Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [98]
It was an unexpected invitation. Rutledge said, “Yes. Let me wash up first, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.”
Rutledge took the stairs two at a time, wondering what had brought the priest here from Norwich.
“He canna’ stay away, for a man who doesna’ wish to stay here,” Hamish commented dryly.
Busy with that question, Rutledge reached the head of the stairs, turned toward his room, and in the narrow passage nearly collided with his fellow guest coming the other way.
“I beg your pardon!” he said, catching her arm to steady her. “I was in too much of a hurry.”
Startled by his sudden appearance, May Trent said hesitantly, “It was my fault as well. I had just knocked at your door. Today in the churchyard I should have apologized for last evening. You were trying to help, and I turned on you like a termagant. It was rude and ungrateful of me!” There was a rueful smile in her eyes.
“Not at all,” he said lightly. “You had no reason to believe my methods would work.”
“I had no cause not to believe in them. But I have a way of collecting lost sheep, and then defending them from imaginary wolves. When I returned to my table, my friends had a few pithy comments to make. You may consider me chastised and properly chastened.”
Rutledge laughed, and received a deeper smile in return. He noticed a flicker of a dimple in one cheek, and on the spur of the moment said, “I have a friend who has come to take lunch with me. He’s a priest, and should know more than most about the old churches in this part of Norfolk. If Mrs. Barnett can accommodate us, would you care to join us?”
Hamish grumbled that it was unwise.
For an instant Rutledge could see that she was tempted, but she shook her head. “That’s kind of you. My friends are leaving for London tonight, and asked me to come with them as far as King’s Lynn. I’ve promised.”
She started past him, to the top of the stairs, but he put out a hand to stop her. “Miss Trent, I need to ask—it’s a matter of police business. Are you aware that Father James has left a bequest to you in his Will?”
“Bequest? There must be some mistake.”
“His solicitor has had some difficulty carrying out Father James’s wishes, because neither he nor the housekeeper has been able to find the item—”
Miss Trent shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve heard nothing of this—and I know of nothing that Father James might wish me to have.” She was clearly mystified, and a little apprehensive.
“It was a photograph. It was kept in the drawer of his desk, but apparently it isn’t there any longer. Did he by any chance give it to you himself?” And perhaps hadn’t got around to rescinding the codicil. . . .
She said, “No. He gave me nothing, and he said nothing about a bequest. Are you quite certain—why should he leave me a photograph?”
“Perhaps you should speak to the solicitor about it. The name in the Will is Marianna Trent, of London.”
“But I haven’t used Marianna since I was a child. Everyone calls me May. Marianna was also my aunt’s name, you see, and perhaps he meant her? Although he never said anything to me about knowing her—” The confusion in her face seemed genuine.
“Did he ever show you a particular photograph? Of himself, of his family, possibly of someone who was in some fashion dear to him? Someone he discovered you had known as well?”
The confusion cleared, but a frown took its place, as if the reminder was not welcome. “I think—it’s possible I know what you mean. But I haven’t the time to discuss it now. I’m already late; my friends will be waiting. When I come back to Osterley tomorrow? Will that do?”
He wanted to tell her that it wouldn’t. But she was eager to be gone, and he had no choice but to step aside and let her pass. She went quickly down the stairs, her heels clicking softly in the carpeting, and he heard the door to the street open and close behind her.
Hamish said, “It doesna’ seem to be of importance to her, this photograph.”
“On the contrary,” Rutledge answered thoughtfully. “I believe she would much prefer not to talk