Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [94]
“And left his cart and his equipment with the scissors sharpener?”
“That’s possible! We should look into the trains. A man the size of Walsh would stand out. Other passengers might remember seeing him.”
“It’s best to be thorough,” Rutledge agreed. Then he added, choosing his words, “Something was said earlier about having to release Walsh, if you didn’t have incontrovertible proof. Perhaps—as a precaution—we might be well advised to look at other suspects.”
Warily, Blevins asked, “Starting where?”
“I was about to ask you that.”
“I’ve told you, no one in Osterley had a reason to murder Father James!”
“We won’t know that with any certainty until Walsh is found guilty.”
Disconcerted, Blevins studied the Londoner. “Do you really believe I’m wrong about Walsh?”
Rutledge answered indirectly. “If you’re forced to let Walsh walk out of here, will you still be convinced he was guilty?”
Blevins looked away, a long sigh expressing his frustration and uncertainty. His fingers toyed with the edge of the blotter, worrying a small tear in the corner. He was reluctant to give up any part of his authority—and equally reluctant to exercise it. This was his village, his people. To be seen rigorously investigating the private lives of those he lived with on a daily basis would bring their wrath down on his head. To let Rutledge usurp his position was an admission that he was not prepared to do it himself. For whatever reasons.
Finally he told Rutledge, “I don’t want to know what you’re doing. Not at first. But when you think you’ve got something I should hear, then I want to hear it. However unpleasant it might be. Do you understand me?”
Rutledge agreed with grace, knowing that Blevins had crossed a line that would come back to haunt him. Hamish, in the back of Rutledge’s mind, added silently, “If the killer is no’ the Strong Man, you’ve made an enemy.”
And that was equally true.
Down the passage the pounding had stopped, and Rutledge found the silence disturbed him.
Blevins waited until Rutledge had reached the door to the street before asking, “Where will you begin?”
After a moment, Rutledge answered, “Where death begins. With the doctor who examined the body.”
As Rutledge stepped out into the hazy sunshine of the October morning, he heard Hamish clearly, as if the voice had just walked out of the police station at his heels, no more than two steps behind his left shoulder.
“There’s no turning back,” Hamish warned. “If you’re wrong, he willna’ let you live it down!”
But Rutledge answered, unaware that he’d spoken aloud, “So be it.”
CHAPTER 15
RUTLEDGE WAITED NEARLY TWENTY MINUTES IN Dr. Stephenson’s surgery before the nurse, Connie, summoned him and led the way to the small private office in the rear.
Stephenson, looking at Rutledge over the tops of his glasses, said, “I’d heard you went back to London.” He collected the sheets of paper he’d been reading and set them in a folder. “Blevins is a capable man. I can’t quite see the need of someone from London looking over his shoulder. Most of the town feels satisfied that Walsh killed Father James, and if there’s been any evidence to the contrary, I haven’t heard about it.”
“When a man travels the country as frequently as Matthew Walsh did, his movements aren’t always easy to follow. And the timing on a given date can be critical,” Rutledge answered without rancor, waiting to be offered the chair on his side of the desk.
Stephenson nodded toward it, and Rutledge sat down. “Then what brings you here today?”
“Walk lightly!” Hamish warned.
“I wasn’t present when the body was found. I’d like to hear what you saw and noted at the scene.”
“I wrote everything down for Blevins. The next morning, in fact.”
“That’s the official report. Well-considered medical opinions designed to stand up in court. What I’d like is your personal