Free Sins of the Fathers by Ruth Rendell Page A

he was pleading, and pleading weakly. "I'd like to talk to the Primero grandchildren, particularly the grandson."
    For a moment Wexford said nothing. He had heard of faith moving mountains, but this was simply absurd. To him it was almost as ridiculous as if some crank had come to him with the suggestion that Dr. Crippen was the innocent victim of circumstances. From bitter experience he knew how difficult it was to hunt a killer when only a week had elapsed between a murder and the beginning of an investigation. Archery was proposing to open an enquiry a decade and a half too late and Archery had no experience at all.
    "I ought to put you off," he said at last. "You don't know what you're attempting." It's pathetic, he thought, it's laughable. Aloud he said, "Alice Flower's in the geriatric ward at Stowerton Infirmary. She's paralysed. I don't even know if she could make herself understood."
    It occurred to him that Archery must be totally ignorant of the geography of the place. He got up and lumbered over to the wall map.
    "Stowerton's there," he said, pointing with the sheathed tip of a ballpoint pen, "and Victor's Piece is about here, between Stowerton and Kingsmarkham."
    "Where can I find Mrs. Crilling?"
    Wexford made a wry face. "In Glebe Road. I can't recall the number off-hand, but I'll get it looked up or you could find it on the electoral register." He turned round ponderously and fixed Archery with a grey glare. "You're wasting your time, of course. I'm sure I don't have to tell you to be very careful when it comes to throwing out a lot of unfounded accusations."
    Under those cold eyes it was difficult for Archery not to drop his own. "Chief Inspector, I don't want to find someone else guilty, just prove that Painter was innocent."
    Wexford said briskly, "I'm afraid you may find the former consequent upon the latter. It would be a wrong conclusion, of course—I don't want trouble." At a knock on the door he spun round testily. "Yes, what is it?"
    Sergeant Martin's bland face appeared. "That fatal on the zebra in the High Street, sir?"
    "What of it? It's hardly my province."
    "Gates has just been on, sir. A white Mini, LMB 12M, that we've had our eye on—it was in collision with a pedestrian. It appears they want a clergyman and Gates recalled that Mr. Archery was..."
    Wexford's lips twitched. Archery was in for a surprise. In the courtly manner he sometimes assumed, he said to the vicar of Thringford, "It looks as if the secular arm needs some spiritual assistance, sir. Would you be so good...?"
    "Of course I will." Archery looked at the sergeant. "Someone has been knocked down and is—is dying ?"
    "Unfortunately, yes, sir," said Martin grimly.
    "I think I'll come with you," said Wexford.
 
    As a priest of the Anglican Church Archery was obliged to hear confession if a confessor was needed. Until now, however, his only experience of this mystery concerned a Miss Baylis, an elderly female parishioner of his who, having been (according to Mrs. Archery) for many years in love with him, demanded he should listen to a small spate of domestic sins mumbled out each Friday morning. Hers was a masochistic, self-abasing need, very different from the yearning of the boy who lay in the road.
    Wexford shepherded him across the black and white lines to the island. Diversion notices had been placed in the road, directing the traffic around Queen Street, and the crowd had been induced to go home. There were several policemen buzzing and pacing. For the first time in his life Archery realised the aptness of the term "bluebottles". He glanced at the Mini and averted his eyes hastily from the bright bumper with its ribbon of blood.
    The boy looked at him doubtfully. He had perhaps five minutes to live. Archery dropped to his knees and put his ear to the white lips. At first he felt only fluttering breath, then out of the soft sighing vibration came something that sounded like "Holy orders...", with the second word rising on a high