A Matter of Justice

“I’m afraid someone met him near the Home Farm, and killed him there.”

Heller sat back in his chair, staring at Rutledge.

“I must go to Mrs. Quarles at once,” he said finally. “My meeting will have to wait.” He frowned. “Near the Home Farm, you say?

That’s dreadful! It wasn’t someone here, was it? I mean, it stands to reason that someone from London—” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he glanced at Rutledge in consternation, as if he would recall them if he could.

“Why?”

“Why?” Heller blinked. “If he conducts himself in the City the same way he conducts himself here, it wouldn’t be surprising. And I’m sure some of his business dealings are not always as successful as he might wish. I’ve heard of at least one where there was great disappointment in the outcome. Not the fault of Harold Quarles, I’m sure, investments can be volatile, but when someone has lost his savings, he tends to blame the messenger, as it were.”

“Have people here in Cambury lost money through Mr. Quarles?

For instance, Mr. Stephenson?”

“You will have to ask them, Inspector. I don’t feel it’s my place to say more about a man who is dead.”

“If anything you know has a bearing on his murder, then you have an obligation to help the police get at the truth.”

“Yes.” The word was drawn out. Heller removed his serviette a second time, automatically folding it and setting it neatly by his plate.

“You must forgive me, Mr. Rutledge. I shall have to speak briefly to my vestry and then go to Hallowfields. Thank you for bringing me the news personally.” He stood up, and Rutledge followed suit.

“I would prefer it if you told no one else about Mr. Quarles for the moment.”

“But—”

“We have many people to interview, and it would be best if we could see their reactions to the news for ourselves. But you may call on Mrs. Quarles, if she needs consolation.”

“This is highly irregular—”

“Murder often is, Rector.”

They walked together from the kitchen to the door. Rutledge said,

“Whoever killed Harold Quarles, he or she may come to you for comfort of a sort. In a roundabout way, perhaps, but you’ll sense when something is wrong. Be careful, then, will you? It’s likely that this person could kill again.” He saw once more the winged body in the shadows of the tithe barn’s roof. Murder hadn’t satisfied the killer—whoever it was had needed to wreak his anger on the dead as well. But in the cold light of day, as powerful emotions drained away, there could be a need to justify them, to feel that what had been done was deserved.

“I would hate to think that anyone I knew might be capable of murder.” The rector had looked away, evading Rutledge’s eyes.

“Let us hope it was not one of your flock. But the fact remains that someone was capable of it. Or Quarles would still be alive, and you’d be finishing your breakfast in peace.”

Heller stopped at the door. “I don’t believe in judging, Inspector.

So that I myself need not fear judging.”

With that remark, the rector swung the door shut.

Hamish said, “A verra’ fine sentiment. But no’ the whole truth.”

Rutledge was halfway down the rectory path when he saw a man crossing the churchyard toward the north door, carrying a sheaf of papers under his arm. The man looked up, and for a moment their eyes met. Then he turned away and stepped inside the church. But there was something in that glance—even at the distance between the two men—that held more than curiosity about a stranger. It had lasted long enough to be personal, as if weighing up an adversary.

Rutledge changed course as he went through the gate that separated the churchyard from the rectory. As he reached the porch and opened the door, he could hear music pouring from the church organ, the opening notes of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. It was triumphant and sure, the instrument responding to the touch of trained hands.

The great pipes sent their echoes through the sanctuary, filling it with sound, and the acoustics were perfect for such an emotional piece.

Hamish said, “His thoughts may ha’ been elsewhere. He came to practice.”

“I’d swear he knows why I’m here in Cambury. Not many people do. Yet.”

“Ye ken, he must ha’ seen you with yon inspector. And he’s feeling guilty for anither reason.”

Rutledge considered that for a moment, half of his mind on the music as it seemed to wrap around him there in the doorway. He hadn’t mistaken that brief challenge. And he was certain the man knew Rutledge had taken it up and come as far as the church door.

Indeed, as he turned to go, he could feel the organist watching him in the small mirror set above the keys.

Let him wonder why the encounter had ended here. Or worry.

Outside, Rutledge stopped by the church board to see the name of the player. It was the third line down. One Michael Brunswick, and Mrs. Quarles had mentioned his name only four hours earlier.

10

It was past one o’clock when Rutledge walked into the police station. Padgett was on the point of leaving, and he frowned as Rutledge met him in the passage.

“I thought you might be sleeping still. I can tell you, I’d have stayed in my own bed if I’d been given the choice.”

Rutledge said, “I went to speak to the rector.”

Padgett’s tone had an edge. “And was he any help in our inquiries?”

“Did you expect him to help?”

There was a twitch in Padgett’s jaw. “Where’s your motorcar? Still at The Unicorn? Constable Jenkins hasn’t returned with mine.”

As Padgett followed Rutledge across the High Street, he went on.

“I’ve had time to think. I was all for blaming Mrs. Quarles. But I was wrong. This killing is most likely connected with London in some fashion. That’s where Quarles lived and did business. We’re wasting our time at Hallowfields.”

“If that’s true, why wasn’t he killed in London?”

“Too obvious. There, the first people the police will want to speak to are his clients and business associates. You know the drill. But kill him in Somerset, and the police are going to look at his neighbors here, never thinking about London.”

Rutledge smiled. “Which is precisely what someone here in Cambury may have been counting on—that we will hare off to London.

Someone at Hallowfields may point us in the right direction.”

Padgett had no answer to that.

Hamish said, “He wants you away to London. Ye ken, he’d like naething better than to find the killer himsel’.”

But as the other inspector climbed into the motorcar, Rutledge found himself thinking that Padgett had other reasons to want to see the back of Scotland Yard.

They drove in uneasy silence back to Hallowfields.

Mrs. Downing summoned the indoor staff to her sitting room off the passage across from the kitchen, and they stood in front of the policemen in a ragged row, clearly uneasy. Rutledge counted them. The cook, her scullery maid, three upstairs maids and a footman, the boot boy, and the chauffeur.

All of them denied any knowledge of where Mr. Quarles had gone last evening. He had not called for the motorcar, nor had he taken it out himself. Aside from the message to the kitchen that he wouldn’t be dining at home, no one had seen him after five o’clock.

Mrs. Blount, the cook, was a thin woman with graying hair. She added, “I was told not to expect Mr. Quarles for dinner, and that was that. It’s not for me to question his comings and goings.”

“Who gave you that message? Did you speak to Mr. Quarles yourself, or to someone else?”

“I believe it must have been Mrs. Quarles,” Downing, the housekeeper, answered after no one else spoke up.

Lily, the youngest of the maids, softly cleared her throat. “I was coming to clear away the tea things when I heard him tell someone in the passage that he was dining out.”

“Did you see who it was he was speaking to?”

“No, sir, I didn’t.”

“It was me he told.” The woman standing behind the others spoke up.

“And you are . . .”

“My name is Betty, sir.” There was strain in her face. Rutledge put her age at forty, her pale hair and pale eyebrows giving her a look of someone drained of life, enduring all the blows that came her way with patient acceptance, as if she knew all too well that she counted for little in the scheme of things. “I look after Mr. Quarles when he’s to home.” Her accent wasn’t Somerset. Rutledge thought it might be East Anglian. A stranger among strangers.

“And no’ likely to pry,” Hamish put in. “Or gossip with the ithers.”

“No one saw him leave?”

Downing said repressively, “We have our duties, Inspector, we don’t hang about looking out the windows to see what our betters are up to.”

“We was that busy in the kitchens,” the cook added, as if excusing the staff. “There was no one in the front of the house just then. Mrs.

Quarles had asked for a tray to be brought up, and Mr. Archer was taking his dinner alone in the dining room.”

“Did any of you hear anything in the night? Dogs barking, a motorcar on the drive, shouting . . .”

They hadn’t, shuffling a little as they denied any knowledge of what had happened.

Betty said, “Please, sir. I’ve been told Mr. Quarles is dead. Mrs.

Quarles called us all together to say so. No one will tell me anything else.”

“I’m afraid it’s true,” Rutledge answered her. “Someone killed him last night.”

He could see the horror reflected in every face, and in Betty’s eyes, a welling of tears that were quickly repressed.

“I can’t give you any more information at present,” he added to forestall questions.

“It would help if you could think of anyone who might wish your master harm.” Padgett, speaking for the first time, kept his voice level, without emphasis.

“Mrs. Newell,” the footman offered, to an accompanying ripple of nervous laughter. “She was cook here before Mrs. Blount. She was always quarrelling with him over the cost of food, and the proper way to prepare it. In the end he sacked her after a mighty row.”

Padgett caught Rutledge’s eye, I told you so, in his expression. Nothing of substance . . . A wild-goose chase.

Rutledge thanked the staff and nodded to Mrs. Downing to dismiss them, then as Betty was about to follow the others from the room, he spoke quietly to her and asked her to stay.

Mrs. Downing pursed her lips in annoyance, as if in her view he was wasting his time and the staff’s. But she made no move to leave.

“How long have you been with Mr. Quarles?”

Betty hesitated. “He brought me here at the start of the war.”

“And you keep his rooms for him?”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“Did you also keep the gatehouse cottage tidy?”

“When it was asked of me. I was to have that cottage when I retire.”

“Do you know if he chose to use that cottage himself?”

“It wasn’t my business to ask, was it? He paid me well for my silence.”

“Will you tell me where he went to dine last evening? Even if he asked you to keep his confidence, the situation is different now. You see, we must trace his movements from the time he left the house until he returned.” Rutledge watched her face as he asked the question.

“I don’t know. I asked if he wanted me to lay out his evening clothes, and he said he wasn’t changing for dinner, he wasn’t in the mood.”

“Did any of his business associates come to visit at Hallowfields?”

“He seldom had guests,” Mrs. Downing answered for her. “He was often invited elsewhere, but if he entertained it was in London. I don’t remember the last real dinner I’ve served. He doesn’t even invite Rector to dine.”

Something a squire did with regularity. It was interesting that Quarles hadn’t cared to exercise this particular duty. Or perhaps he was embarrassed to ask the rector to sit at table with his wife’s cousin?

Rutledge thanked Betty and let her go. Then he said to Mrs. Downing, “Do you know Betty’s background? Who employed her before she came to Hallowfields?”

“She was hired in London. I didn’t interview her myself. She’s a hard worker, though she mainly keeps to herself. We’ve had no trouble with her.”

“We’d like to look at Mr. Quarles’s rooms now, if you please.”

As she led the two policemen through the passage door into the foyer, she said, “I’m not sure his solicitor would approve of this. It doesn’t seem right to me that you should go through his things. I can’t think why Mrs. Quarles allowed it.”

“Is the solicitor a local man?” Rutledge asked.

“He’s in London. Mrs. Quarles can give you his direction.”

Rutledge handed her the keys. Mrs. Downing unlocked the door and stepped aside, as if taking no part in this desecration of a dead man’s privacy.

The first of the suite of rooms had been converted into a study, as they’d been told, with a door through to a sitting room, and beyond that, the master bedroom.

The suite was handsomely decorated, and Padgett looked around him with patent interest.

The desk, a large mahogany affair, held mainly writing paper, pens, stamps, a map of the estate, and a folder of household accounts and another of farm business, none of it of interest to the police, and nothing personal, nothing indicative of the man.

There were several paintings on the walls, mostly landscapes. Rutledge wondered if they were Quarles’s taste or if they had come with the house when he purchased the estate. The furnishings of the room were mid-Victorian and well polished. Betty’s work, at a guess. If she cared for his rooms and his possessions, and kept any of his secrets, it was small wonder she’d taken his death personally.

Between the windows—which faced the front of the house—were shelves on which stood gray boxes of business papers, each with a white card identifying the contents. Duplicates of the papers Quarles had kept in London, or were these documents he didn’t wish to leave there? Confidential reports, perhaps, for his eyes only. Was that why no one else cleaned these rooms? Betty appeared to be honest, without curiosity, a plain woman grateful for her position and not likely to jeopardize it by risking her employer’s wrath. It was even possible that she couldn’t read.

The perfect safeguard.

Rutledge ran a finger along the line of cards. He recognized one or two of the names on the outside. Portfolios, then. One box bore the single word CUMBERLINE.

They moved on to the sitting room, where there was little of interest—chairs in front of the hearth, more Italian landscapes, a table for tea, and another against the wall. The only personal touch was a blue and white porcelain stand holding a collection of walking sticks with ornate handles of ivory or brass or carved wood. Lifting one of them, Rutledge admired the ivory elephant set into the handle, the trunk providing a delicate grip. The workmanship was quite good, as was the silver figure of a sleeping fox capping another stick.

Padgett had moved on to the bedroom, and Rutledge followed him.

The armoire and chests yielded only the sort of belongings that were usual for a country house: walking clothes, boots, hats, two London suits with a Bond Street tailor’s label, and evening dress.

Several books on a table by the bed had to do with business law and practices.

One of them was a leather-bound treatise on Africa, touting the wealth and opportunities that would open up when the war ended.

Thumbing through it, Rutledge could see that the florid prose offered very little substance. Railroads, mining operations, river navigation, and ports were discussed at great length, along with large farms for the cultivation of coffee and other crops, suggesting that what Rhodes had accomplished in South Africa was possible in other parts of the continent.

Padgett, looking out the window across from Quarles’s bed, said,

“I can’t see the gatehouse or the end of the drive or the tithe barn for the trees in between.”

Rutledge came to join him. “You’re right. Once Quarles reached that bend of the drive where the trees begin, he’d be out of sight. He might have met a dozen people at the gates, or entertained half of Par-liament in the cottage, and no one would be the wiser. By the same token, if someone was waiting for him there, friend for dinner or killer in hiding, Quarles himself would have had no warning.”

“Did you ask at The Unicorn if he’d dined there?”

“He hadn’t. Hunter, the manager, saw him coming alone out of Minton Street around ten-thirty. But he doesn’t know where Quarles went from there—toward home or toward another destination.”

“You can’t be sure Hunter isn’t lying. They had a falling-out, he and Quarles. And it almost cost Hunter his position. Quarles was hell-bent on seeing him dismissed. It was Mr. Greer, who was dining there that night, who later smoothed the matter over.” He added, “Didn’t think to tell you this morning.”

“Hunter didn’t know that Quarles was dead.”

“Or he didn’t let on that he knew.” Padgett took a deep breath.

“But that’s neither here nor there.” He turned to survey the bedroom and the sitting room beyond. “If there are guilty secrets hidden in this wing, I don’t know where to find them.”

Rutledge agreed with him. But it was beginning to look like Quarles had no secrets to hide, personal or professional. None at least that might explain murder here in Somerset.

For that matter, if the man had been wise and clever, he’d kept no record of any misdeeds, so that they couldn’t be discovered while he was alive or found after his death. An interesting thought . . .

The heavy dark woods and brocades of the master bedroom were almost melancholy, as if Quarles had spent very little time here, and even when he was in residence, he gathered nothing around him that might characterize the man underneath the successful facade. Was the estate itself all he needed to define himself? A measure of prestige, a visible statement that a man who had come from nothing had achieved everything? Old money, giving panache to the New. For some men it would be the crowning achievement of a lifetime.

Hamish said, “He was no’ a countryman.”

It appeared to be true, and that would explain why the house was treated as a symbol, not a home.

They locked the door behind them. Mrs. Downing waited for the keys to be passed to her. But Rutledge pocketed them, and her mouth thinned into a disapproving line.

On their way down the main staircase, they found themselves face-to-face with Mrs. Quarles, who was crossing the foyer. She looked up at them and said, “I see you’ve returned.”

“Yes,” Rutledge answered for both men. “Thank you for making your staff available to us. And if I may ask you one more question?”

She stopped, waiting.

Rutledge said, “Tomorrow—Monday—it will be necessary to notify your husband’s solicitor and his business associates that he’s dead.”

“His solicitor is in the City. The firm of Hurley and Sons. As for his business associates, Davis Penrith was his partner until a year or so ago. He will be able to tell you who to contact.” She hesitated and then asked, “Did Harold suffer?”

“You must ask Dr. O’Neil. But my impression was that he didn’t.”

