Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [16]
Hardly a den of iniquity, Rutledge silently pointed out to Hamish. This was more the study of a scholarly man, a place for retreat and thought.
Hamish reserved his opinion.
Setting his book aside and standing, the man crossed the room and held out his hand. “From London, are you? That’s a fair journey! Bryony, some tea for the two of us.”
She cast a quick, smiling look at Rutledge and said, “The kettle is already on the boil.” The door closed silently behind her.
“I’m Monsignor Holston,” the tall, thin man continued. He had an aesthetic face and the eyes of a policeman— intent, knowing. The long nose, bearing a pince-nez, was aristocratic and gave the face character if not beauty. But the grip of his calloused hand was firm, strong. He offered Rutledge one of the chairs by the table, and returned to his own to mark his place in the book, close it, and set it aside. “I’m instructed to speak to you on Bishop Cunningham’s behalf. He was called away on pressing diocesan business. Scotland Yard. Well, I’m pleased to see you, I must say. This matter of Father James’s death has been worrying. What can you tell me?”
Rutledge smiled. “It’s more a matter of what you can tell me. I’ve come to listen.”
“Ah. Yes. Well, let’s not wait for our tea, then.” Monsignor Holston ran his fingers along the edge of the leather corners of the blotter. “It’s very straightforward, what the police propose must have happened. The local people took one look at the scene—at the desk broken open, most particularly—and declared that Father James had surprised a man intent on stealing funds collected at the bazaar a fortnight previously. Certainly the money was missing.” He realized how formal his words sounded, as if he were quoting directly from the police record, and made an effort to continue in a more natural tone. “Father James was usually in the church at that hour, you see, hearing Confessions, and should have been in the confessional, not his study. It must have been quite a shock to the intruder to hear him coming up the stairs! According to Inspector Blevins, the man panicked, seized the crucifix from Father James’s altar, and struck him down before fleeing. That’s all the police can tell me with any certainty.” The priest stopped, and the blue eyes studied Rutledge’s face. There was a wariness in them.
“Straightforward, yes,” Rutledge agreed. “But you—or your Bishop—apparently weren’t satisfied. Why? Is there more to the story than the police have learned? Or is it something to do with the circumstances in which he was found?”
“Sadly, no, we have no information about the crime itself.” Monsignor Holston smiled wryly. “Except that if it was robbery, it was unnecessary. Father James was a very caring priest. He’d have helped the man; he wouldn’t have turned him away. Or turned him in, for that matter. What’s frightening is—” He broke off and then added, “I spoke to the Bishop myself after I’d been summoned to Osterley by the police. I tried to explain what it was about the crime that troubled me.” He adjusted his glasses, as if to see his way more clearly through his own feelings. “I stood looking down at the body, and it’s true, the shock unsettled me. It was such a waste—a terrible, unspeakable waste! But my reaction went beyond that. I felt something that was primeval. Fear, if you will.”
Hamish stirred.
Rutledge said, “If he was a friend, that’s a fairly common reaction, Monsignor. Of a life squandered, and a certain anxiety because death has struck so near.” He paused. “Father James had died unshriven. Perhaps unconsciously, that weighed heavily. It would be natural for you to be concerned.”
“Yes, I’d take that into account. Of course I would. But it was more than that. God knows I’ve attended my share of deathbeds. Like a physician, I’m able to separate my emotions into tidy cubbyholes, in order to function. But not this time.” He looked down at his hands. “I grant you that to a poor man the sum collected at the bazaar must have seemed enormous. The blows, Inspector Blevins told me, were struck in rapid succession.