Rutledge said, after the rector had handed them slices of cake that Mrs. Newcomb had baked for his dinner, "Where were you, tonight, Rector?"
"I'd gone to see Theo Hartle's sister and her husband. You'd think that being paralyzed also meant being free of pain. But it's not true. And she must bathe him in warm water and manipulate his limbs to keep the muscles from atrophy. Sister Kenny was a strong proponent of exercising wasted muscles."
Sister Kenny was the Australian nurse who had made advances in the treatment of polio cases that upset many established medical opinions. There were many reasons given for her successes, none of which included credit to her methods. Rutledge had seen newspaper accounts suggesting that a nursing sister did not have the qualifications required to make strides in the field.
"Peggy works hard," Constable Walker agreed. "Theo was often there to help. Lifting Winslow is no easy task."
Rutledge, trying to bring them back to the subject at hand, said, "And this pastoral visit was what brought back the memory you spoke of in the road?"
"Well, it was something Virgil was saying. That when he was first struck down by poliomyelitis, he had prayed to die. That he couldn't contemplate living if he couldn't use his legs for the rest of his life. And he admitted to me that when I came to visit, he was afraid to tell me what it was he was praying so hard for. He thought I might use my powers as a man of the cloth to intercede with God and prevent his dying. Later, when he was older, he was ashamed to confess his prayers in that moment of crisis."
Constable Walker set down his cup. "I daresay it was normal for an active lad to think his world had come to an end."
"What inspired him to tell you now?" Rutledge asked.
"We were talking about Theo, and Virgil wanted to know if Theo had ever confessed to me that he'd nearly done something unforgiveable. Mrs. Winslow was very upset. I told him that he was mistaken, that Theo had had nothing to confess. And Virgil answered that he was only curious, having just told of his own secret guilt. You see, Virgil sometimes likes to shock. It's his way of making people notice him, to say horrible things. And then they pity him, and he manages to escape being brought to book for being abrasively outspoken. I know there were times when I myself was unwilling to add to his burdens, and let small transgressions go. And of course as a result, he's never been held to ordinary standards. I feel responsible for the way he uses his wife. She doesn't deserve it."
"Did Hartle ever confess to you? Do you know what it was that he'd nearly done?" Rutledge asked.
"That was what I remembered just as I was leaving. It was as if a light had gone on in my head, illuminating the incident. It was before Hartle went to France with the Eastfield Company. He came to see me because he had something on his mind. He said that he didn't want to die unshriven."
"What did he confess? Can you tell us?"
"I thought about that all the way back to the rectory. It was a confession, though not in the strictest sense. And I'm not sure I was told the whole story. But my own conscience was clear on that issue by the time I saw your motorcar coming toward me tonight." He looked up at the clock on the shelf above the hearth. "Well, it's nearly tomorrow isn't it? I hadn't realized it was so late."
Rutledge said, "Are you certain you are comfortable telling us what Hartle said?" For it appeared that Mr. Ottley was postponing the moment of revelation as long as he could, almost as if he regretted making any mention of it to them at all.
"As certain as I can be. But you must promise me that this will not be made public. That if it helps you in any way, you won't use what I told you in a courtroom. I won't have Peggy Winslow suffer on my account. And I have a feeling that's why Virgil brought it up. I think he was tired of seeing her mourn. He wanted her full attention, and if he had to ruin Theo's memory to do it, he was willing."
Rutledge said nothing, waiting.
Constable Walker said, "For my part, I give you my word. Peggy won't learn of it through me."
The rector put his own teacup down and walked to the windows. The wind had picked up as the clouds moved nearer, and the first rumble of thunder rolled through the darkness.
"Theo came to me because when he was about ten, he'd frightened another boy to the point that the child almost leaped to his death to get away from him. The story was that Theo had played truant one day, and cadged a ride to Hastings on the back of a hay wain. He'd intended to explore some of the so-called smugglers' caves, to see if he could find any treasure. This child wanted to go too, and Theo couldn't get rid of him. He called him an ugly little toad, pushing in where he wasn't wanted, and still the child clung to him. Theo, who was large for his age, had expected to pass as an older boy, but now he thought that with the other child in tow, someone would take more notice of them and send them home with a flea in their ears. He lured the other boy far out on East Hill, and told him that there was smugglers' gold below, and if he'd go down and look for it, he'd be given half of all he discovered."
Ottley walked aimlessly about the room, not looking at the two men listening to his story, and found his way back to the window. "But of course," he went on, "he lied, there was no pirate gold to divide, the cliff face was extraordinarily dangerous, and Hartle was hoping the other child would walk too close to the edge, and then his weight and gravity would carry him over. I don't think-I don't believe-that Hartle understood the consequences. He was frantic to enjoy his day of freedom, and he just wanted the other boy to go away. At any rate, the child found himself out on the very edge, became frightened, and froze. He started to cry, begging Theo to give him a hand to hold so that he could make his way back. But Theo walked away and left him there. The child finally made it to safety by crawling out of danger, and then he was late for his dinner, and his worried father disciplined him to teach him a lesson. He too was a truant, remember."
"Gentle God. Who was the child?"
Closing the window finally and turning back into the room, the rector said, "Theo Hartle wouldn't tell me. He said that there was no making amends, and the other boy would probably have begged him to keep his mouth shut. Perhaps he would have. Perhaps not."
Rutledge said, "And so Hartle, for his sins, was killed there on the headland and his body rolled over the edge."
The rector said, "I know. It-the circumstances-are too close to Hartle's death for comfort. I didn't remember, you see. I don't think I wanted to remember."
"Are you certain," Constable Walker asked, "that the child wasn't Virgil himself?"
"I think that's very unlikely. If it had been, then I think he'd have said so."
"Then how did Virgil Winslow come to know about this story?" Rutledge asked. "I can't imagine Hartle bragging to anyone about what he'd done. I mean to say, if Hartle had gone back to that headland and found it empty, found that the other boy wasn't there, it must have given him an appalling shock. He couldn't have known where his victim had gone-over the edge or if he had pulled himself out of his paralysis of fear and found his way back to safety. And surely, when Theo reached Eastfield and discovered that the child was alive, he must have expected the police on his doorstep at any moment. That the boy had told someone. A teacher, his parents, even other children."
"I asked him just that question," Ottley replied. "Hartle told me that he expected retribution at any moment, but the longer it was delayed, the more he'd thought that the child was afraid to tell what had happened that day. Hartle felt enormous relief, he said, and swore he would never again do anything he'd be ashamed of. Besides, he had had his own irate father to face when the school wanted to know why he'd played truant."