“Thank you.” She went on her way without another word. And he couldn’t tell whether she was pleased or sorry.

From the house they went to the Home Farm, tucked in a fold of land and out of sight of Hallowfields.

It was a large, thatched stone house, and along the ridge of the roof, the thatcher had left his signature—the humorous vignette of a long-tailed cat chasing a mouse toward the chimney, while a second mouse peered out of what looked to be a hole in the thatch just behind the cat’s heels. They had been created out of the same reeds that formed the roof and were remarkably clever.

Tom Masters opened the door to the two policemen, saying, “It’s true, then? The scullery maid from Hallowfields told our cook not more than half an hour ago that Mr. Quarles was dead. I went up to the house, but no one answered the door. What’s happened? I’m still in shock.”

He was a square man, skin reddened by the sun, his dark hair streaked with gray. Rutledge could see the worry in his eyes.

“May we come in, Mr. Masters?” Padgett asked after explaining Rutledge’s presence.

“Yes, yes, to be sure.” He stood aside to let them enter and took them to a pretty parlor that overlooked the pond. “Sit down, please,”

he said, gesturing to the chairs across from the leather one that was clearly his. The worn seat and back had over the years taken his shape, and a pipe stand was to hand.

“Do you keep dogs, Mr. Masters?” Rutledge asked.

“We have two. They’re out with my youngest son at the moment.

What does this have to do with Mr. Quarles? Tell me what’s going on.”

“Last night, I was driving past Hallowfields and heard a dog barking,” Padgett explained. “It was sharp, alarmed. When I stopped to investigate I found Mr. Quarles’s body.”

Masters frowned. “My dogs weren’t roaming about last night. I know that for a fact. One sleeps with my son, and the other is in my bedroom at night. If they were out, I’d have known when I went up to bed.” The frown deepened. “Are you suggesting that Harold Quarles simply dropped dead? No, I refuse to believe it. I’d have said he’s fitter than I am.”

“He was murdered.” Rutledge watched as several expressions flitted across Masters’s face.

“Murder? Dear God. I find that just as difficult to believe. Mrs.

Quarles—how is she taking the news?”

“She’s bearing up,” Padgett said. “Did you see Mr. Quarles yesterday?”

“Yes, several times. The last time was just as my wife was bringing our tea. I saw him walking toward the house. I didn’t speak to him then, but earlier we’d discussed several repairs that are needed about the estate. He seemed in the usual spirits at the time.” Masters shook his head. “This is unimaginable. I’m having trouble grasping it.”

“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Mr.

Quarles?” Padgett asked.

A wary expression crept into Tom Masters’s eyes. “I can think of a dozen people who couldn’t bear him. That’s not to say they could possibly kill him. To what end?” He hesitated. “Are you quite sure this was murder?”

“Quite,” Rutledge responded. “How many people are in your household, Mr. Masters?”

“Er, my wife, two sons, and a daughter—the eldest is twelve—and four servants—a cook and two maids and a man of all work. He’s married to the cook.”

“Do they sleep in the house?”

“Yes.”

“Can you hear anything from the direction of the cottage? Or the tithe barn? A dog in distress? A motorcar coming down the farm lane? A loud quarrel? ” Rutledge asked.

“Probably not. Unless I was outside and the wind was in the right quarter.” Alarm spread across Masters’s face. “Are you saying we might have heard—come to his aid in time? My God, that’s a terrible thought!”

“I doubt if you’d have been in time, whatever you heard.”

They talked for another five minutes, but Masters appeared to have no information that could help the police in their inquiries. All the same, Rutledge had a strong feeling that the man wasn’t being completely honest, that behind the pleasant face and forthcoming manner, there was a niggling worry.

Rutledge asked the farm manager again if he could name anyone who’d had a falling-out with Harold Quarles, and again he denied that he could.

“I shouldn’t wish to make trouble for anyone. There’s a difference between having words with a man and killing him in cold blood.”

He glanced toward Padgett. “I’m a farmer, not a policeman. The inspector, here, can give you better guidance on that score. I’d only be repeating gossip.”

They left soon after that. Padgett said as they returned to the motorcar, “You could see he was hiding something. I might as well tell you what it is. His wife had a disagreement with Quarles. Over a horse, of all things. But she got the better of him, and that was that.

All the same, with two policemen staring you in the face, it’s hard not to think the worst. The wonder was Quarles didn’t sack Masters. But then he’s one of the best farm managers in the West Country. It would have been cutting off one’s nose to spite one’s face.”

“Strange,” Rutledge said, “how many people who readily tell us how much Quarles was disliked, stop short at making a guess about who could have killed the man. It’s almost like a conspiracy of silence: you did what I’d have enjoyed doing, and now I’ll thank you by not giving you away.”

Padgett laughed. “You had only to know the man to hate him. But I’ve heard he was highly thought of in London. Imagine that—the nobs taking to him like one of their own. Here there were two problems with Harold Quarles. One was his pursuit of women, the other his belief that most people could be used.”

“Or else,” Hamish said quietly from the rear seat, “he didna’ wish to be treated as one of the villagers.”

Which came back to Quarles’s simple roots.

It was late afternoon when they reached Cambury. Padgett stretched his shoulders and said, “Precious little came of interviewing anyone at Hallowfields. I expect you’ll want to leave for London tonight and try your luck there.”

“What do you know about the church organist? Brunswick.”

“How did you come across him?” Padgett turned to stare at him.

“Is there something you aren’t telling me?”

“I saw him going into the church just before I came to meet you.”

“Ah. He was practicing, I expect. He seems to prefer that to going home. Not that I blame him. His wife is dead. A suicide. She just went out and drowned herself, without a word to anyone.”

“Why did Mrs. Quarles list him among those who hated her husband?”

“Yes, well, probably to throw you off the scent.”

Rutledge stopped the motorcar in front of the police station, but Padgett made no move to step out. “You’d better hear the rest of it,” he said after a moment.

“His wife worked for Mr. Quarles for three months, while he was rusticating here in Somerset. He needed someone who could type letters, keep records. When he went back to London, he gave her an extra month’s wages and let her go. It wasn’t long afterward that she killed herself. Brunswick jumped to the conclusion that something had happened between his wife and Quarles and that she couldn’t live with the knowledge.”

“Had something happened?”

Padgett shrugged. “I expect the only two people who can answer that question are dead. There was no gossip. There’s always gossip where there’s scandal. But you can’t convince Brunswick otherwise. I kept an eye on him at first, thinking he might do something rash.”

“And you didn’t think he might wait until your guard was down and then go after Quarles?”

“He’s not the kind of man who kills in cold blood.”

But Rutledge had seen the look in the organist’s eyes. And heard the passionate music pouring through the empty church.

He let the subject drop, and said instead, “We should speak to the doctor.”

Padgett brought himself back from whatever place his thoughts had wandered. “Oh. Yes, O’Neil. We can leave the motorcar at The Unicorn and walk.”

It was not far to the doctor’s surgery, where James Street crossed the High Street. O’Neil lived in a large stone house set back behind a low wall, a walk dividing two borders of flowers. A pear tree stood by the gate to the back garden, and a stone bench had been set beneath it.

The other wing of the house was the surgery, with a separate entrance along a flagstone path. The two men knocked at the house door, and after several minutes O’Neil himself answered it and took them through to his office.

In a small examining room beyond it, Harold Quarles lay under a sheet. He seemed diminished by death, as if much of what made him the man he was had been pride and a fierce will.

“I’ve examined him, and my earlier conclusion about the blows on the head stand. The first was enough to stun him. The second was deliberate, intended to kill. In my view, whoever did this wasn’t enraged. Angry enough to kill certainly, but there are only two blows, you see. If the killer had been in a fury, he’d have battered the head and the body indiscriminately. You’d have marks on the face and the shoulders and back, even after the man was dead.”

Rutledge asked, “You said the first blow was intended to stun.”

“That’s how it appears. You can see for yourself that he’s a strong man, well able to defend himself. If the purpose of the attack was to kill, it would have been easier to accomplish if Quarles was down. If the murderer had stopped then, Quarles would have survived. Perhaps with a concussion and a devil of a headache, but alive.”

“If he’d stopped, Quarles might have been able to identify him.

Which could mean they were face-to-face, and then Quarles turned his back.”

“What sort of weapon made these wounds?” Rutledge lifted the sheet.

“I couldn’t begin to guess. Not angular, but not all together smooth. Solid, I should think. But not large. The edge of a spanner is too narrow. But that sort of thing.”

“A river stone?” Rutledge gently restored the sheet.

“Possibly. But not exclusively that. An iron ladle? I’m not sure about a croquet ball. The brass head of a firedog? A paperweight, if it was a heavy one and there was enough force behind it. Surely it depends on whether someone came to do murder, or attacked the man on the spur of the moment. I couldn’t find anything in the wound—no bits of grass or rust or fabric to guide us. I’ve given you all I can.”

“Something a woman could wield?” Padgett suggested.

“I can’t rule out a woman,” O’Neil said skeptically. “But how did she manage to carry Quarles to the tithe barn, and then put him into that harness?”

“She had help. Once she’d done the deed, she went for help.” It was Padgett speaking, his back to the room as he looked out the narrow window.

“Possible. But who do you ask to help you do such a thing to a dead man?”

“A good question.”

Rutledge asked, “Is Charles Archer capable of walking?”

O’Neil’s eyebrows flew up. “Archer? Of course not. I’ve been his physician for several years. He can stand for a brief time, he can walk a few steps. But if you’re suggesting that he helped carry Quarles to the tithe barn, you are mad.”

“What if Quarles was put into that invalid’s chair of Archer’s, and pushed?” Padgett interjected.

“I can’t see Archer helping, even so. Of course I can’t rule out the use of his chair.”

“It’s important to eliminate the possibility. We’ve been told that Quarles went out to dine last night. Did he in fact eat his dinner?”

Rutledge asked.

“I haven’t looked to see. Is it important?”

“Probably not. He was seen on the High Street around ten-thirty.

That would indicate he’d spent the evening in Cambury.” He turned to Padgett. “Did Quarles have friends on Minton Street, friends he might have dined with?”

Padgett said, “I’ll have one of my men go door to door tomorrow.

But offhand I can’t think of anyone in particular. He was a queer man, not one to make friends here. Mr. Greer is his equal, that’s to say, financially. You’d think they might have got on together. Instead they were often at loggerheads.”

O’Neil said, “Are you saying it might be one of us? I can’t think of anyone I know who would kill a man and then hang him in that infernal contraption.”

“Perhaps the point of that was to make sure he wasn’t found for some time. If Padgett here hadn’t heard a dog barking and gone to investigate, it might have been a day or two before the barn was searched.”

“Which would give the murderer time to get clear of Cambury and see to his alibi,” Padgett said.

Soon after, they thanked O’Neil and left.

“I must telephone London,” Rutledge commented as the two men walked back the way they’d come. “Someone may already have spoken to the solicitors and the partner.”

He’d suspected that Bowles had put someone else in charge of the London side of the inquiry. Now he had an excuse to find out.

“I thought you were in charge,” Padgett said.

“Here, yes.”

Padgett paused by a bookshop. Rutledge looked up and saw that the name in scrolled gold letters above the door was NEMESIS. The shop was dark, but he could see the shelves of books facing the windows and a small, untidy desk on one side.

Padgett was saying, “You didn’t tell me this.” There was dissatisfaction in his voice. He’d hoped to be rid of the Yard.

If that was the case, why had he sent for them in the first place?

Rutledge wondered.

With a sigh Padgett prepared to take his leave. “See what your London colleague has to say, and perhaps we’ll have a better grip on what’s to be done here. Tomorrow I’ll send Constable Horton to Minton Street to discover where Quarles dined. We’ll see if it holds with what Hunter told you at the hotel.” He nodded in farewell and went on toward his house.

Rutledge watched him go. Hamish, in the back of his mind, said,

“It wouldna’ astonish me if yon policeman was the killer.”

Surprised, Rutledge said aloud, “Why?”

“I dona’ ken why. Only that he muddles the ground at every turn.

And there’s only his word that he found the body.”

It was true. Padgett had offered a number of suspects for consideration, and then changed his mind. Others he’d neglected to mention.

“The invalid chair . . .”

“Aye, that’s verra’ clever.”

“Such a suggestion would please the K.C. who defends the killer no end—what’s more, it could have happened that way. We’d walked about too much to find the chair’s tracks. If they were ever there.

I wonder why Inspector Padgett dislikes the Quarles family so intensely.”

At The Unicorn, Rutledge asked for the telephone and was shown to a small sitting room behind the stairs. He put in the call to London, and after a time, Sergeant Gibson came to the telephone instead of Bowles.

“The Chief Superintendent isn’t here, sir. And I don’t know that anyone’s spoken to the solicitors yet,” Gibson responded to Rutledge’s questions. He added, “Inspector Mickelson is still in Dover, but he’s expected to return tomorrow at one o’clock. He’s taking the morning train.”

Rutledge smiled to himself. Mickelson was Bowles’s protégé.

“And what about the former partner? Penrith?”

“I was sent around to his house this morning, sir. Mr. Penrith isn’t there. His wife’s in Scotland, and the valet says he went to visit her. He should be home tonight.”

“Did you tell his valet why you’d come to see Penrith?”

“It seemed best not to say anything, sir,” Gibson answered. He was a good man, with good instincts and the soul of a curmudgeon And if there was gossip to be had at the Yard, Gibson generally knew it.

“Then I’d rather be the one to interview him.”

“As to that, sir, if you’re in Somerset, you won’t be in London before one o’clock. I was present when Chief Superintendent Bowles told the inspector to make haste back to the Yard. Though he didn’t say why, of course.”

“I understand. Thank you, Sergeant.”

“I do my best, sir.” And Gibson was gone.

Hamish said, “Ye canna’ reach London before noon.”

“I can if I leave now,” Rutledge answered.

“It’s no’ very wise—”

“To hell with wise.”

11

In a hurry now, Rutledge strode out of the sitting room and went in search of Hunter, making arrangements for a packet of sandwiches and a Thermos of tea to be put up at once.

“I’ll be away this evening. Hold my room for my return, please.”

“I’ll be happy to see to it. Er—did you find Mr. Quarles?”

“Yes, thank you,” Rutledge answered, and went up the stairs two at a time. He took a clean shirt with him and was down again just as Hunter was bringing the packet of food and the Thermos from the kitchen.

The long May evening stretched ahead, and he made good time as he turned toward London. The soft air and the wafting scents of wild-flowers in the hedgerows accompanied him, and the sunset’s afterglow lit the sky behind the motorcar. When darkness finally overtook him, Rutledge was well on his way. But a second night without sleep caught up with him, and just west of London, he veered hard when a dog walked into the road directly in his path.

The motorcar spun out of control, and before Hamish could cry a warning, Rutledge had crossed the verge and run into a field. Strong as he was, he couldn’t make the brakes grip in the soft soil, and then suddenly the motorcar slewed in a half circle and came to an abrupt stop as the engine choked.

His chest hit the wheel and knocked the wind out of him, just as his forehead struck the windscreen hard enough to render him unconscious.

It was some time later—he didn’t know how long—that he came to his senses, but the blow had been severe enough to muddle his mind.

His chest ached, and his head felt as if it were detached from his body.

He managed to get himself out of his seat and into the grass boundary of the field.

There he vomited violently, and the darkness came down again.

The second time he woke, he thought he was back in France. He could hear the guns and the cries of his men, and Hamish was calling to him to get up and lead the way.

“Ye canna’ lie here, ye canna’ sleep, it’s no’ safe!”

Rutledge tried to answer him, scrambling to his feet and running forward, though his legs could barely hold him upright. He must have been shot in the chest, it was hard to breathe, and where was his helmet? He’d lost it somewhere. He shouted to his men, but Hamish was still loud in his ear, telling him to beware.

He could see the Germans now, just at that line of trees, and he thought, They hadn’t told us it was that far—they lied to us—we’ll lose a hundred men before we get there—

Despair swept him, and Hamish’s accusing voice was telling him he’d killed the lot of them. And the line of trees wasn’t any closer.

