Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [89]
The wain reached the turning for Gull Street and the Sherham Road and began to swing wide to plod around the sharp corner. Abruptly—without any warning— Rutledge found himself locked in an angry exchange with Hamish.
It had nothing to do with the discussion in the rectory kitchen. Not directly. It was instead an accusing and angry personal indictment.
“I canna’ ken why ye’re sae keen on proving yon Inspector wrong! Are you sae certain the Strong Man is innocent? When you walk away fra’ this town, you’ll leave behind raw wounds that willna’ heal as swiftly as yon hole in your chest! It’s a cruel thing, to stir up secrets to no purpose! Ye were sae set on Herbert Baker’s Confession as the key to this death, and now the auld woman has explained why it wasna’ any sich thing!”
“There are too many questions about Walsh. If he killed the priest, it had nothing to do with the bazaar money. I’d wager a month’s pay on that! And I can’t go over Blevins’s head and ask the War Office for information about where Walsh served. But that will have to be dealt with one way or another, before we can discuss guilt or innocence.”
“I canna’ see how a photograph is important.”
“It may not be. That’s a part of police work, too—to eliminate the variables.”
“And when the photograph also turns into a wild-goose chase, ye’ll go back to London?”
Rutledge said nothing. The wain lumbered into the turn, top-heavy and awkward. Two young boys along the road shouted at the driver, and began to run after him, as if trying to overtake the wain, their laughter spilling out like silver threads. The team of great Norfolk horses pulling the wain ignored the rowdy pair, heads down and shoulders into their harness. Rutledge watched them, concentrating on shutting out the voice in his head.
But Hamish was not to be put off.
“You willna’ see it, but ye’re running from yoursel’. You couldna’ find peace in your sister’s house, you couldna’ find peace in your flat, and then you couldna’ find peace at the Yard. And ye willna’ leave Norfolk, because there’s nowhere else to go. You’re afraid because in hospital you discovered a fierce will to live—”
Rutledge answered grimly, “I’ve been shot before—”
“Aye, that’s as may be! Piddling wounds that didna’ require more than bandaging at the aid station or a dram of whiskey! This was verra’ different. It left its mark. Why are ye sae afraid of living?”
Rutledge realized that the motorcar had not moved, and the wain was nearly out of sight down the Sherham Road. He drove on past the intersection and pulled into a tiny lane that ran between two houses. There he put the gears in neutral, set the brake, and leaned back to rub his hands over his face as if to erase the emotion there.
It was something he had tried to shut out from Hamish. But the Scot, used to burrowing deep into his secrets, had ferreted it out.
In truth, it had little to do with Scotland. . . .
On the night of his second surgery, he had heard the doctors telling Frances that the odds were against him; he might not survive going under the knife. “Too close to be sure,” one of them had said, and he had listened to Frances’s voice in his drugged state halfway between consciousness and sleep.
“He won’t leave me alone,” she said fiercely. “He won’t.”
And then someone had leaned over his bed, hovering in what appeared to be a mist but was only the anesthetic taking hold. At the time it had given the white hair and the kind face an insubstantial air, as if half dreamed.
“There’s nothing to fear, son. Whatever happens. But if you want to live—He’ll listen. Be sure of it.” The South Country voice speaking softly in Rutledge’s ear was confident, serene.
After that, the darkness had come down, and there had been no pain, only peace. It was not until many hours later that Rutledge had come back, in worse pain, to wakefulness.
It had startled him, to find himself alive. And he had been terrified that he’d begged to live, when he had no right . . . no right at all.
Much later, Frances had brought the corpulent little