Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [96]
His eyes came back to Rutledge’s face, as if the medical details were more comfortable than speculation. “The back of his skull was crushed and that large crucifix lay on the floor near the body. I could see hair and blood on it quite clearly. I knelt on my handkerchief and someone held a lamp for me, so that I might examine the wound better. There had been at least three blows—I could identify the shape of the square base at three different points. I would say that the first blow stunned him, the second one killed him, and the third would most certainly have made it impossible to survive. Each blow was delivered with considerable force, judging from the compression of the skull.”
“Which confirms,” Rutledge said, “that the priest was standing, his back to the killer?”
“That’s true. I was told later that there were no fingerprints on the crucifix where it must have been gripped for leverage—either it was wiped clean or the killer wore gloves.”
“Women wear gloves,” Rutledge said thoughtfully, thinking of Priscilla Connaught, who was tall for a woman.
“I won’t tell you that it couldn’t have been a woman,” Stephenson answered, “but I find it hard to believe a woman would have struck more than twice.” He shrugged. “Still, it would depend on her state of mind. This was a bloody wound, and in my experience, few women are willing to splatter themselves with bone and blood and brain tissue, no matter how angry or brave they are. It’s not medical opinion, of course, but as a rule, women avoid that sort of unpleasantness. I pronounced him dead, and called it what it was: murder.”
Rutledge mused, “I come back to the question, what would I do if I walked in on a thief?”
“I’ve never faced an intruder in my house, Inspector. I’d feel violated, walking in on such wanton destruction—I know that—and damned angry as well. If I recognized the person, I’d tell him to stop making an ass of himself and get the hell out of my house, if he wanted to escape charges. I’d be in no mood to be charitable. And probably get myself killed for it. I’d be more wary of a stranger, not knowing what he was capable of, but I’d still go after him. But then I’m not trained as a priest. It would make a difference.”
Hamish said, “He was in the War, Father James. Would he turn the other cheek?”
As if he had heard Hamish’s comment as clearly as Rutledge did, Stephenson straightened the folder on his desk to march with the right margin of the blotter and added with an odd tension in his face, “If there was no thief—if it wasn’t Walsh—then Father James was confronted by an enemy.”
Rutledge said nothing.
Stephenson moved uneasily in his chair. “No, disregard that, if you will. Blevins is a good policeman—he wouldn’t have got it wrong!”
Again Rutledge let the comment stand. Instead he asked, “Did you know much about Father James’s past?”
“That’s the trouble with you people from London! You don’t live here, you don’t understand the people here. You look for complexity, and these are not complex people.” Rutledge started to speak, but Stephenson said, “No, let me finish! Some twenty years ago, we had discussions to see if anything could be done to bring back the port. Experts from London preferred to keep the marshes as a sanctuary for birds. We said, What about the needs of the families who had to scratch a living here? But nobody listened. This was a good place for marshes, and marshes we would keep,” he said with growing heat. “Well, I’m the man who sees the cost of the struggle to make a living out here. I knew that Romney Marsh had been drained to make it fit for sheep grazing, and we could do the same here, along with dredging the port, making it safe for small boats and a holiday place for people who haven’t the resources to travel to the southern beaches. The experts would have none of it. You’re the expert here; you want to find something to blame Father James for, something