Randal peered at the motorcar. "That 'ee, Vicar?" he called.

"Yes, h.e.l.lo, Tom. What's happened to you, man!"

Randal shook his head. "I was run down by a crazed woman in a motorcar, that's what happened! d.a.m.ned near killed me, she did, and of a purpose, too! Drove straight over me, after frightening the gelding half to death! It took me a quarter of an hour to catch him!"

He turned back to Rutledge, still furious. "I'm in no fit state to ride into Osterley. I'd take it as a favor if you'd see that a constable pays me a call out here. You owe me that. I've a claim to lay against the police and against that b.i.t.c.h. And I'll be calling on the solicitor in the morning!"

"You ought to see Dr. Stephenson-"

"I'll live. And you can tell that d.a.m.ned fool Blevins if he'd been better at his his job, I wouldn't have two horses in my stable that aren't fit for work and won't be for another week! Who's going to help me do mine, I ask you!" job, I wouldn't have two horses in my stable that aren't fit for work and won't be for another week! Who's going to help me do mine, I ask you!"

He turned and kicked savagely at the house a third time before stalking around the corner, muttering imprecations under his breath.

It was hard to feel sorry for the old curmudgeon, but Rutledge could sympathize. Tom Randal had been caught up in something over which he had no control, and Priscilla Connaught had shown him no mercy.

He walked back to the car. It would be just as well to send Dr. Stephenson out to make a call, he thought. When the fury and the sense of being wronged faded, Randal would be hurting rather badly.

At least, he thought, bending to turn the crank, Priscilla Connaught hadn't killed the man.

Rutledge left the Vicar at his front door. Sims looked up at the dark shadows of his house, and turned, as if half afraid to go in. Then, with resolution, he unlocked the door and closed it behind him.

Holston, on the other hand, refused to spend the night in St. Anne's rectory. "It's bad enough by daylight, but with the mists swirling about it and the churchyard, I'd just as soon be in a well-lighted hotel!" he said wryly.

And so Rutledge pulled into the hotel yard and delivered the remainder of his pa.s.sengers into the care of Mrs. Barnett, who welcomed them with the news that dinner could be warmed if they cared to dine.

Rutledge, standing in the dark outside the door, could feel the fatigue moving through him like a sluggish stream. But he turned and went instead to The Pelican for his meal.

Betsy, the barmaid, who came to ask what he'd have as Rutledge took the last seat in the crowded common room, was buoyant. "We're doing a fine business tonight," she informed him. "Everyone slept away the day, and now they're eager for company and gossip." She looked around her, pleased, then remembered what the cause of her good fortune was. Her mood shifted. "They tell me, though, that the man is dead. Still, it's a swifter way to go than a hanging, any day!"

"What are people saying about Walsh? Do they believe he killed Father James?" Rutledge asked, curious.

"Well, of course, he must have done! He escaped, didn't he? Inspector Blevins was here no more than half an hour ago, and saying that he'd spoken to the Chief Constable in Norwich. Everyone's relieved that the police have done their best. Even though there's to be no trial."

Looking around her once more, she waited expectantly for his order.

The death of Walsh, he thought, had been papered over. Justice had been served. Perhaps it was true. He was beyond caring. He ordered an ale and a serving of the stew, and Betsy brought him a covered dish of warmed bread from this morning's baking and a slab of b.u.t.ter.

Hamish said, "Ye ken, you'll no' make any headway against what Blevins has been saying. And they're eager to believe him. There's the sticking point. It was no' one of his friends or neighbors who killed the priest, and no' one of theirs. That's what matters. They can go to bed this night and no' be worried about being murdered in their sleep."

There was an outburst of laughter from a group by the window. Every head turned to look. Rutledge could see the general mood was relief, and it bordered on the hysterical.

Hamish was right. Order had been restored, their own st.u.r.dy faith that no one from Osterley could be guilty of such a heinous crime had been upheld. But a stubborn refusal to go against his own better judgment made Rutledge argue with his nemesis.

"The priest kept working toward a solution to Virginia Sedgwick's disappearance. The story about two priests at one deathbed was bound to get out, and someone began to worry. I don't think Father James expected to be attacked. Perhaps his visit to Norwich was the last straw. Even the appearance appearance of having confided in his fellow clergymen would have aroused unwelcome suspicion." of having confided in his fellow clergymen would have aroused unwelcome suspicion."

