Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [162]
Hamish said, “I canna’ believe it. Nor do you. It was a rifle he used in the War. Distant killing, that.”
“Fair enough, then. Henderson—” Rutledge paused. “Were you at the rectory, the day Father James was killed? Waiting to see him?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’d heard of work in Wells. I wanted to ask him to write a letter for me.”
“Had he written letters before?”
“Once. The Vicar has written them, too.”
“Where did you wait?”
“Mrs. Wainer was just leaving. It was growing dark by then. I stood by those overgrown bushes, so as not to frighten her. Someone else came looking for Father James. I left then, not wanting to push myself forward.”
He’d stood in the lilacs—“those overgrown bushes.” It wasn’t one of Walsh’s cronies acting as lookout, after all; it was a man wanting help to find a job. Rutledge said, “Who came?”
“Mrs. Barnett, from the hotel, but she only tapped at the door. When Mrs. Wainer didn’t answer, she stepped into the kitchen and called, then closed the door and left.”
“Mrs. Barnett never went beyond the kitchen?”
“Not as far as I could tell. She wasn’t there much above a minute.”
“Was there anyone else?”
Henderson said reluctantly, “Yes. Lord Sedgwick came to the front door and knocked.”
“You saw his car?”
“No, I never did.” His voice was level, a soldier reporting to his commanding officer. “But I saw him walk up the drive. Then he came round to the back. Along the far side of the house, not close to where I was standing. He was looking up at the windows of the conservatory next door. They were dark. Then he went in through the kitchen, calling to Father James. He must have gone on to the parlor, to wait. Or leave a note. That’s when I left.”
“And you never saw Father James that night?”
“Well, yes, I did. He was on his bicycle, riding back to the rectory. He waved, and I walked on.”
“You didn’t tell him he had a visitor?”
“It wasn’t my place.”
Hamish said, “Blevins wouldna’ believe it was a local man there in the shrubs. He wished it to be Bolton, the scissor sharpener. Or Iris Kenneth.”
Rutledge said, “I’m driving to The Pelican. Would you like a lift?”
Henderson’s face brightened. “Give me five minutes. To clear up.”
“I’ll wait in the car.”
Rutledge turned and walked back to the motorcar, hardly noticing the rain.
Once he’d dropped off Henderson, Rutledge drove back to the hotel, retrieved his umbrella from his room, and walking briskly, went directly to the police station.
He found that he was not the only visitor.
A youngish woman in a black coat over a green traveling dress was sitting in front of the Sergeant’s desk, her face buried in an overlarge handkerchief, supplied by a red-faced Blevins across the desk from her.
The Inspector looked up as Rutledge came through the door. “Whatever it is, it can wait.” He gestured toward his visitor. “This is Iris Kenneth. She traveled up from London to—er—see Walsh. I’ve just given her the news.”
Iris Kenneth raised her face from the handkerchief, her eyes watery and red-rimmed, turning to stare at the newcomer.
Blevins said, “This is Inspector Rutledge, from Scotland Yard.”
She nodded a faint acknowledgment and said to Blevins, as if she had been interrupted in the middle of her grief, “I was so angry with him! Matthew. For sacking me. But I decided that if I stood by him now, he might take me on again, after. He wasn’t a bad man to work for. He enjoyed posing in his costume and being admired. I was jealous.”
“He wasn’t likely to be taking on a helper ever again,” Blevins said. He cast a wary glance at Rutledge. “He was more likely to find himself waiting for the hangman.”
Fierce in Walsh’s defense, Iris Kenneth cried, “But I told you, Matthew wasn’t a murderer! He wasn’t a bully, he didn’t have a temper!”
“Yes, I know, Miss Kenneth. Several times.”
She began to cry again. Rutledge, standing by the door, could read the embarrassment in Blevins’s face. Over the woman’s head, the Inspector shot him a pleading glance for help. “I don’t know what