Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [34]
But would they? Whatever lay at the core of this murder, whether it was theft or a killing with a purpose, someone appeared to have covered his tracks very well.
Was he clever—or merely lucky?
Hamish said, “For a man who willna’ be involved with this death, you ask a good many questions.” There was a taunt behind the simple words.
Rutledge said, “No. I’ve merely tried to be sure that the good Bishop’s fears are unfounded. . . .”
But was that really true? In Rutledge’s experience, investigations often floundered when the police failed to ask the right question. Or failed to look behind the most obvious evidence at what could have been overshadowed by it. Damning connections grew out of persistence, connections that at first glance were not even visible. Most mistakes were made by the human element—the refusal to be objective.
An old Sergeant at the Yard had told him once, at the start of his own career, “When the police look for guilt, there’s always enough to serve their purpose. Nobody is free of guilt. But if you search for the truth, now, that’s a different tale!”
What was intriguing about this case was the reaction of those who were close to Father James. They ignored the theft and believed that nothing short of a Greek tragedy could explain this murder: The assumption that the death of great men grew out of cataclysmic events. It was implicit in their denial of the facts: Even though a small sum was stolen, it had nothing to do with the actual crime.
But what if it had? A life was not always given its real value. . . .
Hamish said, “Aye, but what if this killer only hunts priests, and there’s another one in jeopardy now?”
Neither theft nor Greek tragedy but madness? Rutledge raised his eyes to look up at the church standing high above the road, and wondered how such a killer would choose his next victim. Or if he had already killed before . . .
Since the Osterley police station was no more than a few doors from the doctor’s surgery, Rutledge left his motorcar where it was and walked there.
The sign was still up, and he started to turn away, intent on the drive back to Norwich. But there was the sound of a voice somewhere inside, and he hesitated, then reached for the knob, thinking he might find someone with whom he could leave a courtesy message for Inspector Blevins.
He stepped into a scene of chaos.
A huge man had been pushed against his will into a chair that faced the Sergeant’s rough, wooden desk, and two constables were attempting to hold him down on the seat while he bellowed at an Inspector listening to his curses with an expression of distaste. A Sergeant stood at the Inspector’s shoulder.
The constables turned to see who had come through the door, glanced back at their Inspector, and in that instant of distraction loosened their grip on the massive shoulders.
The Inspector glared at Rutledge, demanding, “What do you want?” and then savagely ordered, “Franklin— watch what you’re doing, damn it!”
“Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard—”
The man in the chair surged to his feet like a whale breaching.
Hamish yelled a warning and Rutledge hastily leaped aside.
The enormous man broke away from the constables and lunged toward the door, one shoulder ramming into Rutledge and sending piercing swords of fire through his body. He gasped for breath, the pain nearly doubling him over, but thrust out a foot instinctively, managing to trip up the man and then to dodge his thundering fall.
Everyone was shouting at once: The clamor was deafening.
The constables were on the man like monkeys, and Blevins, breathing hard, swore again. “Don’t stand there, Sergeant, give them a hand!” As his Sergeant, an older man, jumped into the fray without much effect, Blevins added at the top of his lungs, “Hit him if you have to!”
The wildly struggling man went limp as something struck him on the head with a solid thud of flesh