"Aye, that's possible. But it doesna' signify! Truth is no more than what people want want to believe." to believe."

Rutledge answered, "Or what they fear."

"And ye're as gullible as any man. You canna' face the question about yon Englishwoman's guilt!"

"I haven't forgotten May Trent. But if she killed Father James, there won't be another victim. If it was one of the Sedgwicks, what's to stop the murderer from biding his time until it's safe to kill again? He may already be suspicious of Sims-Holston-or even Miss Trent. Where is my duty toward them?"

"Aye, duty, that's all verra' fine. Ye did your duty in France, too. And I'm dead for it!"

CHAPTER 26.

FINISHING HIS MEAL AS QUICKLY AS he could, Rutledge paid his bill and then walked toward the hotel.

His fatigue had pa.s.sed the need for sleep. As he had so many times at the Front, he'd ignored it and pushed his body and his mind to their limits-and then pushed both beyond that.

Retrieving his motorcar, he drove to the police station. There, he asked the sleepy constable on duty how to find two people, and left word for Blevins requesting that someone be sent around to speak to the old farmer in the morning.

The constable grimaced. "A year or two back, a lorry hit one of his piglets, out on the road. Odd place for a piglet to be wandering, you'd think, and the Inspector was of the opinion the sow had rolled over on it. But Randal swore it was a lorry. It was three months before we could satisfy him!"

"He has a better claim this time," Rutledge warned, and left.

Dr. Stephenson lived on the main road, toward Hunstanton, in a well-kept three-story house that backed up to the marshes. Rutledge turned into the yard, where a gate led into the flint-walled garden with its flagstone walk up to the door. A black spaniel, waiting on the step to be let in again, greeted him effusively, trying to lick his hand. When the housekeeper answered the knocker's dull thunk, thunk, the little dog darted past her crisp skirts and disappeared into the hall beyond. the little dog darted past her crisp skirts and disappeared into the hall beyond.

The middle-aged woman, regarding Rutledge with unconcealed interest, as if his reputation had preceded him, warned him that he had interrupted the doctor at his dinner. Stephenson himself, coming out to speak to Rutledge, told him to make his call brief.

"It's brief enough. Tom Randal was bruised in a fall from his horse. It might be best to find out if he's more seriously hurt. I shouldn't be surprised if he'll be more grateful than he'll care to admit. By tomorrow morning, he'll be stiff as a board."

"I've been trying to persuade him to hire a couple to cook for him and help with the farm. He may listen now, but he's as independent and stubborn as they come." Stephenson, his serviette in his hand, sighed. "All right, yes, as soon as I've finished my dinner. And I'll take someone along who can stay the night and see that he has a decent breakfast in the morning. Was it Randal that Priscilla Connaught thought she'd killed?"

"I have every reason to believe it is. Tom Randal is d.a.m.ned lucky to be alive. She was in no state to think clearly about what she was trying to do."

"And whose fault is that?" Hamish asked in condemnation.

Rutledge ignored his voice. "How is she?"

"I've kept her sedated. Mrs. Nutley is staying the night with her."

"I'll look in there on my way."

"Do you have any idea how tired you are? You're slurring your words, man, you ought to be in your bed. Or I'll have a new patient on my hands!"

"Good advice. I'll take it shortly."

Rutledge said good night and strode down the dark path to the road. As he cranked the engine, his chest protested in fiery wires spreading deep.

Ignoring that, too, Rutledge drove next to Priscilla Connaught's house. He was surprised to find that she was awake, drinking a mutton broth that Mrs. Nutley had made.

The nurse had explained to Rutledge on their way up the stairs, "An empty stomach sees nothing good. I always feed my patients before the next dose of medicines."

Priscilla, wearing a very fetching lavender dressing gown, smiled at him as he walked through the door, but obediently drank most of the broth before saying, "You're here to arrest me." Her voice was matter-of-fact, but her expression bleak behind the smile. "I'd warned Mrs. Nutley the police would come for me soon."

"No." He pulled a chair to the bed and sat down, wondering if he'd be able to get out of it again. "The man you thought you killed is alive, though bruised and b.l.o.o.d.y. And furious. He must have gone through a hedge headfirst. Still, I'd accept that as very good news if I were you. Nor was it Walsh. Again, good news from your perspective."

