Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [33]
“And yet you tell me he spoke to you again about Baker.”
The doctor picked up his pen, indicating that he wanted to get back to his own work. “I just explained what happened. There was some confusion the night this patient was dying. Baker insisted he wanted a priest. The one from St. Anne’s. But it was the Vicar who sat beside the old man when he breathed his last, close on to three in the morning. Father James had already gone back to the rectory, having spent no more than half an hour with the patient. I grant you that it wasn’t the usual sort of thing, but then I’ve sat by enough deathbeds myself to know that there’s no accounting sometimes. Martin Baker sent for a priest to give his father ease. Rightly so!”
“What do you think was resting so heavily on Herbert Baker’s conscience?” Rutledge asked the question conversationally, as if out of simple curiosity.
“I expect it was no more than some youthful indiscretion. Baker had been sexton at Holy Trinity for many years, and he may not have relished spoiling the Vicar’s good opinion of him, just at the end. I’ve known more than one case where a man’s wild oats came back to haunt him on his deathbed.”
“I shouldn’t think that Father James—an experienced priest from all I’ve heard—would be overly concerned about a young man’s wild oats.”
“Father James often surprised me with the breadth of his concern for people. There was compassion to spare for any lost sheep. I found it admirable in him.” The doctor uncapped his pen. “I’ve given you far more than your five minutes. This is pressing, the report I’m writing. I have a patient in hospital in London, facing surgery. It can’t wait.”
“Just two other questions, if you will. Did anyone to your knowledge hold a grudge against Father James?”
“He wasn’t that kind of man. His predecessor was autocratic, and while everyone respected him, there was little love for him. Father James on the other hand was a reasonable, clear-thinking individual who took his duties to heart but was never oppressive about it. I wasn’t one of his parishioners, but I am told he preached a fine homily in a voice that made the rafters sing.”
“I understand Father James was a chaplain at the Front, and was sent home early. With severe dysentery.”
“Yes, it was chronic, and the army surgeon was of the opinion he would be dead in a month if he wasn’t sent home. Decent water, decent food, and bed rest saw him right enough. Father James wasn’t happy to be sent home. He wanted to serve. There was a Father Holston in Norwich who set him right again by telling him that God, not Father James, decided where he could serve best. Which oddly enough came true. In the influenza epidemic he was my right hand. I’d have lost twice the number of patients without his dedication. Seemed to have the constitution of an iron man, I can tell you!”
Rutledge thanked Stephenson and stood up to leave. As he walked to the door, he turned and asked, “When did Baker die? Before or after the Autumn Fete at St. Anne’s?”
“A day or two after the bazaar. As I recall, the Vicar said something about the timing of the storm—that it was a blessing it hadn’t struck earlier. Now that’s all I have to say to you. Good afternoon!”
Hamish grumbled as Rutledge walked out of the surgery, “If it wasna’ his health that worried yon priest before his death, and this man Baker didna’ weigh unduly on his mind, what kept him awake at night? Was it yon fair at the kirk?”
“Yes, I was wondering about that myself. Sometimes people come a long distance to attend these affairs, if they have any sort of reputation for good food and good entertainment.”
“People travel far to funerals as well.”
“I think the bazaar is a more likely choice. Father James didn’t officiate at Baker’s services—the Vicar would have done that.”
Looking around him at the town of Osterley, where a watery and inconsistent sunlight was reflected from the flint walls, Rutledge found himself thinking that he would be on his way back to London tomorrow. Back to the letters lying unopened in