Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [65]
Rutledge replied carefully, “Who can say? Perhaps it still has some bearing on the case. Have you spoken of this to Inspector Blevins?”
She frowned. “No. I thought it best not to say anything. Inspector Blevins seemed convinced that the motive for the murder was theft. Not ancient history.”
“Will you tell me what it was? My name’s Rutledge. Scotland Yard sent me to Osterley because Father James’s Bishop expressed grave concern over the time it has taken to clear up this business. It isn’t idle curiosity behind my questions. And I won’t repeat what you tell me to anyone else—until or unless I see the need.”
The woman picked up her charcoal again and began to put wrinkles into the wimple of the nun, capturing them perfectly. “No, I just—Father James was so kind that I— sometimes one wants to help so badly that one starts to imagine that what one knows is important. I’ve already explained: The matter he was referring to had happened some time ago, years in fact, and really had nothing to do with Osterley or anyone who lives here. It was only the importance that Father James seemed to attach to it that made me remember it at all.”
“Was it a church matter? Or a personal one?”
“I rather thought it was personal. Most certainly the subject was a painful one for me, and he—Father James— was helpful in dealing with that. In return, I tried to answer his question, and failed. A disappointment to him, and a regret for me. But it had nothing to do with Osterley, I give you my word.”
She bent her head over the drawing, and Rutledge, looking down at the nape of her neck and the dark sheen of her hair, decided that this was not the time to press her.
“If you change your mind, Mrs. Barnett will see that any message reaches me.”
“Yes. Of course.” It was said with grave politeness, but he knew she had no intention of doing any such thing.
He waited for a count of ten, but she seemed to be absorbed in her work, as if unaware that he was still there.
Hamish scolded, “You canna’ leave it!”
But Rutledge was already walking through the nave, listening to the silences of the shadowy church around him. He was thinking that Mrs. Barnett would give him the name and the direction of this woman, and he could put Sergeant Gibson on to searching for her background, with emphasis on what connection she might have to Osterley or East Anglia. . . .
He had learned early on in his career at the Yard that people who did not want to talk to the police could not be made to do so. But he wanted very much to know what it was that Father James had asked of a comparative stranger that had left behind it such unease.
CHAPTER 11
THE FIRM OF GIFFORD AND SONS, Solicitors, was a small country practice that had been in business for some time, judging by the brass nameplate by the door. The letters on it were worn almost to smoothness from years of polishing away the sea damp that etched it like freckles.
Rutledge had noticed the location of the firm during his walk the night before. Now as he crossed from Trinity Lane along the Hunstanton Road, he decided to speak to whichever Gifford was available this morning.
The two unusual events in Father James’s life shortly before his death had been the bazaar, with its connection to Walsh, and the summons to the bedside of a dying man. Odd though the circumstances had been, there was no indication that out of that deathbed had come, like a phoenix rising, the shadow that had dogged Father James until it killed him.
All the same, it had to be considered. The policeman in Rutledge was too experienced to leave the matter. Nor could he ignore Priscilla Connaught or the woman he had quite literally stumbled over in the church. They, too, had some sort of personal link with the victim.
“You canna’ face London!” Hamish reminded him, with some force.