"Dear G.o.d!" She set the bowl on her tray and stared at him. "Oh, gentle G.o.d G.o.d!"

"There's nothing you can do about Mr. Randal tonight. Except to sleep and regain your good sense."

She said faintly, "You look like a dead man yourself."

"Yes, I rather feel like one." He smiled. "Don't you think it's time you told me what lay between you and Father James?"

Biting her lip, she turned away. "I told you once before. It doesn't have anything to do with his death. Only with mine."

"What did he ask you to do? What ruined your life?" he pressed her.

It was unfair to force her in her present state-as Hamish was pointing out-but he was afraid that when she regained her strength, she would be more than a match for the police.

She glanced at Mrs. Nutley. "I'm half drunk with whatever it is she's made me swallow. I can't keep my mind clear!"

He could see it in the pupils of her eyes. Mrs. Nutley, her hands folded in her ap.r.o.n, was unruffled. "It's only what the doctor instructed me to give her."

"I understand." To the patient he added, "Would you like Mrs. Nutley to leave the room? I'm sure she'll be glad to give us a moment."

"Yes. No." Priscilla Connaught fell silent, closing her eyes against his inspection. And then unexpectedly she opened them and said in a despairing voice, "It was so long ago. n.o.body cares, n.o.body remembers. Not anymore. But that doesn't make the hurt hurt go away!" go away!"

He could see the pain in her face, stripping away what was left of her youth, and turning her almost as he watched into a very different woman. "Do you know what loneliness is, Inspector?"

He answered quietly, "I'm afraid I do. It's how I live."

She embraced herself with her arms, drawing them across her chest as if they offered a measure of comfort, leaning into them as if desperate for human warmth. "I loved a very fine man. We were to be married. I was over the moon with joy."

He knew what she meant. He'd watched the same joy wash over Jean when he'd asked her to marry him. On Sat.u.r.day next she'd be married to someone else. He didn't want to be in London then- Priscilla Connaught's voice startled him, stronger now and thick with grief. "And then one day Gerald came to me to say that he had had an-epiphany-of sorts. A revelation. I asked him what it was, and he said he had always been drawn to the Church, and now he knew that that was where he ought to be. It was what G.o.d wanted him to do. I told him if this was what he he wanted, of course he should follow his vision. We could marry when he finished his studies. But he explained that he wanted to become a wanted, of course he should follow his vision. We could marry when he finished his studies. But he explained that he wanted to become a Catholic Catholic priest. There couldn't be any marriage, now or later. He broke off our engagement." priest. There couldn't be any marriage, now or later. He broke off our engagement."

"And you blamed Father James for persuading him?"

She squeezed her eyes tightly to hold back the tears, as if on the back of the lids, the past was still vivid and clear. "He wasn't a priest then. He was only John James. But he was Gerald's best friend. I went to him and asked him to persuade Gerald not to do this. He told me the best thing I could do for Gerald if I loved him was to let him go. Let him enter the priesthood."

The tears began to fall, but her eyes were shut still, closing Rutledge out. "So I let him go. I-I truly believed that once he had his way, once he'd embarked on his studies, he'd quickly discover that it wasn't what he wanted after all. I was convinced that he loved me too much for this- this fancy fancy-to last. I gave him my blessing and let him go and let him go !" !"

Rutledge waited in the bitter silence that followed, uncertain whether or not she had finished. He could imagine how she must have felt, abandoned for what-to a woman-seemed an inexplicable rejection of her and her love.

Finally she opened her eyes and looked across at him.

Her voice was shaking so much he wasn't sure he heard her clearly. "In his last year before being ordained, Gerald killed himself. And neither G.o.d nor I had him, in the end. I couldn't torment G.o.d. I tormented Father James instead. Gerald's death lay at his door, and every time he looked at my face in his congregation, he was unable to forget how wrong he'd been, how he'd failed Gerald, and me-what, in his sanctimonious faith faith in his own judgment, he'd done to us. Just as I could never forget Gerald. . . ." in his own judgment, he'd done to us. Just as I could never forget Gerald. . . ."