The machine gunners had opened up, and he called to his men to take cover, but this was No Man’s Land, there was no safety except in the stinking shell holes, down in the muddy water with the ugly dead, their bony fingers reaching up as if begging for help, and their empty eye sockets staring at the living, cursing them for leaving the dead to rot.

Rutledge flung himself into the nearest depression, but his men kept running toward the German line, and he swore at them, his whistle forgotten, his voice ragged with effort.

“Back, damn you, find cover now. Do you hear me?”

He dragged himself out of the shell hole and went after them, but they were determined to die, and there was nothing he could do. He watched them fall, one by one, and he tried to lift them and carry them back to his own lines, but his chest was aching and his legs refused to support him. He could hear himself crying at the waste of good men, and swearing at the generals safe in their beds, and pleading with the Germans to stop because they were all dead, all except Hamish, whose voice rose above the sound of the guns—cursing him, reminding him that each soul was on his conscience, because he himself was unscathed.

“Ye let them die, damn you, ye let them die!”

It was what Hamish had shouted to him the last time they’d been ordered over the top, and the young Scots corporal, his face set in anger, had accused him of not caring. “Ye canna’ make tired men do any more than they’ve done. Ye canna’ ask them to die for ye, because ye ken they will. I’ll no’ lead them o’er the top again, I’ll die first, mysel’, and ye’ll rot in hell for no’ stopping this carnage.”

But Rutledge had cared, that was the problem, he’d cared too much, and in the end, like Hamish, he had broken too. He could hear the big guns firing from behind the lines as the Germans prepared for a counterattack, and firing from his own lines to cover that last sortie over the top. The Hun artillery had their range now, and he struggled to get what was left of his men to safety.

He’d had to shoot Hamish for speaking the truth, and that was the last straw—his mind had shattered. Not from the war, not the fear of death, not even the German guns, but from the deaths he couldn’t prevent and the savage wounds, and the bleeding that wouldn’t stop, and the men who lived on in his head until he couldn’t bear it any longer.

Hamish’s voice had stopped, and he knew then that he’d killed the best soldier he had, a good man who was more honest than he was—

who was willing to die for principles, while he himself obeyed orders he hated and went on for two more years killing soldiers he’d have died to save.

Someone was grappling with him, and he couldn’t find his revolver. His head was aching, blinding him, and his chest felt as if the caisson mules had trampled him, but instinct was still alive. He swung his fist at the man’s face, and felt it hit something solid, a shoulder, he thought —

Hamish had come back—

His breath seemed to stop in his throat. Hamish’s shoulder, hard and living, under his fist. If he opened his eyes—

A voice said, “Here, there’s no need for that, I’ve come to help.”

And Rutledge opened his eyes and stared in the face of Death. He slumped back, willing to let go, almost glad that it was over, and longing for silence and rest.

The farmer grasped his arm. “Where are you hurt, man, can you tell me?”

Rutledge came back to the present with a shock, blinking his eyes as the light of a lantern sent splinters of pain through his skull.

They were going to truss him up in that contraption, and hang him in the tithe barn—

And then the darkness receded completely, and he said, “I’m sorry—”

The farmer gruffly replied, “There’s a bloody great lump on your forehead. It must have addled your brains, man, you were shouting something fierce about the Germans when I came up.”

Rutledge shook his head to clear it, and felt sick again. Fighting down the nausea, he said, “Sorry,” again, as if it explained everything.

“You need a doctor.”

“No. I must get to London.” He looked behind the farmer’s bulk and saw the motorcar mired in the plowed field. His first thought was for Hamish, and then he realized that Hamish wasn’t there. “Oh, damn, the accident. Is it—will it run now?”

“There’s nothing wrong with your motorcar that a team can’t cure.

But I didn’t want to leave you until I knew you were all right. There’s no one to send back to the house. I saw your headlamps when I went to do the milking. You’re not the first to come to grief in the dark on that bend in the road.”

Rutledge managed to sit up, his eyes shut against the pain. “There’s no bend—a dog darted in front of me, I swerved to miss him.”

“A dog? There’s no dog, just that bend. You must have fallen asleep and dreamt it.”

It was a dog barking that had brought Padgett to the tithe barn . . .

“Yes, I expect I did.” He put up a hand and felt the blood drying on his forehead and cheek, crusting on his chin. It was a good thing, he thought wryly, that he’d brought that fresh shirt with him.

He heaved himself to his feet, gripping the farmer’s outstretched hand for support until he could trust his legs to hold him upright.

“I’m all right. By the time you get your team here, I’ll be able to drive.”

“Drive? You need a doctor above all else.”

“No, I’m all right,” he repeated, though he could hear Hamish telling him that he was far from right. “Please fetch your team. What time is it? Do you know?”

“Past milking time. The cows are already in the barn, waiting.”

“Then the sooner you pull me out of here, the sooner they can be milked.”

The farmer took a deep breath. “If that’s what you’re set on, I’ll go.

I don’t have time to stand here and argue.”

He tramped off, a square man with heavy shoulders and muddy boots. As the lantern bobbed with each step, Rutledge felt another surge of nausea and turned away.

Without the lantern, he couldn’t see the motorcar very well, but as he walked around it, it seemed to be in good condition. The tires were whole, and the engine turned over when he tried it, though it coughed first.

Hamish said, “Ye fell asleep.”

“I thought it was your task to keep me awake. We could have been killed.”

“It was no’ likely, though ye ken your head hit yon windscreen with an almighty crack.”

Rutledge put his hand up again to the lump. It seemed to be growing, not receding, though his chest, while it still ached, seemed to feel a little better. He could breathe without the stabbing pain he’d felt earlier. His ribs would have to wait.

“It was pride that made you drive all night. To reach London before yon inspector.”

He and Mickelson had had several run-ins, though the chief cause of Mickelson’s dislike of Rutledge had to do with an inquiry in West-morland last December.

“Aye, ye’ll no’ admit it,” Hamish said, when Rutledge didn’t reply.

The farmer was back with his horses, and the huge draft animals pulled the motorcar back to the road with ease, the bunched muscles of their haunches rippling in the light of the farmer’s lantern.

“Come to the house and rest a bit,” the man urged when the motorcar was on solid ground once more. “A cup of tea will see you right.”

Rutledge held up the empty Thermos. “I’ve tea here. But thanks.”

He offered to pay the man, but the farmer shook his head. “Do the same for someone else in need, and we’re square,” he said, turning to lead his team back to the barn.

Watching the draft animals move off in the darkness, the lantern shining on the white cuffs of shaggy hair hanging over their hooves, Rutledge was beginning to regret his decision. But he could see false dawn in the east, and he would need to change his clothes and wash his face before finding Penrith.

The drive into London was difficult. His head was thundering, and his chest complained as he moved the wheel or reached for the brakes. But he was in his flat as the sun swept over the horizon. He looked in his mirror with surprise. A purpling lump above his eye and bloody streaks down to his collar—small wonder the farmer was worried about his driving on.

A quick bath was in order, and a change of clothes. He managed both after a fashion, looking down at the bruised half circle on his chest where he’d struck the wheel. His ribs were still tender, and he suspected he’d sustained a mild concussion.

Nausea stood between him and breakfast, and in the end, after two cups of tea, he set out to find Quarles’s former partner. There was a clerk just opening the door at the countinghouse in Leadenhall Street, and Rutledge asked for Penrith.

“Mr. Penrith is no longer with this firm,” the clerk said severely, eyeing the bruise on Rutledge’s forehead.

Rutledge presented his identification.

The clerk responded with a nod. “You’ll find him just down the street, and to your left, the third door.”

“Are any of your senior officials here at this hour?”

“No, sir, I’m afraid not. They’ll be going directly to a meeting at nine-thirty at the Bank of England.”

Rutledge followed instructions but discovered that Mr. Penrith had not so far arrived at his firm at the usual hour this morning. “We expect him at ten o’clock,” the clerk told Rutledge after a long look at his identification.

It took some convincing to pry Penrith’s direction out of the man.

Armed with that, Rutledge drove on to a tall, gracious house in Belgravia. Black shutters and black railings matched the black door, and two potted evergreens stood guard on either side of the shallow steps.

The pert maid who opened the door informed him that she would ask if Mr. Penrith was at home.

Five minutes later, Rutledge was being shown into a drawing room that would have had Padgett spluttering with indignation. Cream and pale green, it was as French as money could make it.

Penrith joined him shortly, standing in the doorway as if prepared to flee. Or so it appeared for a split second. When he stepped into the room, his expression was one of stoicism. He didn’t invite Rutledge to sit down.

“What brings the police here? Is it the firm? My family?”

Rutledge replied, “Mr. Penrith, I’m afraid I must inform you that your former partner, Harold Quarles, is dead.”

The shock on Penrith’s face appeared to be genuine. “Dead?

Where? How?”

Rutledge’s head felt as if there were salvos of French eighty-eights going off simultaneously on either side of him. “In Somerset, at his estate.”

After a moment, Penrith sat down and put his hands over his face, effectively hiding it, and said through the shield of his fingers,

“Of what cause? Surely not suicide? I refuse to believe he would kill himself.”

Mrs. Quarles had said the same thing.

“Why are you so certain, sir?”

Penrith lowered his hands. “For one thing, Harold Quarles is—

was—the hardest man I’ve ever met. For another, he was afraid of nothing. I can’t even begin to imagine anything that would make him want to die.”

“I’m afraid he was murdered.”

He thought Penrith was going to fall off his chair.

“Murdered? By whom?”

“I have no answer to that. Not yet. I’ve come to London to find it.”

“It can’t be someone in the City. I can’t think of anyone who would—I mean to say, even his professional competitors respected him.” He stopped and cleared his throat. “He was generally well liked in London. Both his business acumen and his ability to deal with people took him into the very best circles. You can ask anyone you choose.”

“I understand Quarles was from—er—different circumstances, in his youth.”

“I know very little about his past. He was frank about being poor in his youth, and people admired that. Accepted it, because of his ability to fit in, like a chameleon. That’s to say his table manners were impeccable, he knew how to dress well, and his conversation was that of a gentleman, though his accent wasn’t. People could enjoy his company without any sense of lowering their own standards. They could introduce their wives and daughters to him without fear that he would embarrass them with his attentions.”

His praise had an edge to it, as if Penrith was envious.

“Have you known him long?”

“He and I joined the firm about the same time, and we prospered there. In fact ended as partners. Still, I preferred to reduce my schedule in the last year or so, and left James, Quarles & Penrith to set up for myself. He wished me well, and I’ve been glad of more time to spend with my family.”

Penrith was fair and slim and had an air of coming from a good school, an excellent background if not a wealthy one. It was not likely that the two men had much in common beyond their business dealings. That would explain the stiffness in his answers.

“How is Mrs. Quarles taking the news?” Penrith asked. “I must send her my condolences.”

“She’s bearing up,” Rutledge answered, and saw what he suspected was a flicker of amusement in Penrith’s blue eyes before he looked down at his hands.

“Yes, well, this has been a shock to me. Thank you for coming in person to tell me. Will you keep me abreast of the search for his killer?

I’d like to know.”

“I was fortunate to find you at home at this hour.”

“Yes, I’ve just returned from Scotland and it was a tiring journey.

My wife is visiting there.”

“I must call on his solicitor next. Do you know of any reason why someone would wish to harm Harold Quarles? You would be in a better position than most to know of a disgruntled client, a personal quarrel . . .”

“I’ve told you. His clients were pleased with him. As for personal problems, I don’t believe there were any. He wasn’t in debt, his reputation was solid, his connections of the best. But then I was his business partner, not a confidant.”

“I understand in Somerset that he had a much different reputation—for pursuing women, with or without their consent.”

A dark flush suffused Penrith’s fair skin. “It’s the first I’ve heard of it.” His tone was harsh, as if Rutledge had insulted his former partner.

“He didn’t have the same reputation in London?” Rutledge pressed.

“I told you. Not at all. Do you think he’d have been invited to weekends at the best houses if that were the case?”

“Thank you for your help. You can always reach me through Sergeant Gibson at the Yard.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” He got up and walked with Rutledge to the door. “This is very distressing.”

Rutledge paused on the threshold. “Were you invited down to Somerset often?”

“Quarles and his wife seldom entertained after their separation.

Over the years, I was probably in that house a dozen times at most, and then only when we had pressing business. I can count on one hand the number of times I dined there.”

“Did you know of Mrs. Quarles’s relationship with her cousin Charles Archer?”

“Yes, I did. By the time Archer came to live at Hallowfields, Harold and Maybelle were estranged. It made for an uncomfortable weekend there, if you must know. I never understood what the problem was, and Harold never spoke of the situation. One year they were perfectly happy, and the next they were living in different wings of the house. This must have been late 1913, or early 1914. He was angry most of the time, and she was like a block of ice. But I can tell you that after Archer arrived, wounded and in need of care, the house settled into an armed peace, if you can imagine that. I shouldn’t be telling you this—it would be the last thing Harold would countenance from me.

But he’s dead, isn’t he? And I shouldn’t care for you to think that Mrs.

Quarles was in any way involved in this murder.”

In spite of his claim that he shouldn’t have discussed the issue, there was an almost vindictive relish behind the words, as if Penrith was pleased that Harold’s marriage was in trouble. A counterpoint to his own happy one?

Rutledge said, “I shall, of course, need to verify your claim to have been in Scotland.”

Penrith seemed taken aback. “My claim? Oh—of course. Routine.”

Rutledge thanked him and went out the door, feeling dizzy as he reached the motorcar. But it passed, and he went on to Hurley and Sons, Quarles’s solicitors. The street was Georgian brick, and the shingles of solicitors gleamed golden in the morning light as he found a space for his motorcar.

A clerk in the outer office verified that Hurley and Sons had dealt with Mr. Quarles’s affairs for many years, and showed Rutledge into the paneled office of Jason Hurley, a white-haired man of sixty. When he realized that his visitor was from Scotland Yard, he immediately suggested that his son Laurence join them. The younger Hurley was indeed his father’s son—they shared a prominent chin and heavy, flar-ing eyebrows that gave them both a permanently startled expression.

Quarles’s solicitors were shocked by the news—which Rutledge gave them in full—asking questions about their client’s death, showing alarm when Rutledge told them that no one had yet been taken into custody.

“But that’s monstrous!” the elder Hurley told him. “I find it hard to believe.”

“The inquiry is in its earliest stage,” he reminded them. “There’s still much to be done. That’s why I’m here, to ask who will inherit the bulk of Harold Quarles’s estate.”

Jason Hurley turned to his son. “Fetch the box for me, will you, Laurence?”

The younger man got up and left the room.

Hurley said, as soon as the door closed, “Was it an affair with a woman, by any chance? Mr. Quarles had many good qualities, but sometimes his—er—passions got the best of him.”

“Did they indeed?”

“Occasionally we’ve been required to mollify the anger of someone who took exception to his pursuit. Mr. Quarles didn’t wish his . . .

pecadillos . . . to come to the ears of his London clientele.”

“Who were these women? Where did they live?”

“In Somerset. I sometimes felt that perhaps this wasn’t really an unfortunate passion as much as it was a way of striking back at Mrs.

Quarles for the separation. You know her circumstances?”

“I’ve spoken to her,” Rutledge answered the solicitor. “She was quite clear about how she felt.”

“Yes, well, they had a quarrel the year before the war. I have no idea what it was about, but the result was a decision to live separately after that. Mrs. Quarles undertook the management of her own funds, and except for the house, for their son’s benefit, they no longer held any investments in common.”

“How did Quarles take the arrival of his wife’s cousin soon after their separation?” Rutledge asked, curious now.

“He had very little to say about it. He’d already informed us that we would handle the legal aspects of the separation, and there was really nothing more to add. Certainly, Mr. Archer was on the Continent when the marriage fell apart, for whatever reason. He couldn’t be called to account for that, whatever his later relationship with Mrs.

Quarles might be.”

“Was it before or after Mr. Archer came to live at Hallowfields that Mr. Quarles’s—er—pursuits began?”

