Horton felt an icy chill run through him as he imagined the poor woman's grief.
'The Reverend Gilmore had a nervous breakdown. Tried to kill himself too. He knew what despair was. He understood.' His eyes filled with tears. 'God helped him out of it, and that's when he decided to become a priest.'
'So this all happened before he was ordained.'
'Yes. After God saved him, the Reverend decided to give away all his wealth and enter the church. He went to some college up country to study and came out a priest.'
'He was once a wealthy man then?'
'Must have been to have a yacht.'
Not necessarily, thought Horton, considering his own tiny yacht; that certainly wasn't any millionaire's pad. But the old man had given him a wealth of information, much of which he would be able to check, if he wanted to, though he didn't see why he should and where it would take him except to that connection with Brundall. If, of course, Mr Gutner had really seen him here; his eyesight might not be a hundred per cent.
'Do you know where the Reverend Gilmore lived before he came here?' Horton asked.
The old man eyed him keenly. 'You're a copper, aren't you?'
'Does it show?' Horton smiled. He liked Gutner. Policemen can never ask questions casually, it seemed. This man was no fool.
'Can smell them a mile away, even if they're wearing leathers. You undercover?'
'No, just riding a Harley.'
'Saw it outside, nice bike. Hope it's still there when you leave.'
'So do I.' Horton returned the old man's smile. 'How come you know I'm a policeman, apart from the smell?'
'Because no one asks that many questions about someone they don't know, in a church that's off the beaten track, in a hole like this. Oh, and my wife phoned me on my mobile to say a handsome young copper in leathers was looking for me.'
Horton laughed. There didn't seem much that got past Kenneth Gutner.
'Besides I knew that sooner or later one of you lot would wake up to the fact that the Reverend's death was no accident, or a natural one.'
The laughter died in Horton's throat and the smile vanished in an instant. A chilling suspicion began to form in his mind. He tried to tell himself that the old man must be exaggerating, or that he was upset and needed someone to blame, but deep inside him he knew that wasn't the case. Half afraid of where this might lead him, he said, 'What do you mean?'
'I used to be an ambulance man and I've seen a lot of deaths in my time including stroke victims, and I'm telling you that weren't no stroke the Reverend Gilmore had.'
Horton didn't like the sound of this. He eyed Gutner closely. Others might have dismissed the elderly man as being senile, but Horton wasn't that rash or stupid. His copper's antenna was radiating like it had just been struck by lightning.
'What happened, Mr Gutner?'
Gutner eyed him sharply for a couple of seconds, seemed to like what he saw and nodded. 'Reverend Gilmore had only just started to welcome the congregation to the Candlelight Christmas Service when I could see that he was having trouble getting the words out. His mouth was moving but the words sort of got stuck. And before you say that's what happens when you have a stroke, I know it does but not like this. A stroke victim doesn't have convulsions and Gilmore convulsed before he collapsed. I rushed down to help. I was playing the organ as usual that night. There was a crowd around him by the time I got to him. I pushed them aside. His breathing was all wrong. I shouted for someone to call the ambulance and spoke to Gilmore gentle like until they arrived. An hour later he was dead.' There were tears in the old man's eyes.
Horton thought he could hear the church creaking and groaning as if in sympathy with Gutner's words. One part of him said, the old man is mad; it was a natural death. And yet Horton's instincts were screaming the opposite. Why had Gilmore written Horsea Marina on his blotter? Why had Brundall come here? And why had both men died on the same night?
'What time was this?'
'The service started at six o'clock with a procession of adults and kiddies holding candles as they walked to their seats. The candles were extinguished, the congregation sat and the Reverend began the service at about six thirty. He was taken to hospital just on seven o'clock. The verger stepped in after that and we carried on with our worship, but nobody's heart was in it.'
The fire on Brundall's boat had started at seven thirty, forty-five minutes after Gilmore's collapse. If Gilmore's death was suspicious, and it was a big if, then it was certainly possible for the killer to have had time to get from here to Horsea Marina. Yet how could someone have killed the vicar in full view of the congregation without anyone seeing him?
'I believe you saw a man called Tom Brundall talking to the Reverend-'
'Yeah, and that's another thing, why did his boat catch fire the day he visited the vicar?'
Gutner might be elderly, but there was no fooling him.
Horton said, 'It could be a coincidence.'
'Since when have the cops believed in coincidence?' Gutner scoffed.
He was right. With admiration for the man's intellect, which hadn't diminished with age, Horton said, 'OK, tell me what happened.'
Gutner settled back in his seat. He paused. Horton could tell it wasn't for effect but that he was marshalling his thoughts to give as accurate and concise an account as possible. He would have made a good copper.
'St Agnes's is a great big barn of a church, as you can see. The lights were on; it was a grey, miserable Tuesday, with a heavy blanket of cloud closing in on you. Even with the lights on though there are places in this church that are still dim; it has a hundred nooks and crannies. I came up here to practise the organ and heard the door open and footsteps below-'
'The time?'
Gutner puffed out his cheeks and thought. 'About three thirty, give or take a minute. I thought it was the vicar at first but then realized it didn't sound like his tread. I looked in my mirror, here above the organ, and saw a man walk towards the nativity. It was that man whose picture was on the television, Brundall you said his name was. Then the vicar came out of the vestry. I didn't even know he was in the church. I came in that way, and didn't see him, there's a door that leads up from there to here. He saw this stranger and looked as if he'd seen a ghost.'
'Was he pleased or afraid?' Horton asked sharply.
'Afraid,' Gutner replied instantly. 'Vicar went white and staggered back. Brundall moved forward as though to help the vicar, but he waved him away. "I'm all right," the vicar said, then, "What are you doing here? We swore never to see one another again. I've made my peace with the Lord and tried to put right what we did wrong all those years ago."'
Horton felt a thrill run down his spine. What had they done wrong? Did this have anything to do with Brundall's death? Horton wouldn't mind betting on it.
'Go on,' he encouraged, not that he really needed to; Gutner was enjoying this despite mourning his vicar.
'Brundall said, "I'm dying, cancer. I haven't got long. I want to confess and I want you to hear my confession." Vicar went even paler, he said something but I couldn't hear what it was because he spoke so softly. Then I heard Brundall say, "Did you know that Jennifer Horton's boy's a policeman, a detective inspector here in Portsmouth?" Hey, that's you, I bet it is.'
Horton tensed. He felt the breath being sucked from his body. First Gilmore and now Brundall, and now they were both dead. Jesus! What the hell was going on? Desperately he tried to keep his face expressionless but his head was swimming with this information, and his heart was pounding as though he'd just run a marathon. He hoped he sounded neutral when he asked, 'What else did he say?'
Gutner didn't seem to notice anything untoward with him. Easily, the old man continued. 'The vicar said, "Leave it, Tom. It's over, done with." Brundall replied, "Not until I make my confession. If you won't hear it, Rowley, then I will have to find another priest," and then they moved out of earshot and sight. Brundall followed the vicar into the vestry.'