Rutledge waited by the bedside until the sedative Mrs. Nutley had given her sent Priscilla Connaught into the comforting oblivion of sleep.

"Keep an eye on her, will you?" he asked as they left the room.

"You can depend on me, Inspector."

As he walked on down the stairs to the door, the older woman, following, said quietly, "In my experience, it helps sometimes to unburden the heart."

But he wasn't convinced that confession would do much for the sleeping figure he'd left in the darkened bedroom.

The only certainty was that Priscilla Connaught's secret had had nothing to do with the priest's death.

Frederick Gifford's house was set well back from the road, just past the school. It stood in a small park of old trees that reminded Rutledge of the vicarage at Holy Trinity. Driving through the gates and up to the door, he could see that the house was gabled and probably very old.

The maid who admitted Rutledge left him in the parlor. From another part of the house he could hear people talking, as if Gifford had guests.

Gifford came in with apologies. "A week ago, I'd invited friends to dine with me. We decided not to let the upheavals of last night affect our plans. Though to tell you the truth, no one is in a festive mood! What brings you here at this hour of the night? Shouldn't you be in your bed? You look like death walking, man!"

Rutledge laughed. "I've heard that enough to believe it. I won't keep you long. I need to learn who arranged for Mrs. Baker-Herbert Baker's ill wife-to have the treatment she required for her consumption. It's rather important."

Surprised by the request, Gifford smoothed the line of his beard with the back of his fingers. "I don't know. That is, I never knew. Nor did Dr. Stephenson. A bank in Norwich sent me a letter instructing me that an anonymous benefactor had requested a sum of money be set aside for the care of one Margaret Baker, wife of Herbert, of this town. I was to use it to pay any medical bills, as required by her doctors, a.s.sociated with her illness."

"Mrs. Baker wasn't particularly well-known. Her illness wasn't uncommon. Why should she be singled out by a Norwich bank for such a generous gesture?"

Gifford frowned. "I have no idea. I didn't ask. I saw no reason to. The papers were in order-and Mrs. Baker was was seriously ill. Stephenson told me later that better care extended her life by several years." seriously ill. Stephenson told me later that better care extended her life by several years."

"But surely you must have guessed who was behind this generosity. Baker's employer, for one."

"The thought crossed my mind. But I didn't pursue it. Stephenson does what he can on his own, and there are other people in Norfolk who support a variety of charitable activities. The King has been known to act anonymously. And he knew the Sedgwick family."

"I can't imagine how the King discovered that an obscure coachman's wife, living quietly in Osterley, was in need."

"No, no, the King doesn't handle such matters himself; you misunderstand," Gifford answered. "But he has deep roots in Norfolk and apparently feels strongly about them. The staff at Sandringham raised a troop of their own, during the War. He and the Queen took a keen interest in the men. It's not impossible that someone in the Household brought the Bakers to the attention of the staff."

"Yes, I understand. But in my view, they'd be far more likely to have a word with Lord Sedgwick rather than go to the trouble of making arrangements with a bank in Norwich. Is there any way that this-kindness-could be traced through the paperwork?"

"I doubt it. Bankers are worse than stones when it comes to divulging information. Immovable."

Rutledge thanked him and left. Stones could be moved. If Scotland Yard wanted the information badly enough . . .

Hamish said, "Even if his lairdship paid for the sanitarium, it willna' prove much."

"It proves that a debt existed between Herbert Baker and the Sedgwick family. The sort of debt that Baker would have gone to great lengths to repay. As he lay dying, he told the Vicar that he feared he'd loved his wife too much. He could easily have confessed to Father James how he'd demonstrated that love."

"Aye. But yon Trent woman-she has depths you canna' plumb. I wouldna' count her out of the running. You canna' know for certain if she abandoned an elderly woman when the ship was sinking, to save hersel'. She'd ha' killed Father James if he came too close to her her secret." secret."

Only a few days ago, when Rutledge had seen the connection between Father James and the Watchers of Time, Observers of Deeds, he had remarked that there were no bodies and therefore no murders that the priest could have uncovered.

Now there were two. The woman whom May Trent had accompanied as a companion. And Virginia Sedgwick, who was-possibly-also lost in the sea.

"Or," Hamish interjected into Rutledge's thoughts, "buried here in these marshes. I havena' seen more likely ground for disposing of a corpse!"