Read Watchers of Time for Free Online Page A

breaking down, Bolshevism on the loose. Now a priest’s dead.”
    He peered at the sheet of paper in his hand. “Struck down with his own altar crucifix in St. Anne’s rectory, to be precise. The local police haven’t caught the villain yet. The priest walked in on a thief, apparently. It’s probable he could have recognized the man, and was murdered for that reason. The police are looking at that as the primary motive, for now. Still—we may have a madman in our midst, who’s to say differently? Little wonder this Bishop wants reassurance that we’re doing all we can.”
    “What was the thief after?” Rutledge interjected. There were more likely choices for breaking and entering than a church office or rectory. A poor box and a priest’s pockets were notoriously bare. Madman indeed!
    “A paltry sum collected at the church harvest festival, I’m told, which means everyone at the festival, in the village, and in the countryside for miles around knew there must be money in the rectory.”
    “That broadens the inquiry considerably,” Rutledge agreed. “Did the priest have a housekeeper? How did an intruder get past her?”
    “She’d already gone home for the day. And the priest himself should have been in the church to hear Confession, but had put up a notice there saying he was away at a deathbed and might not be back in time. Clear sailing, the thief must have thought. But Father James came home and went up to his study, and the intruder panicked. A shame, but there it is. It could happen to any householder.”
    It could—and often did.
    “Word has come down from the Chief Constable in Norfolk that it’s politic to send an officer,” Bowles said. “You’re to show the Yard’s concern and have a look at the evidence. Speak with this Bishop or one of his people, assure him that the local police know what they’re about, and once he’s satisfied that everything possible is being done, come back to London. From what I hear of the local man, Blevins, he’s competent and has a good reputation for using his head. Shouldn’t take you more than a few days. And October in the Broads is usually fine.”
    Rutledge remembered that it was often wet, but said nothing.
    Hamish said, “It’s no’ a holiday, mind. Watch your back! You canna’ trust the man. He doesna’ want you in London.”
    “It’s more likely a diversion,” Rutledge answered silently, “to take pressure off Blevins. While everyone is watching me, he’ll be free to get the job done.”
    Hamish grunted, “Have ye forgotten Scotland already?”
    Bowles was saying, “Leave now, and you’ll be there tonight. Anything I ought to know regarding those, before you go?” He gestured to the files spread across Rutledge’s desk. “Parker can deal with them.”
    “No, I’m finished with this lot. In fact, I was about to hand them over to Sergeant Williams. He’ll know which are to be filed and which distributed to the officer in charge of the investigation.”
    “I’ll send Williams up to collect them. There’s a train at half past ten, you can make it if you hurry!” Bowles smiled in encouragement. Rutledge was reminded of crocodiles. The same cold yellow eyes.
    “Very well.” He stood up, took the pages Bowles handed him, tucked them under his good arm, and went to open the door. “I’ll report by telephone, shall I?”
    “No need. It’s a courtesy visit; you won’t be getting involved.”
    The doctor, taking the bandages off Rutledge’s chest for the last time, looked at the wound, poked and probed at it—making the patient wince—and then nodded in satisfaction.
    “You were damned lucky,” Dr. Fleming said, “that no deep infection set in. Still, it won’t hurt to have a small plaster over it. A matter of prevention. How do you feel?”
    Rutledge, looking down at the raised, raw scar in the matted hair on his chest, replied, “I can breathe without discomfort.” He flexed his arm. It felt like a soggy rag. “I doubt