Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [57]
“Why?” he asked bluntly. “Did you care so much for the priest?”
“I hated him!” Priscilla Connaught said roughly.
For an instant Rutledge was reminded of what Mrs. Wainer had told him. That Father James had been killed for revenge.
“That’s a very strong word, hate,” he told her. “And if you did hate him, why should you care whether his killer is found or not?”
“Because whoever killed Father James has cheated me!” she cried, her voice trembling. “And I want to see him hang for that!”
Looking back on the encounter, Rutledge realized that his face must have reflected his shock. Priscilla Connaught set her cup on the tray with a clatter that sent tea over the lip of the saucer and onto the shining silver surface.
“I shouldn’t have come,” she said, rising to her feet. “I didn’t mean a word of what I’ve just said. I’m upset, that’s all. Everyone in Osterley is upset by this murder. Frightened by it. It’s late, I must go—!”
Rutledge stood also. “No, I think you’ve told me the truth. And in my opinion, you owe me some explanation—”
“I just want the killer found, that’s all! That part is true enough. And I wanted to know if that man—what did you say his name was?”
“Walsh. Matthew Walsh.”
“Yes. If that man Walsh was likely to be the murderer. And you won’t tell me straight out whether you believe he is or not!”
She was flushed, and Rutledge thought she was close to tears. Suddenly he felt a wave of pity.
“We don’t have enough proof to charge him yet. It’s circumstantial evidence at the moment. But Inspector Blevins is waiting for information that might give us the answer to your question. And as a precaution he’s holding Walsh until it arrives.”
“Oh, God.” Her face seemed to close in on itself, the features tightening as if the muscles were pinched together. “Well, at least that’s honest.” She glanced around, searching for her purse, found it on the floor by her chair, and stooped to pick it up. “I’m sorry I interrupted your meal, Inspector. But I live alone; there’s no one to talk to about this. I sometimes think I’ve lost my perspective.”
“I wish you would be as honest with me,” Rutledge answered. “Why did you hate Father James?”
She sighed in resignation, brushing the edge of her hand across her forehead. “It was a very long time ago. Well in the past, and nothing to do with the police. It was before he became a priest. I went to him for advice, and he gave it to me. I followed it because I trusted him. And it ruined my life. It destroyed everything I believed in and loved and cared about. And this man who was so wise and compassionate and understanding became a priest. I have often wondered just how many other lives he ruined in his righteous belief in his own infallibility. But as long as I could hate him, I had something to live for, you see! And now that’s been taken away from me. And I really have nothing left. When that man killed Father James, he might as well have killed me, too!”
She swept past him, and out the door. Rutledge, staring at her stiff and uncompromising back, let her go.
Rutledge was halfway up the stairs when he thought about Monsignor Holston. He went down again to the lobby, found the telephone in the little alcove behind the desk, and put in a call to Norwich.
Eventually the priest answered, sounding out of breath. Rutledge identified himself.
“Sorry, I had to make a dash to answer the phone. Is there more news?”
“No, I’m afraid not. But I do have a small mystery on my hands. Tell me, do you know anyone called Priscilla Connaught?”
Monsignor Holston considered the question. “Connaught? No, I can’t place her.”
“She’s a parishioner here at St. Anne’s.”
“Was she at Mass this morning?”
“I didn’t see her. Tall, slim, graying dark hair.”
“No. I can’t put a face to the name. Does it matter? You could speak to Mrs. Wainer. She’d be able to tell you, surely?”
“Probably not important,” Rutledge said lightly. “Apparently Miss Connaught knew Father James a good many years ago. His death seems to have upset