“To my knowledge, well afterward. Which is why I drew the conclusions I have. As far as the separation went, Mr. Quarles was scrupulous in his handling of it.”

“Aye,” Hamish interjected, “he could show his vindictiveness then.”

An interesting point, and Rutledge was on the brink of following it up when the solicitor’s son returned with the box.

Hurley opened it and looked at the packets inside before choosing one. “This is Mr. Quarles’s last will and testament.” He unfolded it and scanned the document. “Just as I thought, the only bequest to Mrs. Quarles is a life interest in the house in which she now resides—

the estate called Hallowfields. The remainder of his estate is held in trust until Marcus’s twenty-fifth birthday. A wise decision, as it is a rather large sum, and Marcus is presently at Rugby.”

“Nothing unusual in that arrangement,” Laurence Hurley put in.

“Considering their marital circumstances.”

“Yes, I agree. What about his firm? Did he leave instructions for its future? Does anyone gain there?” Rutledge asked.

“There is provision for junior partners to buy out his share. A very fair and equitable settlement, in my opinion. When he made out his will, Mr. Quarles told me that he couldn’t see his son following in his footsteps. He felt Marcus would be better suited to the law if he wished to follow a profession. He held that money could ruin a young man if not earned by his own labor, even though his son will be well set up financially.”

“Can you think of anyone who might have clashed with Mr. Quarles, over business affairs or personal behavior? Enough to hate him and want to ridicule him in death?”

Laurence Hurley said, “By indicating that he was no angel? Or that he pretended to be an angel? I don’t quite see the point, other than to hide his body for as long as possible. His murderer would have had to know about that apparatus, wouldn’t he? That smacks of someone local.”

Jason Hurley frowned at his son’s comments. “To be honest with you, I can’t conceive of anyone. No one in London, certainly. He was respected here.”

Rutledge asked, “If he was—unhappy—about his wife’s situation, how did Mr. Quarles react to what he might have viewed as his partner’s defection? Was there retaliation?”

“Even when he and Davis Penrith dissolved their partnership, it appeared to be amicable. Although I couldn’t help but think that Mr.

Penrith would have been better off financially if he’d continued in the firm. Not that he hasn’t done well on his own, you understand, but the firm is an old one and has been quite profitable over the years. It would have been to his advantage to stay on.”

“I understand from Mr. Penrith that he wished to spend more time with his family than the partnership allowed.”

“Ah, that would explain it, of course. Mr. Quarles was most certainly a man who relished his work and devoted himself to it. I sometimes wondered if that had initiated the rift with his wife. His clients loved him for his eye to detail, but it required hours of personal attention.”

“Was there anyone else who might have crossed Mr. Quarles? Who later might have felt that there were reprisals?”

Both father and son were shocked. They insisted that with the exception of his matrimonial troubles, Mr. Quarles had never exhibited a vengeful nature.

“And marriage,” Laurence Hurley added, “has its own pitfalls. I daresay he could accept the breakup, perhaps in the hope that it would heal in time. When Mr. Archer joined the household, hope vanished.

Mr. Quarles wouldn’t be the first man to suffer jealousy and look for comfort where he could.”

Hamish said, “Ye ken, he’s speaking of his ain marriage . . .”

There was nothing more the senior Mr. Hurley could add. Quarles had left no letters to be opened after his death, and no other bequests that, in Hurley’s terms, “could raise eyebrows.”

“Except of course the large bequest to a servant, one Betty Richards,” Laurence Hurley reminded his father.

“Indeed. Mr. Quarles himself explained that she had been faithful and deserved to be financially secure when he was dead. I haven’t met her, but I understand there was no personal reason for his thoughtful-ness, except the fact that she was already in her forties and as time passed would find it hard to seek other service. He was often a kind man.”

“In the will is there any mention of the gatehouse at Hallowfields?”

Hurley frowned. “The gatehouse? No. There’s no provision for that. I would assume that it remains with the house and grounds.

Were you under the impression that someone was to inherit it?”

Hamish said, “He’s thinking of yon man in the wheelchair.”

Archer . . .

“The gatehouse came up in a conversation, and I wondered if it held any specific importance to Mr. Quarles.”

Laurence Hurley said, “None that we are aware of.”

“What do you know of Mr. Quarles’s background?”

“He came from the north, coal country, I’m told. He arrived in London intending to better himself, and because of his persistence and his abilities, rose to prominence in financial circles. He made no claim to being other than what he was, a plain Yorkshireman who was lucky enough to have had a fine sponsor, Mr. James, the senior partner of the firm when Quarles was taken on.”

Which meant, Hamish suddenly commented in a lull in Rutledge’s headache, Hurley knew little more than anyone else.

“How did he burn his hands so badly?”

“It happened when he was a young man. There was a fire, and he tried to rescue a child. I believe he brought her out alive, though burned as well.”

“In London?”

“No, it happened just before he decided to leave the north.”

“Is there any family to notify?”

“Sadly, no. His brothers died of black lung, and his mother of a broken heart, he said. It was what kept him out of the mines—her wish that he do more with his life than follow his brothers. He said she was his inspiration, and his salvation. Apparently they were quite close.

He spoke sometimes of their poverty and her struggle to free him from what she called the family curse. It was she who saw to it that he received an education, and she sold her wedding ring to provide him with the money to travel to London. He was always sad that she died before he’d saved enough to find and buy back her ring.”

It was quite Dickensian. The question was, how much of the story was true? Enough certainly for a man like Hurley to believe it. The old lawyer was not one easily taken in. Or else Quarles had been a very fine spinner of tales . . .

Rutledge left soon after. The morning sun was so bright it sent a stab of pain through his head, but he had done what he’d come to London to do, and there was nothing for it but to return to Somerset as soon as possible.

Hamish was set against it, but Rutledge shrugged off his objec-tions. He stopped briefly to eat something at a small tea shop in Kens-ington, then sped west.

It was just after he crossed into Somerset, as the throbbing in his head changed to an intermittent dull ache, that he realized Davis Penrith had not asked him how Harold Quarles had died.

12

As Rutledge came into Cambury, he pulled to one side of the High Street to allow a van to complete a turn. The sign on its side read CLARK AND SONS, MILLERS, and it had just made a delivery to the bakery. A man in a white apron was already walking back into the shop after seeing it off. Welsh dark and heavyset, he reached into the shop window as he closed the green door, removing a tray of buns.

Was he the Jones whose daughter had been sent to Cardiff after receiving Harold Quarles’s attentions?

Very likely. And to judge from the width and power of his shoulders, he could have managed the device in the tithe barn with ease.

Rutledge went on to the hotel, leaving his motorcar in the yard behind The Unicorn, then walked back to the baker’s shop. A liver and white spaniel was sitting patiently outside the door, his stump of a tail wagging happily as Rutledge spoke to him.

Jones was behind the counter, talking to an elderly woman as he wrapped her purchase in white paper. His manner was effusive, and he smiled at a small witticism about her dog and its taste for Jones’s wares. Watching her out the door, he sighed, then turned to Rutledge.

“What might I do for you, sir?”

Rutledge introduced himself, and Jones nodded.

“You’re here about Mr. Quarles, not for aniseed cake,” he replied dryly. “Well, if you’re thinking I’m delighted to hear he’s dead, you’re right.” At Rutledge’s expression of surprise, Jones added, “Oh, yes, word arrived with the milk early this morning. Bertie, the dairyman, had heard it at the Home Farm. Great ones for gossip, the staff at the Home Farm. Tell Bertie anything, and he’s better than a town crier for spreading rumors. But this time it isn’t rumor, is it?”

“No. And you’ll understand that I need to know where you were on Saturday evening. Let’s say between ten o’clock and two in the morning.”

Jones smiled. “In the bosom of my family. But I didn’t kill him, you know. There was a time when I’d have done it gladly, save for the hanging. I’ve a wife and six children depending on me for their comfort, and even Harold Quarles dead at my hands wasn’t worth dying myself. But I say more power to whoever it was. It was time his ways caught up with him.”

“I understand he paid more attention to your daughter than was proper.”

Jones’s laughter boomed around the empty shop, but it wasn’t amused laughter. “You might call it ‘more attention than proper.’ I called it outright revolting. A child her age? Filling Gwyneth’s head with tales of London, telling her about the theater and the shops and seeing the King morning, noon, and night, to the point she could think of nothing else but going there. She was barely sixteen and easily persuaded into anything but working here in the shop, up to her elbows in f lour and dough in the wee hours while the ovens heat up, taking those heavy loaves out again, filling the trays with cakes and buns before we opened at seven. It’s not easy, but it’s what kept food on my table as a boy and food on hers now. She was my choice to take over when I can no longer keep it going, but after Quarles had unsettled her, she’d no wish to stay in Cambury. I don’t see her now, my own daughter, but once in three months’ time. I can’t leave here, and I can’t bring her back, and she’s the apple of my eye. But she isn’t the same child she once was. He cost her her innocence, you might say.”

It wasn’t unusual for a girl Gwyneth’s age to change her mind every few months about what she wished to do with her life. It was a time for dreaming and pretending that something wonderful might happen.

Quarles had precipitated her growing up in a way that Jones was not prepared to accept.

Reason enough to kill the man.

But Jones seemed to read his mind, and he said before Rutledge could pose the next question, “I would have done it there and then, not wait, if I was to kill him. I could have put my hands around his neck and watched him die in front of me. I was that angry. If you’re a father, you understand that. If you’re not, you’ll have to take my word for it. Rector helped me see sense. I’m chapel, not Church of England, but he made me think of my family and where I’d be if I let my feelings carry me into foolishness.”

The words rang true. Still, Jones had had time to think about what he’d say to the police when someone came to question him. Since early morning, in fact.

Jones was adding, “My wife was here as soon as she’d heard. I didn’t tell her, it was going to come out soon enough anyway. She asked me straight out if I’d done this. And I told her no. But I could see doubt in her eyes. Thinking I might have gone out after she went to sleep. I didn’t.”

In his face was the hurt that his wife’s suspicion, her need to come to him at once for assurance, had brought in its wake. Which to Rutledge indicated just how much hate this man must have harbored.

“Did you know that Quarles was in Cambury this past weekend?”

“Not at first. Then I saw him with Mr. Masters on their way to the ironmonger’s shop. That was Saturday morning.”

“We’d like you to make a statement, Mr. Jones. Will you come to the police station after you close the shop and tell Constable Daniels what you’ve just told me?”

“I’ll do it. And put my hand on the Bible to swear to it.”

The door of the shop opened, and two women came in.

“If there’s nothing more, I’ll ask you to leave now,” Jones said quietly. “It won’t do my custom any good for me to be seen talking with the police. Now that the news is traveling.”

Rutledge nodded and went out while the women were still debating over lemon tarts and a dark tea bun with raisins in it.

He walked along the High Street, listening to Hamish in his head until he reached the police station. Constable Horton was there, reading a manual on the use of the typewriter.

He looked up as Rutledge came in, smiling sheepishly. “I hear him swearing in his office. I wondered what the fuss was all about. Looks easy enough to me, once you know where your fingers belong.” Setting the manual aside, he added, his eyes carefully avoiding the red and swollen abrasion on the Londoner’s forehead, “The inspector isn’t here, sir, if it’s him you’re after.”

“I need the direction of the Jones house. I just spoke to Mr. Jones in the bakery. I’d like to talk to his wife next.”

“Inspector Padgett thought you’d gone up to London.”

“So I have,” Rutledge answered, and left it at that.

Horton explained how to find the Jones house, and Rutledge thanked him, leaving on the heels of it.

The Jones family had a rambling home at the bottom of James Street, apparently adding on with the birth of each child. There was no front garden, but the window boxes were rampant with color, and the white curtains behind them were stiff with starch.

Rutledge tapped on the door, and after a moment a woman answered it, a sleepy child on her hip.

She had been crying, her eyes red-rimmed.

Rutledge introduced himself, showing her his identification. She hesitated before inviting him into the house, as if trying to come up with an excuse to send him away. In the end she realized she had no choice.

The parlor, with its horsehair furniture and broad mantelpiece, was spotlessly clean. Mrs. Jones settled the child on her lap, and asked quietly, “What brings you here, Mr. Rutledge?”

Her Welsh accent was stronger than her husband’s. Her hands, red from Monday’s washing, brushed a wisp of dark hair back from her face, and she seemed to brace herself for his answer.

“You’ve heard that Mr. Quarles was killed over the weekend?”

“The news came with the milk. I was sorry to hear of it.”

But he thought she wasn’t. She couldn’t spare any thought or emotion for Harold Quarles, when she could see her whole world crumb-ing into despair if her husband was the murderer.

“I’ve spoken to your husband. I need only to verify what he told me, that he spent Saturday evening with you and the children.”

Her eyes flickered. “He did that. It’s the only time we have as a family, to tell the truth.”

“And he didn’t go out after you’d gone up to bed?”

“That he didn’t. The next youngest, Bridgett, had a little fever, and we were worried about her.”

Her hands shook as she smoothed the dress of the little girl in her lap. “We’ve six girls,” she said, then immediately regretted speaking.

“I understand that the oldest daughter is living in Cardiff.”

She was reluctant to answer, as if not certain what her husband might have said. “Gwyneth’s with my mother. A real help to her, she is, and there’s no denying it.”

“I also understand that it was Harold Quarles’s fault that your daughter had to be sent away.”

“The whole town knows of it,” she answered, on the verge of tears.

“We can’t go anywhere without some busybody asking after her, as if she was recovering from the plague. That tone of voice, pitying, you see, but with a hint of hunger about it, hoping we had had bad news. A baby on the way.”

“I’m sure it has been difficult for you—”

“And if you’re thinking that Hugh had anything to do with what happened to that devil,” she said fiercely, “you’d be wrong.” The child in her lap stirred with her intensity, an intensity in defense of the husband she herself doubted, protecting her family if she must perjure her soul.

How many wives had done the same, time out of mind? Yet would Mrs. Quarles have protected her husband this fiercely? he wondered.

But Hamish reminded him that there was a son, Marcus.

“How can you be so certain?” Rutledge asked Mrs. Jones. “He must have felt like any father would feel, that the man ought to be horsewhipped.”

“He wanted to use his fists on him, true enough, but there was us to think about. Too high a price, he said. And it wasn’t as if the devil had touched Gwyneth, only talking to her in such a way that she believed he would take her away to London. It was foolishness, but her head was turned, wasn’t it? And she’s so pretty, it makes your heart ache to think what can happen to one so young—” She stopped, something in her face, an anguish that she tried to stifle, alerting him.

To think what can happen . . . not what could have happened.

But before he could question the difference in tenses, she began to cry, a silent weeping that was all the more wrenching to watch, tears rolling down her face, and her arms encircling the sleeping child as if to keep her safe from all harm. He had to look away from the grief in her eyes.

After a moment Rutledge said, “What’s wrong, Mrs. Jones? Shall I bring someone to you—your husband—”

“Oh, no, please don’t let him see me like this!” She tried to wipe her eyes with the dress the little girl was wearing, but the tears wouldn’t stop. It was as if he’d opened floodgates, and there was no way to put them right again.

Hamish said, “It’s no’ yon dead man she’s crying for.”

And not Hugh Jones, either.

What’s more, her husband hadn’t appeared to be upset.

“What’s happened? What is it your husband doesn’t know?”

He crossed the room and took the child from her arms, and went down the passage to the kitchen where a crib stood under the windows looking out over the back garden. The child sighed as he lowered her to the mattress, and she put her thumb in her mouth.

Rutledge went back to the parlor and sat down next to Mrs. Jones, offering her his handkerchief.

“I couldn’t tell him,” she said, sobbing. “I didn’t know how.” Her fingers fumbled in the pocket of her apron and drew out a sheet of paper.

He saw that it was from a letter.

The scrawled writing was tear stained and nearly indecipherable, but he managed to read the pertinent sentences.

—she must have waited until I was asleep, and left then, in the middle of the night, with only the clothes on her back, and I’m at my wits’ end what to do or where to look—ungrateful child after all I’ve done—

Gwyneth, it appeared, had run away from her grandmother’s house.

And if any man had an excuse for murder, Hugh Jones did now.

