The housekeeper stared at him, as if he’d lost his mind. “If it’s the little dogs you’ve come about, they’re asleep in Mrs. Quarles’s bedroom, where they belong.”
She shut the door in their faces, and Padgett repeated sourly, “‘I’ll ask if she’ll receive you.’ As if I’m a bloody tradesman come to settle my accounts.”
“It’s a matter of form,” Rutledge said
“Yes, well, we’ll see who’s unwanted, soon enough.”
When the housekeeper came to the door again, this time she swung it wide, to allow them to enter. “Mrs. Quarles will see you. If you’ll follow me.”
They walked into a spacious foyer. The black and white marble of the floor had been set in a chessboard pattern, and the walls were a pale green trimmed in white. A flight of stairs curved upward, and a small winged Mercury, gleaming in a shaft of sunlight from the fanlight above the door, balanced on his toes atop the newel post. Both men glanced at it, sharply reminded of the winged corpse in the tithe barn.
As he looked around, Padgett’s face mirrored his thoughts: Ostentatious. But the foyer, while handsome enough, was by no means the finest the West Country had to offer. Did Padgett know that? Rutledge wondered, or would it matter if he did? He seemed to resent everything about Harold Quarles.
The housekeeper led them to a door down the passage and tapped lightly.
“Come.” The woman’s voice inside the room was well bred and composed.
The housekeeper opened the door and said, “Inspector Padgett, madam.”
The small sitting room was clearly a woman’s morning room. A French gilt-trimmed white desk stood between the windows, and there was a pretty chintz on the settee and the two side chairs that stood before the hearth, the pattern showing a field of lupines on a cream background. The blue of the lupines had been picked up again in the draperies and the carpet.
Mrs. Quarles was standing with her back to the grate, her fingers pressing the collar of her cream silk dressing gown at her throat, her fair hair neatly pinned into place. She was a very attractive woman, perhaps in her middle thirties.
At her side was a tall man sitting in an invalid’s wheeled chair, a rug over his knees. His dark hair was graying at the temples, and his face was distinguished, with dark eyes beneath heavy lids. He had an air of sophistication about him, despite his infirmity. Mrs. Quarles’s other hand fell to rest on his shoulder as Padgett introduced Rutledge.
“From Scotland Yard?” she repeated in a clear, cool voice, examining Rutledge. “Why are you here at this hour? Is something wrong? You haven’t come about my son, have you?”
“There’s been a death, Mrs. Quarles,” Padgett said, taking it upon himself to break the news. “I’m afraid it’s your husband—”
“Death?” Her eyebrows rose as if she couldn’t quite understand the word. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure. We’ve just found his body—that is, a few hours ago—” Padgett stopped, tangled in his own explanation. It was clear that he felt ill at ease in her presence, and that it annoyed him.
“Are you telling me that my husband killed himself?” she demanded. “I refuse to believe anything of the sort. Where did you find him, and what has happened to him?”
“We found him in the tithe barn—that is, I did, and summoned Mr. Rutledge here because of the unusual circumstances.”
She said testily, “Please get to the point, Inspector.”
Padgett bristled. “He was murdered, Mrs. Quarles.” The words were blunt, his voice cold.
Rutledge silently cursed the man. He was letting Mrs. Quarles set the direction of the interview.
Her hand, resting on the man’s shoulder, gripped hard. Rutledge could see the slender knuckles whiten with the force.
“Murder?”
The man raised a hand to cover hers.
Rutledge thought, they are lovers…there was something in that touch that spoke of years of companionship and caring. But here? In Quarles’s house?
Mrs. Quarles recovered herself and said, “By whom, for God’s sake? Are you quite sure it wasn’t an accident of some sort? My husband was forever poking about the estate on his weekends here, and sometimes drove Tom Masters to distraction.”
“We don’t have the answer to that at present. Shall I send Dr. O’Neil to you directly? Or the rector?” It was noticeable that Padgett failed to offer the formal words of condolence.
