Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [55]
Mrs. Barnett came to remove Rutledge’s soup plate and set the roast veal in front of him, and he said quietly, “The man with the cane. Is he related to Lord Sedgwick?”
She nodded. “Arthur. His elder son. His back was so severely injured in the War that they didn’t expect him to live. And now he’s walking again. It’s quite a miracle. But it’s hard to keep help. His last nurse was a London girl, not used to the country.”
“I should think,” Rutledge said lightly, “that the Sedgwick family paid well enough to overcome even that reservation.”
Mrs. Barnett smiled but shook her head. “Ordinarily they probably would. But Arthur Sedgwick doesn’t live in East Sherham with his father, although when he requires more surgery or physical rehabilitation, he often comes to stay. His home is in Yorkshire, and I’m told that compared to the Dales, Osterley is second only to Paris!”
Rutledge had nearly finished his meal when a woman came striding through the outer doors and walked up to Reception, where Mrs. Barnett was adding up figures. By this time most of the diners had retired to the lounge, and it appeared at first that the newcomer was going to ask if the dining room was still open. Instead she leaned over rather imperiously to touch Mrs. Barnett’s arm, interrupting her to ask a question.
Mrs. Barnett’s eyebrows went up, and she turned to look at Rutledge through the open doors.
Hamish said, “It appears the news has got around that ye’re a policeman.”
The woman, turning her head, followed Mrs. Barnett’s glance, thanked her, and came through to the dining room.
She stopped in front of Rutledge’s table and said, keeping her voice low, “Are you the man from London? Scotland Yard?”
Rutledge, standing now, his serviette in his hand, replied, “Yes. Inspector Rutledge. And you are—?”
“My name is Priscilla Connaught. Please—sit down and finish your meal! But if I may ask you to meet me in the lounge—it’s down the passage, beyond the stairs— afterward? I won’t keep you long, I promise!” Her voice was almost pleading, as if she feared he’d refuse her.
Hamish said, “She’s verra’ agitated!”
Rutledge was already answering, “Yes, I shan’t be more than a few minutes. Would you prefer to join me—?”
“No! Thank you, no, this is a very—private matter.” Glancing around the room at the remaining diners, she shook her head, as if to reinforce her refusal.
“Then I’ll join you shortly.”
“Thank you!” she said again, and turning, walked swiftly out to the lobby, in the direction of the lounge.
Rutledge resumed his seat as Hamish said, “It’s no’ a name you ken?”
“No. But if she’s already learned that I’m from the Yard, she must live here in Osterley.”
Finishing his trifle quickly, Rutledge left the dining room and went down the passage to the lounge.
But it was empty, except for one of the families who had dined at the hotel.
“She hasna’ waited,” Hamish pointed out. “A woman will change her mind, if she canna’ be sure she’s doing what’s best.”
Rutledge turned back to the dining room and met Mrs. Barnett coming through the glass doors. “Oh—there you are! I put Miss Connaught in the small parlor, just there—” She pointed to a closed door beyond the lounge. “There will be other guests having their tea in the lounge. I thought you might prefer a little privacy.”
“Yes, thank you,” he said. “Could you bring us tea in about five minutes?”
“I’ll be happy to, Inspector.” Her voice held a cooler note.
Hamish said, “Aye, they know now who you are.”
His anonymity—his role as a man with no ties to the problems of Osterley—had been stripped from him. There had been a new reserve in Mrs. Barnett’s manner. And it would soon be reflected in that of other people. His questions would be met with reticence.
Rutledge walked on to open the door Mrs. Barnett had indicated.
Priscilla Connaught was sitting by the small hearth, staring at the empty grate. She rose as Rutledge entered the room, facing him as if uncertain whether or not she really wanted to speak to him. Frowning,