Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [171]
Hamish said, “Watch your back!”
Indeed, there was an odd intensity in their postures. These three men had spent a lifetime with no leavening to counteract the ferocious ambition that had driven them since the day they were born. It was what their character was all about: the paramount importance of a goal set in the first generation.
Rutledge rose, as if preparing to leave. He wasn’t comfortable sitting any longer. He said to Sedgwick, “When Walsh escaped, you sent your sons to search for him, and then borrowed old Tom Randal’s mare, and went after him yourself. You found him because you know the land around here better than anyone else—you’d grown up on it, with an old sheepman training your eye. And you killed Walsh—with a hammer—or the shoe Honey had cast. Using it with a polo swing and the full weight of the galloping horse behind your arm. And the Sedgwick luck held—you caught him just right. The police inquiry into the death of a priest was closed.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! How could I have got to this Randal’s farm, without my motorcar being seen as I drove through Osterley? Besides, Arthur was using it, in the search! And there’s my gout—” Sedgwick was on his feet. “If you won’t leave of your own accord, I’ll have my sons throw you out. I won’t stand for this in my own house.”
“Yes, you’ve taken every opportunity to remind me of your gout. Your son Edwin rides Arthur’s motorcycle. I wouldn’t be surprised if you do as well.” He turned to the sons.
“If you try to cover up what your father has done, if you refuse to help me, you’ll be tarred by the same brush. It will be the end of your family—”
He read cold calculation in hard eyes, an uncompromising facade of unity. They were ranged between him and the door, a solid phalanx of enmity.
Hamish warned, “It’s no’ what you think—”
Rutledge felt shock. Like cold water thrown in his face.
How could he have got it so wrong?
He said, “May. Will you wait for me in the car, please? I’ll be out in five minutes.” His voice was pleasant, but there was command in it.
She started to protest, then stood up. The atmosphere had changed subtly, and his order had frightened her.
“If you don’t come, I’ll drive back to town, shall I?”
“Yes. By all means.”
She nodded and walked into the hall, drawing her coat back around her shoulders. They could hear the outer door open—and then shut behind her.
Rutledge walked to the windows, and stood there with his back to them. He could feel the draft coming through the glass, cold and damp. It felt like hope.
“I was wrong,” he said, into the waiting silence. “I realize my mistake now.”
Sedgwick said, “You won’t be able to pursue this. And your career will be destroyed. I have that power. You know I do. If you leave now, I’ll undertake to guarantee that your silence will protect that young woman who just left. You would be wise to heed me.”
Rutledge said wearily, “Arthur killed his wife, didn’t he? And you, Lord Sedgwick, killed Father James. But it was Edwin who killed Walsh. Arthur’s back won’t allow him to ride that strenuously. And you were busy ordering your staff to search the house and grounds, the outbuildings and the sheepfolds.” He paused. He’d blended conjecture and experience and intuition in a unholy weave of truth. But he didn’t want to hear the answer to his last question. “In God’s name—why!”
“She was a pretty ninny who charmed the men around her,” Lord Sedgwick replied, “but couldn’t hold a fiveminute conversation with anyone. Much less conduct a household properly. She had the attention span of a ten-year-old. She had no idea that she could conceive a child just as half-witted as she was.” He shook his head. “Her mother swore to Arthur after the wedding that she’d had a fever as a child. I discovered later that there had been a cousin and an aunt who were also mentally deficient. It was a trick from the start—and Arthur here thought he’d discovered Guinevere!” Sedgwick’s voice was sour with anger. “Do you have any idea what it’s like, living every day of every year with someone as stupid as