The furnishings—well-polished denizens from an attic, judging by their age and quality—weren’t dusty, Rutledge noted, running his fingers over a chair back and along a windowsill. And the bedclothes smelled of lavender, sweet and fresh. Yet when he opened the armoire, there were no clothes hanging there, and nothing in the drawers of the tall chest except for a comb and brush and a single cuff link.
“Did you come here when the man Morton lived here? Has it changed?” he asked Padgett.
“Once, with my grandmother. I remember it as dark, reeking of cigar smoke, and there was a horsehair settee that made me break out in a rash. So I was never brought back.”
“And you’re sure that no one has lived here since then?”
“As sure as may be. What’s this, then? A place of rendezvous?”
“It’s been made to appear comfortable,” Rutledge mused. “To give an air of—”
“—respectability,” Hamish supplied, so clearly that the word seemed to echo around the solid walls.
But Hamish was right. There were lace curtains at the windows, chintz coverings on the chairs, and cabbage roses embroidered on the pillowcases. If Quarles had an eye for women, he could bring his conquests here rather than to an hotel or other public place. Or the house…
“—respectability,” Rutledge finished. “Let’s have a look at the kitchen.”
It yielded tea and sugar and a packet of biscuits that hadn’t been opened, along with cups and saucers and a teapot ready for filling from the kettle on the cooker.
“Who washes the sheets and sweeps the floor clean?” Padgett asked, looking round. “You can’t tell me Mr. High and Mighty Quarles does that. Not for any woman.”
“An interesting point,” Rutledge answered. “We’ll ask Betty, the maid who does his rooms at the house.”
Both men could see at a glance that this was most certainly not the place where Quarles was killed. No signs of a struggle, no indication on the polished floor that someone had tried to wipe up bloodstains or dragged a body across it.
Rutledge said, “All right, if they met here, Quarles and his killer, then the confrontation was outside. Somewhere between this cottage and the tithe barn.”
Padgett said nothing, following Rutledge out and closing the door behind them.
The sun was up, light striking through the trees in golden shafts, and the side of the cottage was bright, casting heavier shadows across the front steps. The roses running up the wall were dew-wet, today’s blooms just unfurling.
A path of stepping-stones set into the mossy ground led to the shaded garden in the rear of the cottage. Flower beds surrounded a patch of lawn where a bench and a small iron table stood. Setting the grassy area off from the beds was a circle of whitewashed river stones, all nearly the same size, perhaps a little larger than a man’s fist.
In the dark, Rutledge realized, the white stones would stand out in whatever light there was, marking where it was safe to stroll. Otherwise an unwary step might sink into the soft loam of the beds. He moved closer to examine them. None of them appeared to be out of place. Still, he leaned down to touch each stone in turn with the tips of his fingers. One of them, halfway round and half hidden by the bench, moved very slightly, as if not as well seated as its neighbors.
Padgett, watching, said, “You’re barking up the wrong tree. There was a heavy mist last night, remember, hardly the weather for chatting under the light of the moon.”
“And if Quarles was walking here, for whatever reason—coming home from a dinner party—it was a perfect site for an ambush.”
“He’d have walked down the main drive.”
“Who knows? He might have intended to go to the Home Farm.”
“Far-fetched.”
“Early days, that’s all. I think we’ve done all we can here.” Rutledge was ready to go on. But Padgett was staring now toward the house, which he couldn’t see from here.
“If Charles Archer could walk, I’d wager it was him. She may have been content with the status quo, but if the man has any pride—well, it takes nerve to cuckold a man in his own house.”
Padgett turned to walk back through the wood, and Rutledge, getting to his feet, heard Hamish say, “He’s no’ verra eager to help.”
They went back to the tithe barn, where Rutledge’s motorcar was standing. Padgett nodded to the constable guarding the tithe barn’s door as Rutledge turned the crank.
They drove in silence, each man busy with his thoughts. As they reached Cambury, the High Street was empty, and many of the houses were still shuttered. Bells hadn’t rung for the first service, and the doors of the church beyond the distant churchyard were closed.
Sunday morning. A long day stretched ahead of them.
Padgett was rubbing his face. “I’m dog tired, and you must be knackered. We’ll sleep for a few hours then go back to Hallowfields. It’s bound to be someone there. Stands to reason. They knew his movements.”
Rutledge said nothing.
Padgett went on. “I sent Constable Daniels to bespeak a room for you at The Unicorn after he telephoned the Yard. It’s just across the street there.” They had reached the police station. As Rutledge stopped the motorcar in front, Padgett added, “Come in. We’ll make a list of names, persons to consider. It won’t take long.”
With reluctance Rutledge followed him inside.
Padgett’s office was tidy, folders on the shelves behind his desk and a typewriter on a table to one side.
Indicating the machine as he sat down and offered the only other chair to Rutledge, he said, “I’ve learned to use the damned thing. There’s no money for a typist, but I find that most people can’t read my handwriting. It’s the only answer.” He seemed to be in no hurry to make his list. Collecting several papers from his blotter, he shoved them into a folder and then turned back to Rutledge.
“Perhaps I should tell you a little about Cambury. It’s a peaceful town, as a rule. We’ve had only two murders since the war. Market day is Wednesday, and there’s always a farmer who has had a little too much to drink at The Glover’s Arms. The younger men prefer The Black Pudding. They grew up wild, some of them, with no fathers to keep them in line. An idle lot, living off their mothers’ pensions. But where’s the work to keep them honest? A good many workmen congregate there too. It can be a volatile mix.”
In an effort to bring Padgett back to the task at hand, Rutledge said, “Do you think either of these two murders has a bearing on Quarles’s death?”