“Are you certain he doesn’t know?” Rutledge asked, folding the letter and putting it back into Mrs. Jones’s hand.

“I can’t think how he could—but he loves Gwyneth, she’s our first-born and he’s been set on her since she first saw the light of day. He may have felt it in his bones, that she was in trouble. I’ve been so frightened, with nowhere to turn—for three days it’s nearly eaten me alive, and then Bertie this morning spilling out the news as if he knew—knew she had run away and was certain Hugh must know as well.”

Had the girl come to that gatehouse to look for Harold Quarles, and somehow the baker had discovered that she was there?

But Mrs. Jones was right—how could he have learned she had left Cardiff?

Yet she herself had answered her own question— He may have felt it in his bones, that she was in trouble—

True enough, but surely not to the extent of going to the Hallowfields gatehouse to see.

Hunter had reported that he’d heard voices quarreling, just before Quarles turned the corner.

Had Jones confronted Quarles, demanding to know where his daughter was? Then followed him home to Hallowfields, to see for himself if she was hiding in the gatehouse? And when he couldn’t find her, he lost his temper.

It was possible. All too possible. Rutledge could understand Mrs.

Jones’s fears. But that would have meant he knew . . . it kept coming back to that.

Unless Jones had found the letter where she’d hidden it from him. One of Gwyneth’s sisters might have told him that the post had brought with it a letter that made Mama cry.

Hamish said, “It’s no’ likely. Still—”

Rutledge comforted Mrs. Jones as best he could, then went to make tea for her. The child was still sleeping, face flushed a little with the morning heat of the kitchen, and silky dark eyelashes sweeping her cheeks, her dark hair curling about her neck. She would be a beauty, he thought, when she was grown. Like her sister?

But now there was no Harold Quarles to tempt her. She was safe.

He found cups in the Welsh dresser, and before he could carry the tea back to the parlor, Mrs. Jones had come to stand in the door, shame written on her face.

“I am that sorry to put you to such trouble,” she began, but Rutledge cut her short.

“Drink this, if you will,” he said, setting the cup on the table and pulling out a chair for her to sit down.

“But the cat’s out of the bag,” she said wretchedly. “Now Hugh will know, and everyone else. And what am I to do about Gwynie? I can’t go to Cardiff, and I can’t send Hugh, and she’s been gone for days—”

Her face changed, her eyes suddenly haunted. “Do you think she wrote to him, Mr. Quarles, when she ran off? I’d not have thought it of her, but I haven’t seen that much of her since we sent her away. I might not know what’s in her heart now.”

A mother’s nightmare staring her in the face.

For an instant he thought the flood of tears would begin again, but she had cried herself out, and slumped in the chair at the table, so for-lorn he felt pity for her.

What could she do?

“I’ll speak to London,” he promised her, “and have the police in Wales alerted. We may be able to find her.”

It was all he could promise, and she was pathetically grateful. Reluctantly he left her there, staring into her teacup, as if the leaves in the bottom held the answer to her worries.

And for all he knew, they did.

When Rutledge left the Jones house, he turned toward the church, intent on finding out where the organist, Brunswick, lived.

Just before he reached his destination, he came to a pretty cottage where masses of apricot roses climbed cheek by jowl with honey-suckle, framing the windows of the south corner and drooping in clusters above the door. The stonework was very much like that of the church and the rectory in style and age, and he thought it might once have served as a churchwarden’s house.

He was admiring it, unaware at first of the woman kneeling in the front garden, setting out small plants from a nursery tray. She glanced up as Rutledge stopped but didn’t speak. He glimpsed dark, flame red hair, a freckled nose, and intense blue eyes before she bent her head again to her gardening.

Was this the Miss O’Hara who had come to Cambury and set the cat amongst the pigeons, as Inspector Padgett had claimed?

Still digging in the pliable earth, she said with a soft Irish accent,

“You needn’t stare. You must be the man from London.”

“As a matter of fact,” he replied, “I was admiring the house and the roses.”

She looked up again, and this time her smile was derisive. “Of course you were.”

He could feel himself flush, and she laughed, a low, sultry chuckle.

“While I’ve interrupted you, Miss O’Hara,” he said, ignoring the embarrassment he’d felt at her accusation, “I might as well ask where you were on Saturday night between ten o’clock and two in the morning?”

“Because I’ve had words with Harold Quarles? He thought he was a great flirt, but I didn’t care for his attentions, and told him as much.

End of story. And if you must know about Saturday evening, my cat and I were in bed asleep. You can ask him if you need corroboration.”

She gestured toward the cottage door. “He’s there, in the sitting room, curled on a cushion. You can’t miss him.”

“A man has been murdered, Miss O’Hara. It’s not a matter of jest.”

She sobered in a flash. “I know something about murder, Mr. Rutledge, and I never consider it a matter of jest. But Mr. Quarles’s death doesn’t touch me. I didn’t know him except to see him on the street.

If you expect me to weep over his passing, I’m afraid I can’t accom-modate you.”

Turning back to her plants she said nothing more, expecting him to walk on.

But Rutledge was not so easily dismissed. He said, “Why did Quarles single you out for his attentions? Did he have encouragement?”

“Encouragement?” He had angered her. “Indeed he didn’t. And it’s rude of you to suggest it.”

“Still, the question remains.”

She stood up, and he realized she was tall, nearly as tall as he was.

“If you want the answer to that, I suggest you speak to Mrs. Quarles.”

“Why should she have the answer?”

“Because he flirts with women to embarrass her. She must live here, while he appears to spend most of his time in London now. And he bears no shame for what he does, it’s like a game to him. I don’t know how she deals with it. I don’t care. It’s her business, isn’t it? The people who suffer are the families of the women he’s singled out.”

“That’s very callous of him,” he said, surprised at her perception.

He’d heard much the same suggestion from the elder Hurley.

“He’s a man who doesn’t care what others think of him. If it had been Mrs. Quarles who was killed, I would believe him capable of it.”

He quickly reassessed his initial opinion of this woman.

Hamish said, “Aye, she’ll turn your head if you’re no’ careful.”

“Do you think he hated her that much?”

“I don’t think it was hate, precisely. But she walked away from him, and for that perhaps he wanted to punish her.” She smiled. “I’ve had experience of flirtatious men. I can tell the difference between one who is trying to attract my notice and one who is making a show of his interest.”

“Do you know Mrs. Quarles?”

“I’ve seen her occasionally in the shops. She strikes me as a strong woman who knows her own mind. What I don’t understand is why she married the man in the first place.”

A very good question.

“I’m told he could be very pleasant if he wished.”

“That may be so, Inspector, but I’m sure most of Cambury would wonder if he knew the meaning of the word. If that’s all you have to ask me? The roots of these nasturtiums are drying.”

“That’s all for now, Miss O’Hara.” He touched his hat and walked on. But he could feel her gaze following him. The temptation to turn was strong, but he refused to give her that satisfaction.

He stopped briefly at the church, but it was empty.

Rutledge went on, past the churchyard to the outskirts of Cambury, where beyond the last of the houses, he could see farms scattered across the fields. They could have been ten years old or two hundred, crouching so low that they seemed to have grown from seed where they were. Splashes of color dotted the view—washing hung out to dry, flowers blooming in gay profusion here and there, the different green of kitchen gardens, the bare earth of barnyards, and the fruit trees in small squares of orchards, like soldiers on parade, all a patchwork laid over the slightly rolling landscape. Somerset at its prettiest.

Turning around he chose another route to the High Street, not wanting to give Miss O’Hara another reason to taunt him. Hamish chuckled in his mind.

He was halfway to The Unicorn when Inspector Padgett came out of a shop and stopped short.

“I thought you’d be in London today.”

“I was. There’s nothing unusual about Quarles’s will. Except for the bequests to staff, everything is left to his son, to be held in trust until he’s twenty-five. His wife will have a life interest in the house, after which it reverts to the boy. Which tells me that Quarles never really put down roots here. If he had, he’d have made certain Mrs.

Quarles was evicted.”

“Interesting idea. Did you speak to the partner? Penrith?”

“Former partner. He parted with Quarles more than a year ago and now has his own firm.”

“Any hard feelings when they parted company?”

“None that I could see. Penrith told me that Quarles wasn’t pleased, possibly because they’d made so much money as partners.

But he didn’t fight the dissolution of the partnership.”

“That’s disappointing to hear. What about trouble with former clients?”

“He couldn’t recall any.”

Padgett had been staring at the lump on Rutledge’s forehead.

“What happened to you?”

“A misstep,” Rutledge answered shortly.

“It must ache like the devil.”

It did, but Rutledge wasn’t giving him the satisfaction of admitting to it.

“All right, you’re back in Cambury. Have you been to question anyone? Or are you just taking the air?”

“I spoke to Mr. Jones, the baker. And his wife. They both swear Jones never left his house on Saturday night. Miss O’Hara was asleep with her cat. I was just about to call on Mrs. Newell, the former cook at Hallowfields. I went to the police station. Constable Horton told me you weren’t in.”

Padgett looked down, as if studying the road under his feet. “Yes.

Well, I went home. You didn’t tell me you were going to London. I found out quite by chance.”

“I left in the night. I wanted to be there before Penrith went to his office.” And before Mickelson returned from Dover.

“Fair enough.” He turned to walk with Rutledge. “I’m on my way to speak to Stephenson at Nemesis. The bookseller. A waste of time—I don’t think he could have managed the cage. But then you never know, if he were angry enough, what he might carry off. Are you certain you found nothing in London to turn the inquiry in that direction?”

“Not yet,” Rutledge said. “Early days.”

Padgett grunted. “Come with me, then. We’ll clear Stephenson off our list.”

Rutledge went on with him, but when they reached the bookshop, the sign on the door read CLOSED.

“He never closes,” Padgett said, putting up his hand to shade his eyes as he peered into the dark shop. “Celebrating Quarles’s demise, you think?” The sun hadn’t reached the windows, and the shelves for Stephenson’s stock prevented what light there was from traveling too far into the interior. “No sign of him. That’s odd. There’s a girl who comes in when he’s off searching for estate sales.”

Hamish said something in the back of Rutledge’s mind.

Padgett was on the point of turning away when a movement caught his eye. “Oh—there he is.” Tapping on the glass, he put his face up against it to attract the man’s attention. Then he said abruptly, “Good God— Rutledge—”

The tone of his voice was enough. Rutledge wheeled and pressed his face to the glass as well before shoving Padgett aside and kicking open the door. As it flew back, the flimsy lock shattering, Padgett was ahead of him, bursting into the shop.

Beyond the desk, in a small alcove where Stephenson kept a Thermos for his tea and a stock of wrapping paper, the man was hanging from a rope attached to a hook in the ceiling where he had once run a cord to bring the lamp nearer. The lamp was dangling beside him now, and it was the swaying of the glass shade that Padgett had glimpsed through the window glass as the bookseller jumped.

The odor of spilled lamp oil filled the small space.

For a mercy, Stephenson had not broken his neck in his fall, but his face was suffused with blood and his hands were flailing, as if to stop them from rescuing him. The chair he’d used had tipped over almost directly under him, just out of reach.

Rutledge turned it up, shoved a stack of books on it, and had it under Stephenson’s feet in a matter of seconds, catching first one and then the other and forcing them down to relieve the pressure on his neck. His hands went on thrashing about, in an effort to jerk away.

Padgett had clambered up the shelves in the alcove, pushing aside the rolls of wrapping paper and tipping over the Thermos in his haste to reach the dangling man. Rutledge spied a knife used to cut the wrapping paper just as it spun to the floor, and releasing one of Stephenson’s ankles, he reached up to hand it to Padgett. Stephenson tried to kick him in the face with his free foot, but Rutledge caught it again, just as a toe grazed the lump on his forehead. He clamped the foot down hard, his grip reflecting his anger.

The rope was heavy, heavy enough to do the work of killing a man, but Rutledge had Stephenson’s wriggling feet securely pinned while Padgett cursed and sawed at the rope from his precarious perch.

The strands of hemp parted so suddenly that all three men fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs, the books from the chair clattering around them. Rutledge fought his way out of the knot of hands and feet, stretching across to lift the rope from Stephenson’s neck.

A ring of red, scraped flesh showed above his collar as Stephenson clawed at it and gasped for breath, the air whistling in his throat before he could actually breathe again.

“Damn you!” he whispered when he could muster enough breath to speak. And after much effort, gulping in air, struggling to say something, he managed to demand, “Why didn’t you let me finish it—and save the cost of the hangman?”

“Because, you fool, we want some answers first,” Padgett shouted at him in furious relief. “You can’t go doing the hangman’s work and leave me to wonder if you were the killer or if someone else is still out there.”

Rutledge turned to the desk, looking to see if there was a note, but he found nothing. His head was thundering again, and Hamish was busy in his mind.

“Where does he live?” Rutledge asked Padgett as they got to their feet.

“Above the shop.”

Leaving Padgett to minister to the distraught man, Rutledge found the stairs and went up to the first floor. It was mostly used for stock, with a clutter of empty boxes, wrapping paper, a ladder, and other odds and ends that had no other home. After one swift glance Rutledge went on to the second floor. There he found modest living quarters, a bedroom and a sitting room, a kitchen to one side. On the walls were framed lithographs, the only touch of color except for a red tablecloth in the kitchen.

There was no sign of a note.

So Stephenson wasn’t intending to confess, but to leave doubts in all their minds, just as Padgett had accused him of doing.

Hamish said, “But it doesna’ prove he’s guilty.”

Rutledge hurried back down the stairs and found Padgett trying to get Stephenson to drink some tea from the mercifully undamaged Thermos. The man clenched his jaw, his eyes closed, his abrupt return to life leaving him shaken.

Rutledge squatted beside Padgett and, when he looked up, shook his head.

Padgett nodded.

They waited for five minutes before questioning Stephenson.

Padgett said, “What in God’s name did you think you were doing?”

As the heavy flush faded from Stephenson’s still-puffy face, Rutledge recognized him as the man he’d seen reading a book in the hotel dining room the morning he’d questioned Hunter about Quarles.

Stephenson said in a strained voice, “I knew you’d be coming.

When Bertie told me about Quarles being murdered, I knew it was only a matter of time. And when I saw you walking down the High Street, I couldn’t face it any longer.”

A confession? Rutledge waited grimly.

“Face what?” Padgett demanded testily. “Here, drink this tea. I can hardly hear you.”

He pushed the cup aside. “I thought everyone knew. It’s why I came back to Cambury. It’s why I named the shop Nemesis.”

“Well, you’re wrong.”

“I wanted to kill him, you see, but lacked the courage. I hoped that if I came back here, having to see him, unable to hide, one day I’d be able to do it.” He ran his hand through his thinning hair and went on bitterly, “You can’t imagine what it’s like to want to kill someone. It eats away at you until there’s nothing of you left. It’s like a hunger that can’t be satisfied, and in the end it destroys you too. The shame of it is like a knife in your brain.”

“What had he done to you, that you hated him?” Rutledge asked.

Stephenson moved restlessly, his face turned away. “It’s none of your business.”

“It is now. If you hadn’t tried to hang yourself, we’d have done nothing more than question you. Now you’re a suspect, and a suspect has no secrets,” Padgett said roughly. “Not from the police.”

His words were met with a stubborn silence.

Finally Padgett said, “Very well, I’ll see you to Dr. O’Neil’s surgery.

Can you walk that far?”

“I don’t intend to walk that far or anywhere else.”

“That’s as may be, but you’ll see the good doctor if I have to fetch a motorcar and drive you there myself.”

“Fetch one,” Rutledge replied. “We don’t want to give the gossips more than needful.”

With a grunt, Padgett went away to the police station.

Rutledge could see the man before him sink into himself, his face still red, coughing racking him. He refilled the cup with tea, and Stephenson swallowed it painfully, almost strangling on it.

They waited in silence, the bookseller looking inward at something he couldn’t face, and Rutledge listening to Hamish in the back of his head.

When Padgett came back, Stephenson stood up shakily, a martyr ready to face the lions. “Oh, very well, let’s be done with it.”

