Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [95]
Stephenson leaned back in his chair. “I can’t think why! It was a clear-cut case of violent death. No question about that.”
Rutledge rejoined mildly, “Still, you might provide a small piece of the puzzle that’s been overlooked.”
Stephenson, a man used to judging people and tracking down the site of illness from small signs, considered Rutledge more sharply, his mind working swiftly behind the shield of his glasses. “You aren’t suggesting that someone in Osterley—”
Rutledge cut across what he was about to say. “For instance, Monsignor Holston tells me he was disturbed by the presence of something malignant and evil in that room. Mrs. Wainer on the other hand believes that the murder was motivated by revenge. But neither of them would write such impressions in an official report. Nor would you.”
Hamish was saying something, but Rutledge listened to the silence instead.
Stephenson scratched his jaw, a rasping sound in the quiet of the room. “I can’t say that I had an initial reaction. Unless it was disbelief. The constable who came to fetch me told me that Father James was dead. I was short with him, saying that it was my business, not his, to make that determination. After we got to the rectory, I remember thinking that this vigorous, intelligent man seemed smaller in death than he was in life. But we were standing over Father James rather than looking him in the eye as we usually did, which probably explained why he seemed— diminished. There were half a dozen people in the room and I could hear a woman sobbing somewhere down the passage. Mrs. Wainer, that was. After that I was too busy to do more than note the circumstances.” He stopped, looking back at the scene imprinted on his memory.
Rutledge said, “Go on.”
“He was lying by the window, facing it and partly on his left side, his left hand outflung and open, and I remember thinking that he couldn’t have seen the attack coming. But Blevins was pointing out the destruction in the study— chairs overturned, papers and books scattered about—and suggesting that Father James had walked in on this confusion and then gone to the window to call for help. That’s an old house, but the sashes work smoothly; I tested them myself. Still, even if Father James had been successful in attracting attention, it would have been too late. The bastard had found the opportunity he was looking for and struck hard. Nevertheless, the victim was facing the windows, and Blevins knows his business better than I do. Mine was to examine the body.”
Hamish said, “It wasna’ proper, surely, to influence the doctor’s view!”
“It’s done often enough. Setting the scene, as it were,” Rutledge silently responded. “Human nature to pay heed to it.”
Stephenson took a deep breath and studied the ceiling. “There had been an emergency on one of the farms around five that same morning—I was tired. And Blevins was taking it hard—he was one of Father James’s flock, as you probably know. I saw no reason to doubt what he was telling me.”
“How did Blevins look to you?”
“He was extremely angry, but his face was pale, his hands shaking. I thought it likely that he’d just vomited from the shock. He said two or three times, ‘I can’t understand killing a priest for a few pounds—I didn’t think we held life as cheaply here as in London.’ Or words to that effect.”
“Tell me about the room.”
“It’d been ransacked. You must know that. I could hardly set a foot down without tramping on papers or books and the like. I looked for evidence of a struggle, but didn’t find any. I said something to Blevins about that, as I remember. I’d always had the feeling that Father James could look after himself. I’d see him on the road on that bicycle of his at any hour of the day or night, and in any weather. I was surprised that he hadn’t made any effort to defend himself. Of course, that was before Blevins brought in Walsh.”
“Aye,” Hamish reminded Rutledge, “it’s a question you raised, yoursel’.”
Stephenson looked at the pen on his blotter.