Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [83]
“And Arthur?”
“I know him by sight, of course, but we’ve never met. Like his father, he was married to an American woman—I did meet her once. At a vicarage tea I’d been persuaded to attend. One of those sweet girls with little to say for herself. And unbelievably pretty. They spent most of the year in Yorkshire and seldom came to Osterley. Later I heard that she’d died.”
She was beginning to breathe more regularly now, finding it easier to carry on a polite conversation. The intensity that had held her on the edge of breakdown was draining away, and in its place was a precarious control again.
“Lord Sedgwick was concerned about the brakes on your motorcar.”
“He rather enjoys playing lord of the manor. And I’ve good reason to thank him for that—his chauffeur rescued me once when I’d lost my way and run out of petrol.” As if realizing that she was steadier, she asked again, “Are you sure—have you told me the whole truth about Walsh?”
Her eyes begged him for an honest answer.
“Yes,” he said gently. “I have no reason to lie to you.”
And yet he thought he had. She’d been distraught enough to do something foolish, before she’d reasoned out the consequences.
“Aye,” Hamish said, “it wouldna’ do to have her blood on your hands!”
She stood up again. “I must be on my way—”
“Whatever rumors you hear,” Rutledge told her, “come to me and I’ll tell you the truth. I give you my word.”
Priscilla Connaught took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m not sure I can believe you. I don’t know, I can’t somehow think straight.”
“It might be a good idea to speak to Dr. Stephenson. Someone you trust.”
She laughed, a hollow and mirthless sound. “There’s not much a medical doctor can do for a shattered life.”
“I wish you would tell me what Father James—”
Priscilla Connaught shook her head with finality. “It had nothing to do with his death. Only with his life. And that’s finished. Over and done with.”
She looked around, saw her purse on the table, and as she picked it up, spoke again. “I’ve lain awake at night, wondering who could have murdered him. If there was someone else he’d treated as cruelly as he’d treated me. I think I’d be happier believing that than in the story of a thief.” Then she turned toward Rutledge again.
“Thank you for your concern, Inspector,” she said with great poise, as if they’d spent an evening in pleasant conversation and she was leaving the party. “You’ve been quite kind.”
And with that, she wished him a good night and walked past him out the door.
Another of Father James’s failures, he thought, watching the door close behind her. Like Peter Henderson’s father . . . How many were there?
Mrs. Barnett was still in the office when Rutledge came back to the lobby and paused by the desk.
“Yes, Inspector?” she said, looking up.
“I’m told that Mr. Sims, Frederick Gifford, and Father James dined together from time to time. Did they come here?”
“Yes, about twice a month, generally. Occasionally it would be just Father James and the Vicar. I’ve always looked forward to having them come. They were no trouble at all, and I’d enjoy chatting with them when I brought their tea to the lounge.” The memory of that caught her for a moment. “It’s not easy, running this hotel on my own. I have so little time for anything else. It was almost like having friends drop by, because they would tell me about a book I might enjoy reading or where someone they knew had been traveling or even a bit of news from London that I hadn’t heard. My husband knew all of them quite well, you see, and in a small way it brought him back to me for just a little while.”
Something to look forward to . . .
It was a gratification Rutledge did not have. And he had, after a fashion, come to terms with the fact that how he lived today, on the edge of breakdown and exhaustion, would be a pattern he could expect in his tomorrows. It was not self-pity, whatever Hamish drummed into his head, but acceptance. The price of living