“Are you going to try this again?” Rutledge asked, gesturing toward the rope.

“To what end?” Stephenson replied wearily. “Fear drove me to desperate measures. You’re here now. It serves no purpose to die.”

13

Padgett led Stephenson out the door and Rutledge shut it firmly behind them. The broken latch held, just, and Rutledge left the sign reading CLOSED.

There were a number of people on the street, and they turned to stare as Rutledge assisted Stephenson into the vehicle.

A young woman rushed up, asking, “What’s wrong? Where are you taking him? Mr. Stephenson, what’s happened? You look so ill.”

Stephenson, unable to face her, mumbled to Rutledge, “My part-time assistant, Miss Ogden.”

She was very frightened. Rutledge was suddenly reminded of Elise, for the women were about the same age. Yet the differences between the two were dramatic. Elise with her confidence, her willingness to take on a marriage that would challenge her, had the courage of her convictions if not the patience. Miss Ogden was gripping her handbag so tightly that her knuckles were white, and she was on the verge of tears, looking from one man to the other for guidance. She struck Rutledge as timid, willing to serve, perfectly happy to be buried among the dusty shelves of a bookstore, and helpless in a crisis, expecting others to take the first step and then reassure her.

“We’re driving Mr. Stephenson to Dr. O’Neil’s surgery,” he told her gently. “He’ll be fine in a day or two. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Could it be his heart?” she asked anxiously. “My grandfather died of problems with his heart. Please, ought I to go with you? Or should I keep the shop open?”

Others were attracted by the fuss, clustering across the street from the motorcar, trying to hear what was being said. Halting as they came out of shops, several women put their hands to their mouths, their small children staring with round, uncertain eyes as they sensed the apprehension gripping the adults: two policemen appearing to take poor Mr. Stephenson into custody—

Rutledge could almost feel the rising tide of speculation rushing toward him, on the heels of word that Quarles was dead.

He answered Miss Ogden before Padgett could put a word in.

“Mr. Stephenson had an accident and should see Dr. O’Neil, but there’s no danger of his dying. We were lucky to find him in time.

Perhaps we ought to leave the shop closed for today and let him rest.”

He knew how to make his voice carry so that onlookers heard him as well.

She turned to Stephenson for confirmation. He nodded wretchedly. With a long backward glance, she stood aside to let them leave.

Rutledge got into the rear seat with the bookseller, swearing to himself. Padgett drove off without acknowledging the people on the street, not interested in what they were thinking.

“Did you not consider that that woman would have been the one to find you, if we hadn’t?” Rutledge demanded of Stephenson. “It was an unconscionably selfish thing you did. Next time you want to kill yourself, choose a more private place.”

Stephenson said, “I was wretched—I only wanted to die.” His voice had taken on a whine. “You don’t know what I felt, you can’t judge me.”

But Rutledge did know what he felt. Disgusted with the man, he tapped Padgett on the shoulder. “Let me out just there. If you have no objection, I’ll call on Mrs. Newell as planned.” He tried to keep the revulsion he was feeling out of his voice.

“Go ahead. I’ll be kept some time with this fool.” There was irritation in the inspector’s voice as well as he pulled over to let Rutledge step down. He offered begrudging instructions on how to find the former cook from Hallowfields, and then was gone almost before Rutledge had swung the rear door shut.

Rutledge watched them out of sight on their way to O’Neil’s surgery, then set out for Mrs. Newell’s small cottage.

Hamish said, “Ye’ve lost your temper twice now. It’s yon blow to the head. Ye’ll no’ feel better until ye gie it a rest.”

Rutledge ignored him, though he knew it to be true.

He was just passing the greengrocer’s shop, its awning stretched over the morning’s offerings: baskets of early vegetables and strawber-ries and asparagus. A motorcar drew up beside him, and Rutledge turned to see who was there. He found himself face-to-face with Charles Archer seated behind a chauffeur, one of the servants Rutledge had met in the Hallowfields kitchen.

Archer’s invalid’s chair was lashed to the boot in a special brace made for it.

“My apologies. I can’t come down. Will you ride with me as far as the green?”

“Yes, of course.” Rutledge got into the rear of the motorcar and nearly stopped short when he realized that there was no room for Hamish to sit. But that was foolishness. He shut the door and turned to Archer. The man shook his head. Silence fell until the motorcar pulled to the verge next to the green. There Archer said to the chauffeur, “Leave us for a few minutes, will you? A turn around the green should be sufficient.”

When the man was out of earshot, Archer continued. “I’ve just come from Doctor O’Neil’s surgery. I’m told you haven’t—er—

finished yet with Harold’s remains. But I wanted to see the body for myself. He refused to let me, even though I was there to identify it.”

“In due course.”

“I haven’t told Mrs. Quarles what I came to do. She will insist on carrying out that duty herself. But there’s no need.”

“If you’ll forgive me for saying so, Mr. Archer, she doesn’t seem to be distressed over her husband’s death. I doubt you’re sparing her, except in your own mind.”

“She married the most eligible of men. It was seen as a good match in spite of his background. Only she discovered too late that the facade didn’t match the man. I don’t know what precipitated the break between them, but she has said she had very good reasons for turning her back on him.”

“Then why not a divorce, to end the match once and for all?”

“I don’t know. It isn’t money. She has her own. I think it was in a way to prevent him from marrying anyone else. God knows why that mattered to her.”

Hamish noted, “He’s verra’ plausible . . .”

“Perhaps to prevent another woman suffering as she has done?”

Rutledge suggested.

“That’s too altruistic. I love Maybelle, in spite of the fact that I’m her cousin. I’d have married her myself, if she hadn’t met Quarles while I was away in Switzerland for some time. My mother was ill and the mountain air had been recommended for her. I stayed there six years, watching her die. When I came home, it was to an invitation to a wedding. And I couldn’t talk her out of it. You saw Quarles dead, I imagine. You never knew him when he exerted that wretched ability to make people agree to whatever he wanted. It’s what made him a successful investment banker.”

Remembering what Heller had hinted, Rutledge said, “Did any of his advice go wrong? I mean very wrong, not just an investment that didn’t work as it had been promised to do.”

“He was damned astute. That was his trademark. Nothing went wrong that he hadn’t balanced in one’s portfolio to take up the risk, should the worst happen. People were very pleased. That was, until Cumberline.”

“Cumberline?” He’d seen the box with a label bearing that name in Quarles’s study.

“Yes, it was an adventure stock. A South Seas Bubble sort of thing, as it turned out. Do you remember Cecil Rhodes’s great concept of a Cairo to Cape Town Railway driven through the heart of Africa?

The same sort of thing, but here the railroad would run from Dar Es Salaam to the Congo River, with goods coming by ship from the southern Indian Ocean to the East African coast, carried by train overland to the Congo, and then put on ships again for the passage north. It was expected to save the journey through the Red Sea and the Mediterranean and was to bring out ivory and other goods from East Africa as well. Zanzibar spices, Kenyan coffee, wild animals for the zoos of the world, and anything that expanded scientific knowledge. Labor would be cheap, and using the river cut the costs of such a railway nearly in half. On paper, it was exotic, and many men who had made money in the war were in search of new enterprises. Especially with Tanganyika in our hands now.”

“I must have been in France while this was talked about. It sounds feasible, but then I don’t know much about the Congo, other than that the Belgians fought the Germans from there. As did Britain in Kenya.

How deep is the Congo where a train could transfer goods?”

“I’ve no idea. Neither did the promoters or the investors. It turned out to be a case of the sly fox being tricked by sharper wolves. Quarles had mentioned it to a few of his clients but for the most part didn’t promote it. And it was just as well there were only a few clients involved, because the project collapsed. Gossip was soon claiming that he’d chosen men he was happy to see fall. That it was a matter of revenge, and he knew all along that the project was doomed.”

“Certainly an excellent way to make enemies,” Rutledge agreed.

“Quarles went to ground here in Cambury until the worst was over.

The odd thing is, it was a nine days’ wonder. His reputation for honesty prevailed, and the general opinion was, the men who complained were making him the scapegoat for their own poor judgment.”

“Did any of those clients live here in Cambury?”

“I have no way of knowing that. But I should think that if one of the investors was out for revenge, he wouldn’t have waited all this time.

Nearly two years.”

“I wonder. Did Quarles manipulate this scheme? Did he for instance collect investment funds but never transfer them to Cumberline, knowing it was likely to fail?” Rutledge had read parts of the treatise on Africa in Quarles’s bedchamber. Surely a man as astute as he was said to be could see through the promises made in it?

Archer turned to look at him. “What a devious mind you have.”

“It won’t be the first time that such a thing was done.”

“Quarles has a partner. One Davis Penrith. I hardly think he could have perpetrated such a scheme without the knowledge of his partner.

And Penrith is not the sort of man who could carry off such trickery, even if Harold could. He came into the firm to lend respectability. He has that kind of face and that kind of mind.” Archer hesitated. “Although it was soon after the Cumberline fiasco that Penrith went his own way.”

“Interesting.”

“Yes, isn’t it? But for Penrith, I’d almost be willing to believe in your suggestion. I don’t particularly like the man, for reasons of my own. Still, Quarles has been scrupulously careful—a man of his background has to be. That’s the way the class system works.”

The chauffeur had made his circuit of the pond and now stood some distance away, awaiting instructions. The High Street was busy, people taking advantage of a fine afternoon. From time to time they gathered in clusters, heads together. The likely topic of gossip today was Harold Quarles and his untimely death. Or possibly the news of Stephenson driving off with Padgett was already making the rounds.

A number of people cast quick glances at Charles Archer seated in his motorcar, deep in conversation with the man from London. Speculation would feed on that as well, as Rutledge knew.

He made to open his door, but Archer said, “Er—you will have noted the arrangements at Hallowfields. I wasn’t cuckolding Harold, you know. I’m no longer able to do such a thing. But I would have, if I could. I’ve found that being with someone you love, whatever the arrangement, is better than being alone. I sank my pride long ago, in exchange for her company.”

“You needn’t have told me this.”

“I read your expression when you saw us together. I want you to understand that what lies between Mrs. Quarles and myself didn’t lead to murder. Harold’s death won’t change our arrangement in any way.

She won’t marry me. I’m honest enough to accept that.”

“Why not?”

“Because she knows that pity is the last thing I could tolerate. As it is, we are friends, and it is easier to accept pity from a friend. Not from a lover.”

“Thank you for being honest. I will not ask where you were late Saturday night. But I must ask if you can tell me with certainty that your invalid chair was in your sight for the entire evening and into the night.”

Archer considered Rutledge. “You’re saying someone moved the body. He wouldn’t have been a light burden.”

Rutledge said, “Yes.” The full account of the nightmarish hanging in the tithe barn would be out soon enough.

“For what it’s worth, I give you my word that to my knowledge the chair never left my bedside.”

Rutledge got down, and as he closed the door, Archer signaled to his driver.

As the motorcar moved on toward Hallowfields, Rutledge stood on the street, looking after him.

Hamish said, “Do ye believe him?”

“Time will tell. But he made his point that neither Mrs. Quarles nor her lover had any need to murder her husband. Now the question is, why? To help us—or to hinder the investigation?”

A boy came running up, pink with exertion and hope. “A message for you, sir.”

Surprised, Rutledge put out his hand for it.

The boy snatched the sheet of paper out of reach. “Mr. Padgett says you’d give me ten pence for it.”

Rutledge found ten pence and dropped it into the boy’s hand. The crumpled sheet was given to him and then the boy was off, racing down the High Street.

The message read:

I’m about to speak to Mrs. Newell. Care to join me?

Rutledge swore, turned on his heel, and went back to the police station, where Padgett was on the point of setting out.

“I’m surprised you got my note. I saw you hobnobbing with Archer when you’d been heading for Mrs. Newell’s cottage. Anything interesting come of it? The conversation with Archer, I mean?”

The suggestion was that Rutledge had lied to the local inspector.

“He’d gone to the surgery to offer to identify the body. O’Neil put him off.”

“Now, Dr. O’Neil didn’t tell me that. Did Archer ask you to arrange for him to see Quarles?”

They were walking down the High Street. At the next corner, Padgett turned left onto Button Row. It was a narrow street, with houses abutting directly onto it.

“Not at all. I don’t think he was eager to do his duty, but he wished to spare Mrs. Quarles. He also wanted me to understand his relationship with Mrs. Quarles.”

“And did you?”

“It’s unusual, but clearly acceptable to all parties. That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“He went to the surgery to protect Mrs. Quarles, if you want my view of it. She could have struck her husband from behind, then finished the job when he was out of his senses. It would be like her not to leave the body there, a simple murder, but to make a fool of him in death.”

“Could she have dealt with that apparatus on her own?”

“Given time to get the job done? Yes. If you let the pulleys work for you, you can lift anyone’s weight. That’s the whole point of it, to make the angel fly without dropping her on top of the crèche scene.”

He smiled. “Though I’d have given much to see that a time or two.

Depending on who flew as the angel that year. The question is, would she have had the stomach to touch her husband’s corpse as she put him into the harness? If she hated him enough, she might have.”

Hamish said, “He doesna’ like yon dead man and he doesna’ like yon widow. Ye must ask him why.”

Until Quarles and his wife came to Cambury, there was no one to make him feel inferior, Rutledge answered silently. They weren’t born here, he didn’t like looking up to them, and at a guess, both of them expected it.

Hamish grunted, as if unsatisfied.

Rutledge changed the subject. “How is Stephenson?”

“O’Neil says he’ll be in pain for several days. The muscles in his neck got an almighty yank when he kicked the chair away. By the time we reached the surgery, he was complaining something fierce. Dr.

O’Neil is keeping him for observation, but I don’t think Stephenson will be eager to try his luck a second time. At least not with a rope.”

They were coming up to a small whitewashed cottage in a row of similar cottages. This one was distinguished by the thatch that beetled over the entrance, as if trying to overwhelm it. In the sunny doorway sat a plump woman of late middle age, her fair hair streaked with white. She was making a basket from pollarded river willows, weaving the strands with quick, knowing fingers.

She looked up, squinting against the sun. “Inspector,” she said in greeting when she recognized Padgett.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Newell. I see you’ve nearly finished that one.”

“Aye, it’s for Rector. For his marketing.”

“You do fine work,” Rutledge said, looking at the rounds of tightly woven willow.

Behind her in the entry he could see another basket ready for work, this one square, the top edge defined and the tall strands of willow that would be the sides almost sweeping the room’s low ceiling. The sleeves of Mrs. Newell’s dress, rolled up past the elbows, exposed strong arms, and her large hands, handling the whippy willow as if it were fine embroidery thread, never faltered even when she looked away from them.

“Where do you get your materials?”

“I pay old Neville to bring me bundles when he and his son go to fetch the reeds for their thatching over by Sedgemoor. These he brought me a fortnight ago are some of the best I’ve seen. My mother made baskets. Lovely ones that the ladies liked for bringing cut flowers in from the gardens. It’s how I earn my bread these days. And who might you be, sir? The man from London come to find out who killed poor Mr. Quarles?”

Bertie and his milk run had been busy.

“Yes, my name is Rutledge. I’m an inspector at Scotland Yard.”

She studied him, still squinting, and then nodded. “I’ve never seen anyone from Scotland Yard before. But then Mr. Quarles was an important man in London. And he let the staff know it, every chance he got.”

A ginger cat came to the door, rubbing against the frame, eyeing them suspiciously. After a moment, he turned back inside and disappeared.

“Can you think of anyone who might have wished to see Mr. Quarles dead?” Rutledge went on.

She laughed, a grim laugh with no humor in it. “He could charm the birds out of the trees,” she said, “if he was of a mind to. But he had a mean streak in him, and he rubbed a good many people the wrong way when he didn’t care about them. Sometimes of a purpose. If you wasn’t important enough, or rich enough, or powerful enough, you felt the rough side of his tongue.”

“Rubbed them the wrong way enough to make them want to kill him?”

“You’ll have to ask them, won’t you?”

Padgett took up the questioning. “You worked at Hallowfields for a good many years. Was there anyone among the staff or at the Home Farm who had a grievance against Mr. Quarles?”

