Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [85]
“What does Walsh say?”
“What you’d expect. He was happy to claim it was true and he demanded to be released at once.” Inspector Blevins’s lips twisted in a bitter smile. “As for helping us with our inquiries, I’ve pried more information from a razor clam!”
Rutledge asked, “If Walsh isn’t your man—for whatever reason—where will you look next?”
Blevins said grimly, “I bloody well don’t know! I’d already looked at the good people of Osterley, before Walsh turned up as a likely suspect. And there was nothing I could find that made any sense, nothing that pointed to someone wanting to murder Father James. Theft was the most likely reason for what happened, and Walsh was the most likely thief. But it’s early days yet! I’ve yet to hear from the War Office, we’re still tracking Walsh’s movements, and I am going to crack Bolton’s alibi, if I can. Early days!” he said again, as if to convince himself.
“Do you know a Priscilla Connaught?”
“Yes. She lives alone out by the marshes and seldom mixes with anyone in Osterley, as far as I know.”
“She’s a member of St. Anne’s.”
“So are fifty other people. Sixty.” Blevins leaned forward, his elbows on the blotter. “My money is still on Walsh. Until I’m satisfied that there’s no earthly chance he’s guilty.”
He looked at Rutledge, pain in his face. “I’ve told you before, I want the killer to be a stranger. I don’t want it to be anyone I know. I don’t want to think that any member of St. Anne’s parish, any friend of mine, any neighbor— any enemy for that matter—could murder a priest!”
“And yet,” Hamish said, “he was killed!”
Rutledge said, “It would be easier to watch a stranger hang.”
Blevins shook his head. “I’ll watch the murderer hang. It won’t matter to me if I know his face or not. It isn’t the hanging that I can’t live with. It’s the thought that someone I have seen every day in Osterley is capable of such a crime.” He regarded Rutledge for a moment. “You’re not a Catholic. You may not see this the way I do.”
“I don’t see that being a Catholic has anything to do with it.” He refused to be drawn beyond that.
The Inspector looked away, his eyes moving on to the high, soot-streaked ceiling, as if searching for answers there. “Murder isn’t finished by killing, that’s what I’ve learned in this business. It’s just the beginning. A death opens doors that are better left shut. I’m a very good policeman. I do my duty and I mind my town like a bitch watching her pups. I see that people live in safety and in peace, if not in harmony. And the harmony is gone now.”
Against his will, Rutledge said, “What do you know about Peter Henderson?”
Blevins’s eyes came back to him. “Peter? I don’t think he’s capable of killing anyone ever again.” There was a pause. “But his shoes are old and worn. And Father James did his best to heal the breach with Peter’s father. When he couldn’t, he tried to make Peter swallow his pride and go to the old man and beg forgiveness, if only to be accepted back into the family at the end. They—Father James and Peter—quarreled about that. Publicly. Down on the quay. You could probably make a good case for Peter Henderson. But I don’t want to. The poor devil’s suffered enough.”
Rutledge retrieved his motorcar from the hotel and drove to Old Point Road, his destination the rectory.
Mrs. Wainer, surprised to see him, opened the door wide and said, “Come in, sir. Has there been any news?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I wanted to ask you—”
From the kitchen came an old voice, saying, “ ’Oo is it, Ruth? Is it Tommy?”
“It’s the policeman from London, dear.” She turned back to Rutledge, apologetic. “It’s Mrs. Beeling. She’s come for a cup of tea and a gossip. In the kitchen . . .”
“I won’t keep you—” Rutledge began, but the housekeeper shook her head.
“No. Come along back, if you don’t mind—she’s not well, and I don’t like leaving her alone too long!”
He followed Mrs. Wainer down the passage to the kitchen. The woman at the table was swathed in shawls, as if she felt cold,