“To me? I shan’t need Dr. O’Neil. Or the rector.” Her face showed shock, but no grief.
“We’ll need to speak to the staff. And I should like to see Mr. Quarles’s rooms if I may. I understand he’d come down from London for the weekend. Was he expected?”
The man in the chair answered for her. “Generally he sends word ahead. But not always. It’s his house, after all. This time he arrived in the late afternoon Friday, and spent most of yesterday with Tom Masters, who sees to the Home Farm. He came back around four, I should think, and told the staff that he intended to dine out. This was relayed to me when I came down before dinner.”
Padgett asked, “Mrs. Quarles?” Sharply seeking confirmation.
“Yes, as far as I know, that’s all true.”
“Were you on good terms with Mr. Quarles during this visit?”
“On good terms?”
“Did you quarrel? Have words?”
He watched the first crack in her facade of cool reserve as she snapped, “We never quarrel. Why should we?”
“Most married couples do. Did you see him when he returned from his dinner engagement?”
“I was not waiting up for him, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Rutledge stepped in before Padgett could follow up on that. “Did he dine alone?”
Mrs. Quarles turned to him, almost with relief. “How should I know? We go our separate ways, Harold and I.”
“Then you would have no reason to worry if he didn’t return at the end of the evening?”
“We live in different wings, Mr. Rutledge. By mutual agreement.”
“Is there anyone on the staff who saw to his needs while he was here in Somerset? Someone who might have noticed that he was out later than usual?”
For an instant he thought Mrs. Quarles had misinterpreted his question. Then she answered, “He doesn’t have a valet. My husband wasn’t brought up with staff to look after him. He preferred not to be troubled now.”
Rutledge turned to the man in the wheeled chair. She hadn’t introduced him, by choice.
The man said with something of a smile, “I’m Mrs. Quarles’s cousin. The name is Charles Archer. I live here.”
“Can you shed any light on Mr. Quarles’s movements during the evening? Or did you hear something that worried you? A dog barking, the sound of raised voices, lights near the drive?”
“My rooms overlook the main gardens. I wouldn’t be likely to hear anything from the direction of the drive.”
Mrs. Quarles added, “If he was killed near the road, anyone could have seen him walking there and attacked him.”
“We don’t know yet where your husband was killed. Did he have enemies, that you know of?” Padgett asked.
Mrs. Quarles’s laughter rang out, silvery and amused. “Why ask me?” she demanded. “You yourself never liked him—nor he you, for that matter. And you must know that half the families in Cambury had fallen out with him in one fashion or the other. Stephenson, Jones, Brunswick—the list goes on.”
Rutledge said, “Are you saying that these people felt strongly enough about your husband that they might have killed him?”
Mrs. Quarles shrugged expressively. “Walk down a street and point to any door, and you’re likely to find someone who detested Harold Quarles. As for taking that to the point of murder, you must ask them.”
“Why should they dislike him so intensely?”
“Because he’s—he was—ruthless. He gave no thought to the feelings of others. He was very good at pretending he cared, when it suited his purpose, but the fact is�
��was—that he used people for his own ends. When people discovered his true nature, they were often furious at being taken in. By then it was too late, he’d got what he wanted and moved on. The wreckage left in his wake was nothing to him. When he couldn’t simply walk away, he paid his way out of trouble. Most people have a price, you know, and he was very clever at finding it.”
“Then why are you so surprised that he was murdered?”
“I suppose I never expected anyone to act on their feelings. Not here—this is Somerset, people don’t kill each other here!”
Padgett, seeing his opportunity, said, “And you, Mrs. Quarles—do you number yourself among his enemies?”
She smiled at him, amused. “I have—had—a very satisfactory arrangement with my husband,” she said. “Why should I spoil it by killing him? It wouldn’t be worth hanging for. Though, mind you, there were times when he exasperated me enough that I might have shot him if I’d held a weapon in my hand. But that was the aggravation of the moment. He could be very aggravating. You should know that as well as I. All the same, I had nothing to gain by killing him.”