She glanced up from her work, staring at him shrewdly. “What you want to know is, could I have killed him? Back then when he let me go, yes, I could have taken my cleaver to him for the things he said about me and about my cooking. The tongue on that man would turn a bishop gray. I’m a good cook, Mr. Rutledge, and didn’t deserve to be sacked without a reference. Where was I to find new employment? It was a cruel thing to do, for no reason more than his temper. And I’ve paid for it. For weeks I thought about what I’d like to do to him, from hanging him from the meat hook to drowning him in the washing-up tub. But I never touched him. I didn’t relish hanging for the likes of Harold Quarles.”

“Perhaps someone else in the household believed it was worth the risk. How did they get on with the man?”

“I can’t see Mrs. Downing touching him neither, however provoked she is. She’s all bluster when it comes to trouble. Besides, she’s Mrs. Quarles’s creature.”

“Would she kill for her mistress?”

Mrs. Newell shook her head. “She could hardly bear to see me kill a chicken.”

“What about Mr. Masters at the Home Farm?”

“They had words from time to time, no doubt of it, and I’ve heard Mr. Masters curse Mr. Quarles something fierce, when he thought no one was in hearing. There’s many a house like Hallowfields that would like to hire him away from Mr. Quarles. But he stays, in spite of the wrangling.”

“Why?”

“Because nine days out of the ten, he’s on his own, with no one looking over his shoulder. And he can do as he pleases.”

“Mrs. Quarles herself?” Padgett asked next.

“I doubt she would dirty her hands with him.”

“I understand there was no love lost between the two of them,”

Rutledge put in.

“But it wasn’t murderous, if you follow me. It was a cold hate, that.

Not a hot one. I’d put my money,” she said, warming to the theme, “on Mr. Jones, the baker. Quarles was after his daughter. Such a pretty girl, raven dark hair and green eyes, and only sixteen when Quarles spotted her on the street. He gave her no peace and offered her the moon, I’ll be bound, for one night. Her pa sent her to Wales, out of reach. And not before times, I heard, because Mr. Quarles offered to take the girl to London and set her up in style. I think she’d have run off with him then, if her pa hadn’t got wind of it.”

This was a richly embroidered version of the story, very different from what Mr. Jones or Mrs. Jones had claimed. Mrs. Newell’s fingers were twisting the willow strands viciously as she spoke, and Rutledge could see how strongly she still felt, whatever she was willing to admit to.

“He was probably old enough to be her father,” Rutledge pointed out.

“Ah, but lust doesn’t count itself in years. And what young pretty thing in a town like Cambury wouldn’t see stars when she pictured herself in a fine London house with a large allowance all her own.”

“How did Mr. Jones discover what was happening?”

“It was Miss O’Hara who put him wise. She overheard something in the post office that concerned her, and despite not caring for making herself the center of attention again, she went to the baker. It seems Mr. Quarles had asked the girl for a decision by week’s end.”

Hamish was asking if she’d told the unvarnished truth or seen her chance to get her own back on Quarles, even after he was dead. Or because he was.

“A near run thing,” Rutledge agreed with Mrs. Newell. “But if Mr. Jones was angry enough to kill Quarles, why not there and then?”

“We’re none of us eager to hang, Mr. Rutledge. There’s some say that vengeance is a dish better taken cold.” She spoke with quiet dignity.

“Yes, I see your point.”

“Anyone else who might have quarreled with the dead man? Been cheated by him? Believed he’d seduced a wife?” Padgett asked.

“That’s for you to discover, isn’t it? I told you what I thought.

Gossip is always rampant with the likes of Harold Quarles. But gossip doesn’t always end in murder.”

“Nor is gossip always true,” Rutledge said. “What do you know about Mr. Brunswick, the organist at St. Martin’s?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What of him?”

“His name came up in another context.”

“Oh, yes? Then let that other context of yours tell you what you want to know. I’ve nothing to say against Mr. Brunswick.”

They spoke to her for another five minutes, but to no avail. And Rutledge found it frustrating that she was so reluctant to talk. She knew both the household at Hallowfields and her neighbors in Cambury. But cooks were an independent lot, master of their domains, often arbiters of staff matters, and even though she had been shown the door and was now reduced to making baskets, Mrs. Newell kept her opinions to herself. It had been ingrained in her to keep the secrets of a household. Whatever her feelings toward Quarles, old habits die hard.

As they walked away, Rutledge said dryly, “As a rule, people rush to deny they are capable of murder. Here, everyone—including yourself—admits to having a reason to commit murder.”

“Refreshing, isn’t it?” Padgett commented with relish. “If we find the murderer, half the village will be up in arms to protect him. Or her.”

“Very likely. But I’m beginning to think that you’ve encouraged one another in this pastime of disparaging Quarles to the point that someone finally decided to do something about it. Or to put it another way, found himself or herself faced with a tempting opportunity that seemed foolproof, and took advantage of it.”

“For the public good?” But Padgett’s humor was forced this time.

After a moment, he went on, “You’ve spoken to Jones and his wife.

Anything there to support Mrs. Newell’s suggestion?”

“I don’t know. He swears he was prepared to kill Quarles, and then remembered that he was the sole breadwinner of a large family. So far he has the strongest motive, if Quarles had meddled with his daughter.

But both of Gwyneth’s parents deny that anything happened. To protect Gwyneth? Or is it true? What I’d really like to know is what triggered the actual killing. Why have old grievances all at once erupted into murder? How does one measure hate, I wonder?”

As they turned into the High Street again, a woman was coming toward them walking her little dog on a lead, and Rutledge remembered what had happened the night before, when he’d seen a dog in the middle of the road, and the farmer claimed he’d seen nothing of the sort but had drifted to sleep just before he reached the bend.

He said to Padgett, “You’ve told me you heard a dog barking, and went to investigate. But so far, we haven’t found a dog that was running loose that night. Are you certain it was a dog, and not a fox?”

Padgett, caught off guard, said, “I told you it was a dog. There’s the end of it.” He was short, unwilling to consider another possibility.

Hamish said, “I’ll gie ye a hundred pounds he’s lying.”

But Rutledge wasn’t ready to confront Padgett. He let the subject go.

It was late, the sun low in the western sky, his head was thundering, and he’d had no luncheon. “Let’s call it a day,” he said as they approached The Unicorn.

“Suit yourself,” Padgett said, as if Rutledge was failing in his duty.

“I wonder you didn’t call on a few of Quarles’s clients while you were in London. To get the feel of the man in his own den.”

“At a guess, many of them don’t live in London. When we’ve found evidence pointing in that direction, we’ll go back and have a look.

Have you discovered where Quarles went to dine on Saturday?”

“I decided to put my men to asking if strangers were seen about the village on Saturday. So far no one’s noticed anyone they didn’t know by sight,” he admitted grudgingly. “That simply means whoever was here wisely stayed out of sight. I wonder if he—she—was waiting in the gatehouse cottage for Quarles to return. Whoever it was couldn’t be seen from the house or the farm, but he could watch the road.”

“Not if Quarles returned by the main gate to Hallowfields.”

“But he didn’t come back by the main gate.”

“Why would he use the Home Farm lane?”

Padgett was smiling. “Perhaps he heard the dog I heard.”

They were sparring, taking each other’s measure, pointing out each other’s flaws, neither giving an inch, because they had more or less rubbed each other the wrong way from the start.

Rutledge recognized it for what it was, but he didn’t think Padgett did.

Hamish said, “Aye, but watch your back.”

Rutledge bade him a good evening and went up the steps into the hotel. Padgett, still standing in the street, watched him go with an unreadable expression on his face.

14

It was a long night. Rutledge’s head was still aching, and he was unable to sleep, tired as he was. Hamish, awake and in a surly mood, haunted his mind until at one point Rutledge got up and sat by the window for a time, trying to shut out that persistent, familiar voice.

Still, Hamish gave him no peace. First the war, then the drive to London, then back to the war again, before shifting the theme to Meredith Channing.

That brought Rutledge up out of numbed silence.

“I canna’ think why she seeks you out.”

Rutledge said, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, aye? She kens ye’re no’ comfortable when she’s there, but she doesna’ avoid ye.”

“I don’t think she knew I’d be at the wedding. I didn’t expect to see her there.”

“Yon bride stayed with her when she went to London. Ye’re a fool if ye believe she didna’ tell the lass that Maitland chose ye for his groom’s man.”

“All right. What was she to do, beg out of the wedding?”

Hamish chuckled. “Would ye ha’ begged off, if Maitland had told ye she was coming?”

There was no answer to that. He would have had to explain why, and he couldn’t. And it would have aroused Edgar’s suspicions.

“Why did ye no’ ask someone about her, since everyone knew her?”

He’d been too busy struggling with his fear of what she’d see in his mind. Whatever she said about her ability to read thoughts, mocking it as a parlor game to entertain friends, he knew too well that she could read his. He could feel it.

“Or ye didna’ want to know.”

And Edgar Maitland had tried to stir Rutledge’s interest in that direction. It had been the perfect opportunity to ask her history. Instead he’d brushed off the suggestion that they were suited to each other, unsettled and embarrassed.

“She’s no’ sae bonny as the Irish lass.”

Rutledge swore. How did Hamish expect him to answer that? And then realized that he needn’t answer at all.

He tried to shut the voice out of his mind, but it was nearly impossible to ignore it. Finally, as the church clock struck four, he drifted into sleep, and Hamish of necessity was silent.

Morning found the lump on his forehead a variety of shades of blue and purple. But the dizziness and the throbbing had gone. He shaved, dressed, and went down to breakfast, discovering to his surprise that it was close to nine o’clock.

As he ate he tried to piece together the parts of the puzzle facing him: who could have killed Harold Quarles?

Someone in London? Or someone here in Cambury? Hamish, bad-tempered this morning, reminded him that he hadn’t gone to see the organist, Brunswick.

He finished his breakfast and went to remedy that shortcoming.

Padgett was in the police station but declined accompanying him.

“There was a housebreaking last night, and I must deal with it. I know the culprits, and this is the first serious trouble they’ve been in.

If I don’t stop them now, they’ll find themselves in prison. And who’ll run the farm then? Their mother’s at her wits’ end. They’re good lads, but there’s no hand at the helm, so to speak. Their father’s drunk, day in and day out.”

Hamish said, “It could wait. He doesna’ wish to come wi’ ye.”

It was probably true.

Rutledge left the police station and soon found himself at the small stone house close by the church where Padgett had told him that Michael Brunswick lived.

Brunswick himself answered Rutledge’s knock. They stared at each other in silence. Something in his face told Rutledge he’d been waiting for it for some time.

Rutledge introduced himself and showed his identification, but Brunswick brushed it aside.

“I know who you are.” He stepped back to allow Rutledge to enter.

There was a piano taking pride of place by the window of the sitting room, and books of music were scattered about. Untidy the room was, but it had been well dusted and cleaned, as if keeping up standards. Rutledge remembered that this man’s wife had died, a suicide.

“Then you know what I’m here to ask. Where were you Saturday night?”

“At home, asleep. I don’t go out of an evening since my wife’s death.”

“I’ve been told that you’re among the people I should speak to in regard to what happened to Harold Quarles.” It was not a direct accusation, but close enough, Rutledge hoped, to elicit a response. It wasn’t what he’d expected.

“He’s dead. That’s all that matters to me.”

“Then I’m forced to include you among my list of suspects. I think you knew that the first time I saw you. What I’d like to know is why?

When only a handful of people were aware of why I was here.” Rutledge considered him—a tall man, fair hair, circles under the eyes that spoke of sleepless nights. His fingers were long and flexible, trained to play an instrument. And he was strong enough to move a body if he had to.

Brunswick said, “Include me if you like. It makes no difference to me.”

“Why should you be glad a man’s been murdered? Most people are repelled by the thought of that.”

“You know as well as I do that Harold Quarles was a man who made his own fate. He didn’t give a damn about anyone as far as I know, and in the end that invites what happened to him Saturday night. You can’t walk around oblivious to the pain you cause, and expect no one to retaliate. There’s always a line that one crosses at his own risk. Beyond it, ordinary rules don’t apply.”

“Whatever most people might feel, whatever they dream about doing in the dark of night when they can’t sleep, in the daylight there are obstacles. They fear for their souls, they fear the hangman, they fear for those they love. And Harold Quarles would still be alive.”

Brunswick laughed. “I’ve lost God, I’ve lost those I loved. Why should I fear the hangman when he comes to put the rope around my neck? I don’t have much to live for.”

“If you didn’t kill the man, who did?”

“Someone who is fool enough to believe he won’t be caught. Inspector Padgett brought the Yard in, didn’t he? Why do you think he did that?”

Hamish said, “Aye, it’s a guid question.”

“To avoid having to arrest someone he knew,” Rutledge replied, and was pleased to see that his answer had taken Brunswick aback.

“You think so? He’s had as much reason to hate as any of the rest of us.”

“If you know what that reason is, you must tell me.”

Brunswick shook his head. “You’re the policeman. You’ll have to ask him.”

“Then tell me instead about your wife’s death.”

Brunswick’s color rose into his face. “She’s dead. Leave her in peace.”

“I can’t.” He could hear Hamish objecting, but he pressed on. “I’m told she drowned herself. Did she leave a note, any explanation of why she took her own life?”

“There was no note. Nothing. Leave it alone, I tell you.”

“Do you think Harold Quarles played any part in her decision?”

“Why should he have?”

“Because you hate him. It’s the only conclusion I can draw, Mr. Brunswick. And the only reason I can think of for Mrs. Quarles to include your name in her list of those who might have killed her husband.”

That shook him to the core.

“Did she also tell you that my wife spent weeks at Hallowfields, working for her bastard of a husband?”

“Perhaps it’s time you gave me your side of the story.”

Brunswick was up, pacing the floor. “She went there against my wishes. She said we needed the money. He’d left London, rusticating, he said. Hiding from angry clients, if you want my view. He worked in his study at the house, and after a time, he let it be known he needed someone to type letters for him. She applied, and he took her on, two hours in the morning, and three in the afternoon. One week after she left Hallowfields, she was dead. What would you make of it, if she’d been your wife?”

“What sort of mood was she in that week?”

“Mood? How should I know? She wouldn’t talk to me. She wouldn’t tell me what had happened, nor would she explain why she sat here and cried that first morning she didn’t go back to him.”

“And so you suspected the worst.”

“Wouldn’t you? She couldn’t live here in this cottage after spending her days at Hallowfields. She couldn’t accept me, after she’d had her head turned by that bastard. Do you think I didn’t guess that something had happened? She’d gone to Dr. O’Neil that morning, first thing. She must have thought she was pregnant. We’d tried, we couldn’t have a child. That’s why she wanted the money, to go to a specialist in London and find out why. After she was dead, I went to Dr. O’Neil myself and demanded to know what he’d said to her. I asked him straight out if she was pregnant. And he said she wasn’t, that he’d wanted her to talk to someone in Glastonbury. It was an ovarian tumor, he said. But the truth was, he didn’t want me to know what my wife couldn’t tell me—that the child she was carrying wasn’t mine. He didn’t want me to live with that for the rest of my life. But I knew. I knew. ”

He turned to face the wall, his back to Rutledge and his head raised to stare unseeingly at the ceiling. “Get out of here. I’ve never told anyone, not even Rector, what I just told you. I don’t know why I’d confess my shame to a stranger, when I couldn’t even confess to God.”

Hamish said, as Rutledge shut the door behind him, “Do ye believe him?”

Rutledge replied, “More to the point, I think he believes what he told me. And that’s the best reason I’ve heard so far for murdering Harold Quarles and then hanging his body in that infernal contraption. It goes a long way toward explaining why simply killing Quarles wasn’t enough.”

He walked back to the hotel, to his motorcar, and drove out to Hallowfields.

Mrs. Quarles agreed to receive him, though she kept him waiting for nearly a quarter of an hour before Downing came to take him to the same room where he’d met her the first time. And she was alone.

“Are you here to tell me you’ve found the man who killed my husband?”

“Not at present. I’ve come to ask you if you know what the relationship was between your husband and Mrs. Brunswick.”

