Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [97]
“He’s avoiding the question, ye ken,” Hamish pointed out.
Rutledge said without rancor, “I’m not suggesting that Blevins is wrong. Or that Father James was guilty of some unspeakable crime. But none of us is perfect—and people will kill for reasons that you and I couldn’t comprehend. One of the worst murders I’ve ever seen had to do with a simple boundary dispute, where a hedge ran over the line. Hardly a case for violence, but it ended in one man taking the shears to the other.”
Dr. Stephenson looked at him for a long moment. Then, as if against his will, growing out of some inner need he couldn’t silence, he said, “In all my personal and professional encounters with Father James, I never felt any doubt about his integrity or his honor.”
A but hung in the air between them, like a shout that couldn’t be ignored. Rutledge waited, silent.
And as if goaded by that, the doctor said, “Damn you! I don’t know why I’m telling you this. But there was something years ago that puzzled me, and I suppose that’s why I couldn’t put it out of my mind. It had to do with the sinking of Titanic. Once when I walked in on him—this was several months afterward—there was a great pile of articles spread out across Father James’s desk. A hundred or more cuttings, with notes in ink in the margins, and even photographs of passengers and recovered bodies. He saw me looking down at them, and before I could say a word, he’d gathered up the lot and swept it out of sight into a drawer, as if it were somehow . . . obscene material. I made some remark about the disaster, and his interest, and he said, ‘No, that’s nothing to do with me.’ It was odd, to hear a priest lie, and about something so—ordinary.” Dr. Stephenson frowned. “He never spoke of it again, and nor did I. But the lie never set well with me. I— In some fashion it altered my view of the man.”
He studied Rutledge’s face.
Rutledge said. “Perhaps he knew someone who had sailed on her.”
“I wondered about that, but people in Osterley seldom travel beyond Norwich or King’s Lynn. They most certainly don’t have the money for passage on a ship like that. I myself know of only one person who sailed on Titanic, and she didn’t live here at all. I can’t believe that Father James had more than a passing acquaintance with her.”
“Who was she?”
Stephenson answered testily, “Lord Sedgwick’s daughter-in-law. His son Arthur’s wife. An American. It was hushed up at the time—she’d left her husband and sailed for New York without a by-your-leave. Sedgwick and young Arthur had searched everywhere, they’d no idea where she went or why. She simply vanished. Until the ship went down, and someone found her maiden name in the passenger list. Terrible shock to the family.”
“Was her body retrieved?”
“I believe it was. The family held a private service on the estate. Look, I should never have spoken of this. For all I know, Fa her James had dreamed of running away to sea as a boy! Titanic was a marvel; she caught the fancy of the entire country. He was probably embarrassed to admit to sharing that excitement.” Stephenson took out his watch. “I’ve three more patients to see before I can go home for my dinner. Is there anything else you want to know?”
He made it sound as if Rutledge had been prying, vulgar curiosity driving him.
Rutledge rose and thanked him for his time.
He reached the door and was just putting his hand on the knob when the doctor said swiftly, for a second time, “Look, forget what I just told you.” There was a harsh expression on Stephenson’s face, a fierce desire to recall his words, and a strong dislike of the man who’d heard them.
As Rutledge walked down Water Street, he found himself wondering if indeed Father James had lied to the doctor. It was a small lie, of no great importance. Unless it was nested in a pattern of lies? This was perhaps what lay at the center of the doctor’s unease.
In the hotel lobby, Monsignor Holston rose from one of the chairs there and said,