“Your freedom, perhaps?” Rutledge asked. “Or a large inheritance?”
She regarded him with distaste. “Mr. Rutledge. I already have my freedom. And money of my own as well. My husband’s death is an inconvenience, if you want the truth. I’ve been patient enough. If you wish to question my staff, Downing, the housekeeper, will see to it. Otherwise, I must bid you good day.”
Padgett said, in a final attempt to irritate her, “Dr. O’Neil and the rector will confer with you about the services, when the body is released for burial.”
“Thank you.”
At the door, Rutledge paused. “I understand you have dogs, Mrs. Quarles.”
“Yes, two small spaniels.”
“Were they with you during the night?”
She glanced at Archer, almost reflexively, then looked at Rutledge. “They were with me. They always are.”
But they were not here now…
“Are there other dogs on the estate?”
“I believe Tom Masters has several. They aren’t allowed as far as the house or gardens.”
Hamish was clamoring for Rutledge’s attention, pointing out that Mrs. Quarles had not asked either policeman how her husband had died. She had shown almost no interest in the details—except to assume in the beginning that it was an accidental death.
And Padgett, as if he’d overheard Hamish, though it was more likely that he was goaded by a need Rutledge didn’t know him well enough to grasp, said with venom, “Perhaps it would be best if we tell you, before you hear the gossip, Mrs. Quarles. We found your husband beaten to death, hanging in the tithe barn in the straps meant for the Christmas angel.”
Charles Archer winced. Rutledge took a step forward in protest. He had not wanted to make such details public knowledge at this stage.
But Mrs. Quarles said only, “I never liked that contrivance. I told Harold from the start that no good would come of it.”
A flush rose in Padgett’s face, and he opened his mouth to say more, but Rutledge forestalled him.
“Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Quarles. Padgett—” There was stern command in Rutledge’s voice as he ushered the man through the door.
But before he could shut it, Charles Archer asked, “Is there anything we should do—?”
From the passage, Padgett interjected, “You must ask Dr. O’Neil about that, sir.”
Rutledge felt like kicking him in the shins to silence him. But Padgett had had his say and let the man from London shut the door.
The housekeeper was waiting, and Rutledge wondered if she had been listening at the keyhole. Padgett said to her, “What is said here is not for gossip. Do you understand?”
“Indeed.”
“We’ll be back in the afternoon to speak to the staff. I don’t want them talking amongst themselves before that.”
Rutledge said, “Do you have keys to Mr. Quarles’s rooms? I want you to lock them now, in our presence, and give the keys to me.”
She was about to argue, then thought better of it. The two policemen followed her up the stairs and toward the wing that Quarles used on his visits to Hallowfields. Mrs. Downing made certain that each passage door was locked, and then without a word handed the keys to those rooms to Rutledge.
“These are the only ones?”
“Yes. I don’t think Mr. Quarles wished to have just anyone going through his possessions.” It was a barb intended for Padgett, but he ignored it.
“Who cleans his rooms?”
“That would be Betty, Inspector. But she has no keys. She asks me for them if Mr. Quarles isn’t here. When he’s at home, the rooms aren’t locked.”
“Are there any other rooms in the house that Mr. Quarles used on a regular basis?” Rutledge asked.
“Only the gun room, sir. He had his study moved up here some years ago, in the suite next to his bedroom, and put through a connecting door. For privacy. He said.”
They thanked Mrs. Downing and went down the stairs. She followed, to see them out, as if expecting them to lurk in the shadows and steal the best silver when no one was looking. They could hear the click of the latch as she locked the door behind them.
8
Rutledge turned to Inspector Padgett as they crossed the drive to the motorcar. The anger he’d suppressed during the interview with Mrs. Quarles had roused Hamish, and his voice was loud in Rutledge’s ears.
“What the hell were you thinking about? You were rude to the victim’s widow, and you made no effort to conceal your own feelings.”
“I told you. I hate them all. I wanted to see her show some emotion. Something to tell me that she cared about the man. Something that made her human.”
