Following him, Sedgwick went on, “They’re called—so I’m told—‘The Watchers of Time.’ ‘Set the task of witnessing what man and the gods may do. Through all eternity.’ That’s what the catalog says, at least. We bought the house furnished. Lock, stock, and phantoms.” He was smiling, but when Rutledge looked up from the stone, he could see that the smile had not reached Sedgwick’s eyes.

Hamish, who had been silent since they entered the house, was saying, “But they canna’ speak. The apes. What use are they as witnesses?”

Rutledge answered silently, “They don’t judge. They merely observe.”

“Aye,” Hamish said. “But a man with a guilty conscience wouldna’ find it verra’ comfortable, that stare. I wouldna’ care for it mysel’!”

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 12

LORD SEDGWICK SHOWED HIMSELF TO BE a genial host. He possessed a wry sense of humor, which Rutledge enjoyed, and seldom put his views ahead of those of his guest even when he must have had far more insight into political matters, moving as he did in such vastly different circles.

Rutledge, under no illusions (policemen were not invited to dine with the gentry—indeed, they were seldom welcomed at the front door), took care not to overstep his role. All the same, the hour passed very pleasantly. The luncheon itself was excellent, finishing with a plate of cheeses.

The loneliness of the man under the polish of a titled and privileged life was apparent. Sedgwick’s wife had been dead some years, for he spoke of her with an old regret rather than a recent bereavement. Her portrait as a young American bride now hung in the library, he said at one juncture, replacing “a remarkably hideous work of dead rabbits and quail hanging from a nail” that Ralph, the first Lord Sedgwick, had fancied. Ralph had gone shooting

with the Prince of Wales in his day, and “bagged enough to show his aim was excellent, but was careful never to exceed his host’s count. Quickest way to see yourself off the royal invitation list!”

Arthur, Sedgwick’s elder son, had had a taste for racing cars before the War, and had even won a motorcycle race of some note, early on in his career. Sedgwick had traveled to France to watch him compete, and he spoke with wistful enthusiasm for the excitement. “It rained, often as not. I lived in terror that he’d spin out on a curve. Arthur had nerves of steel when he got behind the wheel, and a feeling for the road—and that made him one of the finest drivers I’d ever seen. His wife begged him to give it up, but of course he couldn’t. She didn’t understand that it was his life, speed and risk.”

“Racing is a dangerous sport,” Rutledge responded. “And few women are attracted to the prospect of being widowed young.”