Rutledge said nothing.
Blevins smiled ruefully. “Well, I’m glad of course for Iris Kenneth’s sake that she’s alive and safe, but it would have helped our case against Walsh if we could have charged him with her murder as well. Your Sergeant Wilkerson is sure, is he?”
“The other roomers in that boardinghouse had no reason to lie.”
“No.” He moved papers around on his desk and then said, “It has to be Walsh! There’s no one else it could have been.” His eyes, looking up suddenly, dared Rutledge to refute it.
“He has the best motive for murder that we’ve found so far,” Rutledge answered neutrally. “That has to count for something. Will you tell Walsh, or shall I? That Iris Kenneth is alive?”
“I’ll tell him.” There was resignation in Blevins’s voice. “We can’t charge him for the real drowning victim’s death, can we?” It wasn’t meant to be answered; it was no more than a reflection of his mood.
“Ever hear Father James speak of an interest in ships?”
“Ships? He was interested in the small boats around here. Handled the oars like a man used to the water. We’ve been out fishing a time or two, but he never said anything to me about ships. Why?”
“I wondered, that’s all. I found some cuttings among his papers. They had to do with
Titanic
sinking.”
“I’m not surprised. Shocking, the loss of life. We all felt it.”
“Yes.” Rutledge let the silence lengthen before adding, “And
Lusitania
. Did he ever speak of her?”
“I’m sure he was horrified, everyone was. What’s this in aid of?”
“I don’t know,” Rutledge answered. “At the moment, very little.”
Blevins grinned without humor. “You’re reaching, man!”
At the dinner hour Rutledge found his place at the only table set. Mrs. Barnett said, “I’m afraid it’s rather lonely tonight. Thursdays often are.”
Later, as she brought his main course, she informed him, “I’ve had no word from Miss Trent. Were you expecting her to join you for dinner?”
“No. Yes. I’ve some questions to ask her.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Oh?”
Rutledge smiled. “I wanted to ask her about a photograph I found. I thought it might be of interest to her.”
“I can’t imagine how. She isn’t local. Perhaps I could help you?”
“It’s in my room. I’ll bring it down after dinner—” The front door opened, and someone came into the lobby. Both Rutledge and Mrs. Barnett looked up.
It was May Trent.
She found them staring at her, and it seemed to startle her, but she said nothing, going directly to the stairs and starting up them. Leaving his meal to follow her, Rutledge caught up with her on the landing.
“I need to speak to you,” he said.
“I’m tired—”
“No, I don’t want excuses. If you don’t mind coming to my room, it will take no more than five minutes.” When she seemed on the point of arguing, Rutledge said, “My food is getting cold. Will you come with me or not?”
She looked back down the stairs, as if hoping to see Mrs. Barnett staring up at them. But she found no help there. The innkeeper was in the kitchens.
“All right. Five minutes.”
She went ahead of him, and he opened the door of his room for her, leaving it standing wide. There was no one to overhear their conversation.
May Trent looked about her with interest, as if mentally comparing his accommodations with her own.
He went to the desk drawer, and on a sudden whim, took out the photograph first.
Handing it to her, Rutledge said, “Can you identify this woman?”
It was a natural question. He had no intention of upsetting her and was completely unprepared for her reaction. Her face crumpled, as if she was on the verge of tears. But none came. Her eyes were dry and furious.
Jerking the photograph from his hand, she turned it on its face and dropped it on the bed, as if it had burned her fingers. “No. I won’t talk to you! I won’t!” She moved to go, and he stopped her, his hand on her arm. “Let go of me!” she cried, color flaring in her face.
“You can talk to me here, or you can talk to me at the police station,” he said angrily. “Your choice!”
“I’m leaving Osterley. I’ve only come to pack my bags and go. My friends are waiting—”
“They’ve gone to London,” he told her, guessing. “And I can put you under arrest if I have to, to keep you here. There’s an empty cell next to Walsh.”
She rounded on him, anguish in her eyes. “I won’t talk about it, do you hear! I couldn’t tell you anything if I had to, don’t you understand? I don’t
know
anything!
I can’t
remember anything!
”
Hamish cautioned, “Someone is coming.”
There was the sound of someone walking down the passage, a soft footfall. It was Mrs. Barnett. She stopped in the doorway, horrified by the sight of Rutledge clutching May Trent’s arm as she tried to fight free of his grip.
“Inspector Rutledge!” Mrs. Barnett exclaimed, moving toward them.
He looked up, speaking with the cold air of command that had served him on the battlefield when his mind had been too tired and too worn to think. “Mrs. Barnett. Sit down. Now.”
She opened her mouth, stared at them, and sat.
“There’s a photograph on the bed. The one I spoke of earlier.” He kept his grip on May Trent’s arm as he spoke. The skin was warm through the cloth of the sweater she was wearing over her long skirt. “Pick it up, and tell me if you will, whether you recognize the woman in it.”
She reached for it, turning it over, frowning at the face looking back at her. “I think—well, I know it’s a photograph of Virginia Sedgwick. Lord Sedgwick’s late daughter-in-law.”
May Trent had begun to cry, her face averted, half shielded by her shoulder.
“She was the wife of his elder son? Arthur?”
“Yes. That’s right. But why should you be harassing Miss Trent with it? She never even met this woman, as far as I know!”
“How did Virginia Sedgwick die?”
“She disappeared. No one knew where she had gone. It was whispered that she’d run away from her husband, but I know that couldn’t have been true! She just wasn’t the sort.”
Hamish said, “It’s been said of many a wife. That she wasna’ the sort. But who can be certain?”
“I don’t understand, what is this about?” Mrs. Barnett was still wearing her apron, and she wiped a smudge from the glass over the photograph. “Please, will you not let Miss Trent go?”