“Next time we call on witnesses, you’ll leave your own feelings at the door. Is that understood?”
Padgett said fiercely, “This is my turf. My investigation. I’ll run it as I see fit.”
“Not while the Yard is involved. Another outbreak like that, and I’ll have the Chief Constable remove you from the case.”
“No, you won’t—”
“Try me.” Rutledge walked down to the motorcar and turned the crank. He could hear Hamish faulting him for losing his own temper but shut out the words. Padgett had behaved unprofessionally, intending to hurt, and that kind of emotion would cloud his judgment as he dealt with the evidence in this case.
For an instant Rutledge thought Padgett would turn on his heel and walk to the tithe barn. Instead, sulking, he got into the motorcar without a word.
As they drove toward the gates, Rutledge changed the subject. “Who is Charles Archer? Besides Mrs. Quarles’s cousin?”
“Gossip is, he’s her lover. I’ve heard he was wounded at Mons. Shouldn’t have been there at his age, but when the war began, he was researching a book he intended to write on Wellington and Waterloo. The Hun was in Belgium before anyone knew what was happening, and Archer fled south, into the arms of the British. He stayed—experience in battle and all that, for his book. Well, he got more than he bargained for, didn’t he?”
“And he lives at the house?”
“Not the normal family arrangement, is it? But then rumor has it that there’s not a pretty face within ten miles that Quarles hasn’t tried to seduce. Sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose, I’d say.”
“Any official complaints about his behavior?”
“Not as such.”
“Mrs. Quarles mentioned a son. Are there any other children?”
“Just the one boy. He’s at Rugby.”
They reached the gates and turned into the lane that led to the tithe barn.
Harold Quarles’s body had been taken away, and the barn had been searched again for any evidence or signs of blood, without success.
“Nothing to report, sir,” the constable told Padgett, gesturing to the shadowy corners. “We’ve gone over the ground carefully, twice. And nothing’s turned up.”
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Rutledge, with a final look around the dimly lit, cavernous building, found himself thinking that something must have been left behind by the killer, some small trace of his passage. No crime was perfect. If only the police knew where to look. Surely there must be something, some small thing that was easily overlooked…
Another problem. “Where did he dine?” he mused aloud. “And how did he get there?”
“We’ve only Mrs. Quarles’s word that he went out to dine,” Padgett pointed out. “It could be a lie from start to finish.”
“I hardly think she would kill her husband in the house,” Rutledge said to Padgett after dismissing the constable. “And he’s not dressed for a walk on the estate. Let’s have a look at that gatekeeper’s cottage. I recall you told me no one lived there, but that’s not to say it hasn’t been used.” He glanced around the tithe barn. “There’s something about this place—it’s not a likely choice for a meeting, somehow. If I’d been Quarles, I’d have been wary about that. But the gatehouse is another matter. Private but safe, in a way. Is it unlocked, do you think?”
“Let’s find out.”
Picking up a lantern, Padgett followed Rutledge out the barn’s door. They walked in silence through the trees to the small cottage by the Home Farm gate.
There was a single door, and when they lifted the latch, they found it opened easily.
Rutledge took the lantern and held it high. There were only three rooms on the ground floor: a parlor cum dining room, a tiny kitchen, a bathroom hardly big enough to turn around in. Stairs to the upper floor were set into the thickness of one wall. There were two bedrooms, the smaller one possibly intended for a child, though someone had converted it into a workroom.
“When Jesse Morton lived here, he made gloves. He’d been a head gardener until rheumatism attacked his knees. That was before Quarles bought Hallowfields.”
“Gloves?” Rutledge turned to look at Padgett.
“It’s a cottage industry in many parts of the county, and especially here in Cambury. Hides are brought in from Hampshire and distributed to households on the list. Mr. Greer owns the firm here, and there are still a good many people who earn their living sewing gloves. My grandmother, for one. She raised three fatherless children, sewing for the Greers, father and son.”
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