Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [66]
But Rutledge knew he was wrong, that Father James was slowly becoming a puzzle he could not walk away from. Not the priest, but the man . . .
As he came to the corner of the main road and Water Street, Rutledge paused and then opened the heavy door of Gifford and Sons. He stepped into Victorian elegance that had sufficed for two additional reigns and seemed to be in no haste to change. The elderly clerk at the desk might have served through all of them. He was tall and stooped, with the soft, very white hair seldom seen on any head younger than eighty. But the blue eyes that turned Rutledge’s way were bright as new paint.
“Good morning, sir,” the clerk greeted him. “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Gifford?”
“No, regrettably,” Rutledge answered with equal formality, recognizing the game. “However, I hope that he’ll spare me a quarter of an hour. My name is Rutledge. Inspector Rutledge, from London.”
The observant eyes took him in from head to toe. “Ah. I shall inquire, sir.” Rutledge wondered how he had fared in the summing up.
The clerk disappeared through a door into the private sanctum.
Looking about him, Rutledge could see that little had changed here since the first Gifford had begun to practice. The three chairs set against the walls of the spacious room were covered in worn leather, and the velvet-shrouded table in one corner was smothered in photographs in gilt frames, mostly of a man growing older, his son following suit, and then two younger men standing firmly in front of the camera with a look of nervous self-importance. A photograph of one of those men, dressed in uniform, had heavy black ribbon threaded through the openwork of the ornate frame.
“Grandfather, father, and sons,” Hamish said. “And one didna’ come home fra’ the War.”
The clerk returned, standing on the threshold. “Mr. Gifford will see you, Inspector.”
He led the way down a narrow passage, where two doors on the left were firmly closed, as if with sad finality. All they lacked was the black crepe of mourning. The clerk paused before a third, opened it, and introduced Rutledge with a Victorian flourish.
Rutledge walked into a paneled room bright with racing prints and glass-fronted bookshelves, a fine mahogany desk that was far older than the man seated in the chair behind it, and on the broad windowsills, an array of antique European snuffboxes and Chinese snuff bottles, each a small, exquisite gem, from enameled gold to cinnabar, ivory to painted glass, porcelain to jade. In the indirect light of morning they were quite beautiful.
A miasma of cigar smoke hung in the air.
Gifford rose to greet Rutledge, and Hamish’s first comment was “He’s small enough to be a jockey!”
He was a foot shorter than Rutledge, with the small features that matched his frame, thin and wiry. His hair was a rich, thick brown, as was his beard.
“I’m Frederick Gifford,” he said, gesturing to a chair. “Do sit down and tell me what I can do for you. I assume you’ve come about the Will?”
Surprised, Rutledge said, “As a matter of fact—”
Gifford nodded. “It seemed unlikely that Inspector Blevins would be interested in its provisions, given the nature of my client’s death. I’m told that they’ve finally caught the killer. It’s chilling to think about: Still, I suppose if someone is poor enough, any sum is princely.” The words echoed those of Monsignor Holston. Moving the blotter to line up with the pen and inkstand in antique silver gilt, Gifford sighed. “But I must admit that I’m surprised Father James’s reputation had reached London. It’s a compliment to his memory that Scotland Yard should take an interest in the matter.”
“He’s fishing,” Hamish warned.
Rutledge, accustomed now to offering a placating sentence or two, answered, “Father James’s Bishop was concerned enough to speak to the Chief Constable about the case. The Yard, as a courtesy, sent me to reassure him that all that it is possible to do was