“If there was, it never reached my ears! But he’d been to the doctor’s, several times to my certain knowledge, and I was beginning to wonder if he was ill—a cancer or some such. And it was on his mind.”

“A local man?”

“Dr. Stephenson, yes. It’s all I could think of, that Father must have been given bad news. I waited for him to confide in me, but he never did. And then he was killed, God rest his soul, and I couldn’t help but think as they put him into the ground, he’ll not have to worry any more about the cancer.”

“Did he show signs of being ill? Coughing—complaining of pain—taking medications you hadn’t seen before?”

“No, I’d have come right out and asked him then! It was just—I don’t know—just a feeling that he was sorely troubled. I asked him the first time I found him standing in the kitchen if there was anything on his mind, and he said, ‘No, Ruth, I’m well.’ But there was something wrong. He wasn’t himself!”

“Something on his conscience, then?”

She gave him a stern and heavy look. “Priests like Father James don’t have evil on their conscience! I’d as soon believe that my own son was wicked, and him a respectable bank clerk in London!”

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 6

JUST PAST THE FIRST TURNING FOR Water Street, Rutledge saw the small board indicating Dr. Stephenson’s surgery. On impulse he pulled over and stopped, left the car out in front, and rang the bell. It would do no harm to confirm or deny Ruth Wainer’s fears.

A woman admitted him, her apron crisp and her hair tightly pulled back into a small knot. It gave her face a severity that was belied by the kind eyes. Rutledge gave his name and asked to speak to the doctor.

“His surgery is closed for the afternoon.”

“It isn’t a medical matter. It concerns a police investigation.” He showed her his identification.

She considered him, uncertain what to do. Finally, as Rutledge smiled at her, she said, doubt heavy in her voice, “He’s in his office, writing up a patient’s record to send to London. If I let you go in, you won’t keep him long, will you? The post won’t wait!”

He was taken to Dr. Stephenson’s private door down the passage and admitted into the small office, where the doctor sat at his desk, papers spread around him. He looked up, saw Rutledge behind his nurse, and said, “I don’t have hours today. Have you told him that, Connie?”

“It isn’t a medical matter,” Rutledge said. “It’s police business. I’ve been sent down by Scotland Yard.”