“Hazel Brunswick? She came to do clerical work for him. There was no relationship, as you call it.”

“Her husband believes there must have been.”

“Only because of Harold’s reputation. I can assure you there was nothing between them.”

“Why should he make an exception of Hazel Brunswick, if he didn’t draw the line at seducing a girl of sixteen?”

“Gwyneth Jones? He wouldn’t have touched her, either. He wanted me to believe he would—he wanted me to be torn apart by jealousy and so shamed by his behavior I’d do anything to stop it. And then when I came crawling back, he’d have the satisfaction of rejecting me. But you see, I was married to him all those years. I learned to see through him.

Once the scales fell from my eyes, I realized what sort of man he was, and how he punished people who got in his way. Davis Penrith knows that as well, but he blinds—blinded—himself to what Harold’s true nature was. He didn’t want to see. Or perhaps was afraid to see, afraid to recognize the man he’d worked with for so long.”

“Gwyneth’s father was worried enough to send her away to Wales.”

“Believe me, if Harold had been seriously interested in Gwyneth, sending her to Wales wouldn’t have stopped him from following her.

My husband got what he wanted, most of the time. That too was in his nature.”

“And in the process, he tormented a girl and her father, a woman and her husband, and who knows what other victims. Was there nothing you could do to stop the game?”

“You haven’t understood my husband.” She had kept him standing, as if he were a tradesman. “How do you move someone like that? Ask Samuel Heller, not me. Though I doubt very much that Harold had a soul. I know for a fact that he didn’t have a conscience.”

“Are you aware that sometimes he entertained someone in the gatehouse by the Home Farm lane?”

“I’ve been told that sometimes the lamps burned there late into the night. But no one, so far as I know, had the courage to find out what he did there. It was talked about, you see, there was speculation. And when I went into Cambury, I had no way of knowing whether the girl who waited on me in a shop or in the hotel dining room was one of his conquests or not. But if you look for the truth, you’ll probably discover he never brought anyone there. Betty might tell you, she cleaned those rooms. Still, the gossips of Cambury were agog with curiosity. And so for the most part, I never went into town at all.”

Rutledge wondered if she really knew what her husband was doing—whether she had simply convinced herself of his spite or used it to excuse her relationship with Charles Archer. Physically or emotionally, a tie was there.

“Why do you hate your husband so much?” he asked. “Is this because of Charles Archer? Did you marry the wrong man? Or were you late in discovering the sort of man your husband was?”

“I was in love with Charles Archer, and he with me, before he took his mother to Switzerland for treatment of her tuberculosis. They’d told him she was dying, but she lived six more years. I never saw him during those six years. He never left her side. He cared for her, and he stayed with her to the end. While he was away, I met Harold Quarles, and he swept me off my feet. He was attentive, charming, caring, and he was there. There were flowers and gifts, invitations to dinner, invitations to the opera, invitations to go riding. He was just a clerk at the house where he was employed, but already he was making a reputation for himself—a reputation of another sort, as a man who could manage money and was astute in business dealings. And he asked me to believe in him and marry him, and he would see that I continued to live as well as I did then, if not better. I thought I was in love with him, and I knew I was lonely. I could hardly recall what Charles looked like—certainly not the man in the photograph he’d given me before leaving for Switzerland. I told myself he was never coming back, that the doctors had been wrong before, and that his mother would live forever, and I’d be a spinster by that time. And so I married, and the first years were wonderful. Harold kept every promise he’d made me, and I was happy—”

She broke off. “Why in God’s name am I telling you all this? It’s none of your business!”

“What went wrong?” he asked gently. “What changed your feelings?”

“I will never tell you that. You can hang me if you like, but I will never tell you. I have a son, and I would rather face death than break his heart. ”

“Have you told him that his father is dead?”

She turned away and walked to the window. “No. I haven’t found the words. I’m leaving tomorrow to bring him home.”

“How did you explain Charles Archer to your son?”

She wheeled to face him again. “I didn’t have to. There’s nothing to tell, except that he’s an old friend and I have brought him here to heal.”

“You were lovers before Charles Archer was wounded at Mons.”

Her face flamed to the roots of her hair. “How dare you?”

“It’s there in the way you put your hand on his shoulder for strength and for courage,” he said, his voice gentle. “Is your child Harold’s son or Charles’s?”

“Get out!”

“I must ask that, you see, because it could explain why you killed your husband. He’s old enough, your son, to hear rumors, to make guesses, to read into your look or your touch when you’re with Archer more than you expect him to see.”

“Get out!” she said again and reached for the bell pull, almost yanking at it.

“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. But for your own protection, you need to tell me the truth. Your son has lost one parent—”

She strode to the door, opening it herself.

Rutledge said “I’m sorry” again, and left the room, passing her so close that he could smell the fear on her.

But not, he thought, as he went to find Mrs. Downing, fear for herself.

Betty was in the laundry room sorting sheets, her long face flushed with the work, her eyes red from crying.

She made a move when she first saw him coming through the door, like a startled child who didn’t know where to turn and couldn’t find its mother’s skirts. And then she straightened, bracing herself, waiting for him to speak to her.

Rutledge said, “I’m here to ask a few more questions, that’s all. Tell me about the cottage at the end of the Home Farm lane. Do you know who came there with Harold Quarles?”

“I never asked. It was none of my business,” she said again.

“Were there women who stayed there—for an evening, for the night?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must. You kept the rooms clean, and the beds. There would be signs.”

“I made an effort not to pry. I did my duty and saw only what I wanted to see.” Pushing at her sleeves, she went back to work. Her arms, though thin, were strong, the bones large.

“He’s dead, Betty.”

“I know he is. And where am I to go now, without him to care for?

What’s ahead for me, how will I manage? I was safe here, and I was needed. Where will I find that again?”

He was startled by her vehemence.

“Mrs. Quarles will keep you on. Or give you a reference if you wish to leave.” It was not his place to tell her that Quarles had taken care of her future.

“You don’t understand. I’m tired, I can’t go on doing the heavy work a maid of my age is given. Like these sheets. I never had to work this hard when Mr. Quarles was alive. There was only his rooms and the gatehouse. And he wasn’t here all that much. Now I’m told to help out generally. Earn my keep. He’d promised me the gatehouse. But they won’t let me have it. I know they won’t. And I’m at my wits’ end for knowing what I’m to do.”

Indeed, she looked tired and ill.

“If Mr. Quarles promised to look after you, he will have done. And there is no one who can change what he decided to give you.”

She laughed, a dry, hard sound that seemed to carry all her pain with it.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Do you fear this family so much?”

She looked surprised. “Fear them? No, of course not. It’s just that I have come to trust Mr. Quarles, and he was young— I thought the years ahead would be safe, and I’ve never been truly safe before, not in my whole life. You don’t know what that’s like. And there’s nothing left now.”

He did understand. Whatever she’d suffered before coming to Hallowfields, she’d been given a taste of a different life. Now she believed that it was being stripped from her, and she couldn’t find the strength to cope alone.

Quarles had used her to keep his secrets, and she still did. The bequest would serve to seal her lips for the remainder of her life. It was a large sum, unexpectedly large for a servant. But it would buy silence.

That was what it had been designed to do.

There was nothing more Rutledge could learn from her. Not now, when her worries went beyond catching a murderer. But he asked one last question.

“You knew Mr. Quarles better than most of the staff. People tell me he’s vicious, he’s kind, he’s callous, he’s cruel, he’s respected in London and hated in Cambury—”

“He came from a hard world. He’d had to make his way where he was treated like the working-class man he was, expected to touch his cap to his betters, step out of their way, and do what he was told. Until you’ve known that, you don’t know what it’s like. He knew what they thought about him, what was said behind his back. But he was blessed with a good mind, and he prospered, in spite of the past. And he was proud of that. To keep it, he told me he’d had to fight from the day he left Yorkshire, and he’d had to use whatever tools came to hand, not being born with them to start with. Not six months ago, he said to me, ‘There’s no one to save the likes of you and me, Betty. Except ourselves. You remember that, and you’ll do fine.’ ”

But she hadn’t gained strength from the man; she’d used his instead.

Rutledge thanked her and left her to the folding of the heavy sheets, her back bent to the labor, her eyes concentrating on keeping the folds sharp and smooth. Sprinkling lavender among the folds, her rough hands gentle, she looked into a stark future and found it frightening.

Rutledge went back to the gatehouse and walked through the wood to the tithe barn, nodding to the constable on duty as he opened the door and went inside.

It was different in the daylight. Empty, a smoky light spilling in from the door, the rafters ghostly shapes over his head. The barn was as long and as tall as he remembered, and he could almost see Harold Quarles above him, the outspread arms, the white-feathered wings.

“It’s no’ something you forget,” Hamish said quietly, but his voice seemed to echo in the vastness.

Rutledge walked the length of the barn and back again.

Why go to the trouble to put Quarles in that abominable harness and lift him to the rafters? To hide the body until someone thought to look for him here, not in Cambury, where he’d gone to dine? To make a mockery of the man who seemed to care so little for the feelings of others? Or to show the world that even Harold Quarles was vulnerable?

If Mrs. Quarles had killed her husband, would she have done this?

Not, he thought, if she cared for her son. Murder Quarles, yes, ridding herself of him without the shame of a divorce. Or the truth coming out in a courtroom. But making a spectacle of his death? Rutledge had come to understand her pride, and now he could see that she had nothing to gain by such a step.

Hamish said, “Yon organist might have wanted to make a spectacle o’ him.”

Rutledge could readily believe that.

Would Inspector Padgett try to cover up Brunswick’s guilt? Because the man seemed to know more about the inspector than was good for him. An interesting possibility. Padgett hadn’t been eager to interview the man.

Rutledge walked the length of the barn again, trying to feel something here, to sense an angry mood or a cold hatred. But the barn had nothing to say to him. The silence of the past lay heavily around him, smothering the present. Harold Quarles was only a fragment of this great barn’s history, and although his end here was appalling, it would be forgotten long before the roof fell in here and the rafters that had held the angel up cracked with age.

A sound behind him made him whirl, but there was nothing to be seen. He stood there, without moving, listening with such intensity that he heard the sound again.

A mouse moved out of the shelter of one of the columns that supported the roof, whiskers twitching as his dark, unfathomable eyes examined the two-legged intruder. He sat up on his hind legs and waited for Rutledge to make the first move. But when the man from London stood his ground without a threatening sound or motion, the mouse ran lightly to the wall of the barn and disappeared into the shadows.

Had he been here when a murderer had brought Harold Quarles into the barn and went to take the apparatus out of its box? What had he seen?

Hamish said, “It was no’ a stranger.”

And that was the key to this barn. In the mist that night a stranger would have had trouble seeing it at all, if he hadn’t known it was here.

Rutledge himself hadn’t until he was almost on it. And even if the killer had wanted to make certain the body wasn’t found straightaway, the cottage was closer than the barn. In here, in the darkness—even with a torch—it would have taken time to pull the ropes and pulleys out of their chest and lay them out, when Quarles could just as well have been stowed behind one of the trestle tables or a section of the stable roof. No matter how much had been written about the Christmas pageant, understanding the mechanism—even if someone knew it was there—was another matter.

Hamish said, “Better to put the body in yon chest.”

“Exactly.” He’d spoke aloud, and the constable at the door peered in. Rutledge said, “Sorry. Bad habit, talking to myself.”

The man grinned and shut the door again.

Whatever Padgett might want him to believe, Rutledge now had evidence of a sort that the murderer must be here, in Cambury.

The journey to London to spike Mickelson’s guns had probably been an act of vanity, nothing more.

15

Rutledge found Padgett in the police station completing his report on the housebreaking. Even before he reached the office, he could hear the ragged tap of typewriter keys and an occasional grunt as something went wrong.

Padgett looked up, his ill temper aggravated by the interruption.

Rutledge said, not waiting for Padgett’s good humor to return,

“You wouldn’t accompany me when I went to see Brunswick. It would have been wise if you had. He believes you had something to do with Harold Quarles’s death. He told me to ask you why you hated the man.”

Padgett’s reaction was explosive. He swore roundly, his face red with anger.

“While you were exchanging confidences, did he tell you that at the time I suspected him of drowning his wife? And I’ve yet to be satisfied that her death was a suicide. There’s no love lost between us.”

“He believes she was Quarles’s lover, and that the child she might have been carrying at the time of her death wasn’t her husband’s.

Reason enough for murder.”

“Well, she wasn’t carrying a child at the time of her death. Not according to O’Neil. But she did have a tumor the size of a small cabbage. Brunswick believes the doctor is covering up the truth.

They had words just before the funeral. Of course he—Brunswick—

wouldn’t care to think he’d killed his wife for no reason other than his own jealousy.”

“Could she have borne children, if the tumor was safely removed?”

“Probably not. She wasn’t drowned at home, mind you, but in one of those streams on Sedgemoor. A dreary place to die. A dreary battlefield in its day, for that matter. She ought to have survived—if she’d changed her mind, she might have saved herself. The stream wasn’t all that deep. The only reason I didn’t take Brunswick into custody was that simple fact. But I’ve kept an eye on him since then.”

“What was your quarrel with the victim? You might as well tell me,” Rutledge said, “it will have to come out sooner or later.”

He could see the defiance in Padgett’s eyes as he surged to his feet and leaned forward over the desk, his knuckles white as they pressed against the scarred wooden top. “I see no reason to tell you anything. I’m a policeman, for God’s sake. Do you think I killed the man? If so, say that to my face, don’t go hinting about like a simper-ing woman.”

Rutledge held on to his own temper, knowing he’d provoked the anger turned against him and that the angry man across from him hoped to use it to deflect him from his probing.

“Padgett. I’ll speak to the Chief Constable if I have to. And don’t push your luck with me. My temper can be as short as yours.”

“ ’Ware,” Hamish warned Rutledge. “He’s likely to come across yon desk and throttle ye.”

But at mention of the Chief Constable, Padgett got himself under control with a visible effort.

“Leave the Chief Constable out of this!”

“Then talk to me.”

“I’m not a suspect. I don’t have to give you my private life to paw over.”

Rutledge was on the point of taking Inspector Padgett into custody and letting him think his position over in one of his own cells.

But Hamish warned, “Ye ken, it will only set him against you more.

There’s shame here, and it willna’ come out, whatever ye threaten.”

Rutledge took a deep breath. “Padgett. You found the body.

There’s no other witness. You could have hauled Quarles up to the beams yourself, as a fitting revenge for whatever he did to you. It doesn’t look good.”

Padgett started for the door, intending to push Rutledge aside. “If that’s what you want to believe—”

“It’s what the killer’s barrister will claim, to throw doubt on the evidence we collect for trial. And then whatever you’re hiding becomes a matter of public record forever after. I shouldn’t have to tell you this.

Think about it, man!”

Padgett stopped in midstride.

“Look, set your feelings about Quarles aside and consider the case clearly. If it were Mrs. Quarles—or Jones, the baker—or even Brunswick who had found the man’s body by the side of the road, and you knew the history of their relationship with the victim, that person would be suspect almost at once. An unexpected confrontation, a temper lost, an opportunity taken. You’d have no choice but to investigate the circumstances.”

“I’m an honest man, a good policeman.” Padgett’s voice was tight, his face still flushed with his fury.

“No doubt both of these are true. Do they put you above suspicion? You may not be guilty—but you must be cleared, any question of doubt put aside so that you don’t cast a shadow over the inquiry.”

“Are you going to take me off the case? I don’t see how we can work together now.”

“I’m not removing you. But you must give me your word you didn’t kill Quarles.”

“What good is my word, if I’m a murderer? Do you think I’d stop at perjuring myself to escape the hangman?”

“Your word as a policeman.”

It was the right thing to say. Padgett’s ruffled feathers relaxed, and he swore, “As God is my witness, then. I give you my word as a policeman.”

Hamish said to Rutledge, “Aye, all well and good, but he didna’

swear to stop interfering.”

“I was looking for the truth, not trust,” Rutledge answered him grimly.

T hey went on to Dr. O’Neil’s surgery, to interview Stephenson.