matters. They can go to bed this night and no’ be worried about being murdered in their sleep.”
There was an outburst of laughter from a group by the window. Every head turned to look. Rutledge could see the general mood was relief, and it bordered on the hysterical.
Hamish was right. Order had been restored, their own sturdy faith that no one from Osterley could be guilty of such a heinous crime had been upheld. But a stubborn refusal to go against his own better judgment made Rutledge argue with his nemesis.
“The priest kept working toward a solution to Virginia Sedgwick’s disappearance. The story about two priests at one deathbed was bound to get out, and someone began to worry. I don’t think Father James expected to be attacked. Perhaps his visit to Norwich was the last straw. Even the appearance of having confided in his fellow clergymen would have aroused unwelcome suspicion.”
“Aye, that’s possible. But it doesna’ signify! Truth is no more than what people want to believe.”
Rutledge answered, “Or what they fear.”
“And ye’re as gullible as any man. You canna’ face the question about yon Englishwoman’s guilt!”
“I haven’t forgotten May Trent. But if she killed Father James, there won’t be another victim. If it was one of the Sedgwicks, what’s to stop the murderer from biding his time until it’s safe to kill again? He may already be suspicious of Sims—Holston—or even Miss Trent. Where is my duty toward them?”
“Aye, duty, that’s all verra’ fine. Ye did your duty in France, too. And I’m dead for it!