Jerusalem Inn Read Online Free PDF

family.”
    â€œWell, I doubt that, you know.” The priest buttered another scone and munched it thoughtfully. “She said that to me, too. But I didn’t believe it.”
    â€œWhy?”
    He sat back and scanned the inner air as he had the outer. He did not answer the question directly. “She never came to the services, you know, though she came often to the church. That old cat out there . . . Now, it’ll not have much to do with me, the way it slinks away like a snake. Yet it followed Helen everywhere. You can tell a lot that way. But who am I talking to someone like you about people? You know more than I ever will.”
    Jury smiled. “I doubt that. Then what was she looking for?”
    â€œIt’s records, you see, those headstones. And she asked to see the parish register. She was looking for someone but probably it hadn’t anything to do with the antecedents of George Washington.” Father Rourke folded the last bit of jammed scone into his mouth. “Would you be caring to have a look round the churchyard? Perhaps there might be something —”
    â€œI think I would, yes.”
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    He was sure it would be fruitless, one of those tasks that the policeman in Jury felt addicted to performing. Still, he went back to the small headstone with the weathered angels with the crumbling wings. “She wrote this down, Father. I noticed she had a small notebook.”
    In his clumsy boots — the snow was thick here — the priest knelt down and wiped his glasses. “ ‘Lyte. Robert.’ It’s near worn away, the dates.” He stood up. “I do remember, somewhere in the whole Washington chain, there were some Lytes.” He shrugged. “Well, perhaps she was doing just what she said.”
    â€œWas she Catholic?”
    â€œNo. Not anything, she said.” He sighed and looked up at the darkening sky. “Be dead dark in a bit. More snow coming, they say. ’Twas even worse near Durham, and that’s but a few miles or so away.”
    â€œShe never mentioned a cousin?”
    The priest shook his head. “No one, no. But I didn’t know her, you see. I wonder if anyone did. She’d only been here a short while. Well, I hope you find what you’re looking for, Superintendent.” He paused and held out his hand. “Might I have my drawing back for just a moment?”
    â€œSure.” Jury reached in his pocket, handed it over.
    Father Rourke took out a stubby pencil, did some erasing,and then made a brief mark on the page. He handed it back. “An H, Mr. Jury. At one corner. Now all you need to do is fill in the other three. Think of the mystery in its simplest terms.”
    Jury looked up at the spire of St. Timothy’s. He didn’t want to comment on mystery. He said, “I wish we had you on the force, Father.”
    The priest’s faded eyes clouded over as he too looked at the spire. “I wish He did too. Good-bye, Mr. Jury.”
    Father Rourke walked away.
    As Jury started toward the gate, the last of the sun sent a dazzling stripe across the snow, elongating his shadow. Two shadows. Jury looked back to find that the white cat was following him.
    He was glad Father Rourke hadn’t turned to look back.
2
    â€œHe’s an artist, a very good one.”
    Those had been Helen Minton’s words about her cousin. A constable positioned outside told him the lab crew had come and gone.
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    Without removing his coat, Jury started going through drawers, searching for anything — the small, gold notebook, letters, anything. But there was nothing in the desk except for a few bills and a checkbook, some scattered pictures, some writing paper. One of the snaps looked fairly recent — at least good enough to use for identification — and he pocketed it.
    He went through the cottage that way, finding that she was a