“Did her husband ever find Mrs. Sedgwick?”
“No. That is o say, not alive. She went down on that ship, you see.
Titanic.
She wasn’t using her married name, and no one thought to look under any other, until Lord Sedgwick hired someone to do what the police apparently couldn’t—” She stopped, biting her lip in embarrassment.
“How do you know all this?” he asked.
“My husband told me—he’d met Edwin on the train, coming back from London. Edwin was quite upset. He said his father and Arthur had gone to Ireland to bring back the body.”
“I’d read that most of the dead were buried in unmarked graves?”
“So they were. But Lord Sedgwick was convinced he could find her. For Arthur’s sake. And he must have been successful; I heard there was a service in the little church on the Sedgwick estate. The Queen sent flowers, I was told.”
Rutledge released May Trent.
Hamish rasped, “Ask her—!”
He said to her, “Does the Vicar know you were on
Titanic
? That you may have met Virginia Sedgwick, and seen her drown? Or that Father James was trying to awaken your memories?”
“No! I have never told anyone here! Father James—he had clippings—he’d seen my name among the survivors, and he wanted—” She stopped, unable to go on.
“And you can’t remember what happened the night of the sinking.”
She shook her head, her dark hair spilling over her face, hiding it.
But Father James had bequeathed her the photograph. And asked that she do something about it—find the courage, as he’d put it.
The priest hadn’t believed that her memory of that night had never been regained. Or else he had hoped that given time—and over the years he thought he still had to live—she might yet remember. Still, it was a strange way to go about it—to leave a message in a Will. Once he was dead, what difference would it make?
The cuttings. The photograph. The bequest.
But why was it so important to Father James?
It went through Rutledge’s mind before he could stop himself from thinking the unthinkable. That perhaps May Trent had killed the priest, to prevent him from prying into memories that she could not face. And never wanted to face.
Some eight months ago, he himself had tried to kill the doctor who had forced the secret of his own ghosts out of the silence he had wrapped around himself like a dark and protective cloak.
May Trent had suddenly found herself in the running, with a better reason than Walsh for committing murder. . . .
Abruptly realizing that both May Trent and Mrs. Barnett were watching him, he made an effort to meet the younger woman’s eyes.
They flickered, as she read his thoughts.
“I didn’t kill him,” she said quietly, numbness washing all expression out of her face.
“Truly . . .”
But what, Hamish was demanding, if the worried priest had backed away from confrontation, and written the codicil to his Will instead, hoping that in time May Trent might relent and do whatever it was that mattered so much to him? Only to learn that it was already too late; he’d set in motion a chain of events that couldn’t be reversed. . . .
Something that need never reach the light of day, if he lived to old age.
Rutledge said harshly, to the two women in his room and to the voice in his head, “I don’t know the answer. I wish to God I did!”
CHAPTER 18
THERE WAS ABSOLUTE SILENCE FOR A long, disturbing moment.
Mrs. Barnett’s eyes were wide with distress. The emotionally charged atmosphere had left her speechless, unprepared to take up either side.
May Trent, who had borne the brunt of Rutledge’s intensity, found the inner resources to stare back at him, a remarkable strength in her face. “You don’t mean that,” she told him. “You
can’t
.” But there were tears on her lashes.
The room seemed to shrink in on him, the walls squeezing out the air, the two women between him and the door a trap he couldn’t escape from. Taking a deep breath to shake off the sense of smothering, Rutledge fell back on the one thing that had always brought him through: His ability to command.
In a voice that sounded absolutely normal, despite the turmoil that racked him, Rutledge said, “Mrs. Barnett. Can you serve Miss Trent her dinner tonight? I think she needs food, and she’s not in any condition to go elsewhere.”
“In her room?” Mrs. Barnett asked doubtfully, rising.
“No. In the dining room. Miss Trent, go and wash your face, then come downstairs with me.” He added as she started to protest, “I promise you I won’t bring up Mrs. Sedgwick or—or your own experiences. But I need to hear about Father James’s interest in
Titanic
and her death. And if you will tell me that, I shall stay out of your way after tonight.”
A fierce pride touched her. “I don’t want your pity!”
“I’m not offering you pity. I’m searching for answers. If you can help me, I’ll take that help with gratitude.” Then he added with a surprising and unexpected gentleness, “Go on. It’s for the best.”
May Trent studied him. He could almost read what was going through her mind—that she didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts—but neither was she up to enduring public scrutiny at The Pelican, if her emotional state showed as she must have felt it did. “Give me five minutes.”
She walked out of the room and toward her own. Mrs. Barnett, watching her go, said to Rutledge, “That was
inexcusable
.”
“No, murder is inexcusable,” he told her flatly. “I can probably understand her feelings better than most. But I won’t walk away from my investigation when there are answers to be had.”
“But she
couldn’t
have known Mrs. Sedgwick! Even if somehow they’d met on shipboard, it wouldn’t have anything to do with Father James, would it? As for accusing her of
killing
him—!”
“She accused herself,” Rutledge replied, weariness in his voice. “It got out of hand, Mrs. Barnett—it sometimes does, when people are being questioned. I’m not sure why you came up here, but once you were here, I had no choice except to ignore you.”
Still rattled, she said, “Inspector Blevins would
never
—”
“I’m not Inspector Blevins.” He turned to shove the photograph safely away again in the desk.
“No,” Hamish pointed out, “and more’s the pity!”
Rutledge ushered Mrs. Barnett out of the room. As he shut the door behind them, he said, “Forget what happened just now. You can’t change it, for one thing, and for another, you don’t really understand all the reasons behind it. Meanwhile, since you’ve heard everything that has been said, I’d like to ask you what sort of woman Mrs. Sedgwick was.”