“On—? No, of course not. A young soldier killed his wife. We never got to the bottom of that, because he came here straightaway and confessed. Seems he was wild with jealousy over someone she’d been seeing while he was in France. Why he didn’t kill the other man, God knows. And truth be told, I don’t think he intended to kill her, but he knocked her down with his fist, and she struck her head on one of the firedogs. The other murder was family related as well—two brothers angry over the fact that the third brother inherited everything when the mother died. They shouldn’t have been surprised. They’d walked out and left the boy to care for both parents while they were making their way in London. They didn’t come home for the father’s funeral and probably wouldn’t have come for the mother’s if there hadn’t been property involved. There was a quarrel the night after her funeral, and it ended in the murder of the youngest. They claimed they’d already returned to London that morning, but there were witnesses to say otherwise.”
“Who was left to inherit?”
“A cousin from Ireland. She’s living in the house now, as a matter of fact. Her coming here set the cat amongst the pigeons, I can tell you. O’Hara is her name. Harold Quarles was taken with her. She told him what she thought of him, in the middle of the High Street.” He grinned at the memory.
Rutledge was accustomed to dealing with the various temperaments of the local policemen he was sent to work with. Some were single-minded, others were suspicious of his motives as an outsider or protective of their patch
. A few were hostile, and others were grateful for another set of eyes, though wary at the same time. Padgett seemed to feel no urgency about finding Quarles’s murderer, and Rutledge wondered if he had already guessed who it might be and was busy throwing dust in the eyes of the man from London. And the next question was, why?
Hamish said, “Ye ken, he’s dragging his feet after yon dressing down.”
Rutledge had already forgotten that, but it wouldn’t be surprising if Padgett was still smarting. There was arrogance behind the man’s affability.
He asked, before Padgett could digress again, “Who might have had a reason to kill Quarles?” He took out his notebook to indicate that he was prepared to write down names.
“Consider half the population,” Padgett replied with a broad gesture. “Mrs. Quarles said as much herself. I told you. I’m only one of many who will rejoice that he’s dead.”
“Hardly the proper attitude for a policeman?” Rutledge asked lightly.
“I’m honest. Take me or leave me.”
“Quite.” Rutledge added, “Did Quarles spend much time here in Cambury? Or was he most often in London?”
“He came down once a month or so. It depended on how busy he was in the City. Last year he came and stayed for nearly three months. That must have been an unpleasant surprise for the missus. She packed up and left for Essex, where Archer’s sister lives.”
“Speaking of Charles Archer, is it certain that he can’t walk?” It was a possibility that shouldn’t be overlooked.
“You must ask the doctor.”
Rutledge wrote down O’Neil’s name at the top of the page. “Let’s begin with the household. What do you know about them?”
“Some of them come into Cambury on their day off. Generally they keep themselves to themselves. I daresay that’s what’s expected of them by the family. There’s no butler, just the housekeeper, because they seldom entertain. If you’re looking at the household, I’d put Mrs. Quarles at the top of that list.”
“What about the townspeople?” When Padgett hesitated, Rutledge added, “The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. The rector. The doctor. The greengrocer.”
“Quarles didn’t get on with the rector. Rumor says he thought Heller was old-fashioned, out of step with the twentieth century. The living belongs to Hallowfields, and Quarles could replace him at will and bring in someone younger or more to his taste. The doctor he treated like a tradesman. The tradesmen he treated with outright contempt. Mr. Greer, owner of the glove firm, crossed swords with Quarles a time or two. According to Quarles, he was pushing up the cost of labor in Cambury, making it difficult for the local gentry to keep staff. The glove makers work at home, you see. It’s not a bad thing for a woman with children or a man who can’t do physical labor.”
Rutledge had stopped taking notes. “The field is wide open, then. Still, it’s hard to believe that this sort of bickering led to murder.”
“There’s Jones, the Welsh baker, if you want more than bickering. His daughter’s head was turned by Quarles, and Jones had to send her away to his family in Cardiff. And Mrs. Newell was cook at Hallowfields until Quarles sacked her. Now, there’s a woman who could have hauled Quarles into the rafters without any help. Arms like young oaks. Although in my view, she’d prefer a cleaver to a stone, for the murder weapon.”
“Mrs. Quarles also mentioned the name Stephenson.”
“Stephenson is a collector of rare books. He moved here from Oxford, when his health broke. He was born in Cambury. I never heard what lay between them. Money is my guess. He opened a small bookstore down the street, where his mother had had her millinery shop, and called it Nemesis.”
Hamish said, “Ye ken, he didna’ bring up the name himsel’.”
Which was surprising. Would Padgett have mentioned Stephenson at all?
Still, Rutledge was beginning to form a mental picture of Harold Quarles. It appeared that he hadn’t made an effort to fit into his surroundings. His own wife disliked him, come to that. Was he a contrary Londoner who irritated everyone he came in contact with, or did he feel that Somerset was too provincial to warrant courtesy? Yet Constable Daniels had claimed that Quarles wanted to be squire.
It could also be a sign of rough beginnings, this ability to rub everyone raw.
“What is Quarles’s background? Did he come from money?”
“Lord, no. He worked his way up from scratch. His father went down the Yorkshire mines, but the boy was given a decent education through some charity or other, and rose quickly in the financial world. He’d tell you that himself, proud of his roots and making no bones about his beginnings. From what I gather, it was his honesty on that score that made him popular in London business circles. A diamond in the rough, as they say. If he hadn’t managed that, they’d have turned their back on him. You know the nobs, they sometimes like brutal honesty. Makes them feel superior.”
“But he must have also had the ability to make money for his clients, or they wouldn’t have kept him very long. Rough diamond or not.”
“I expect that’s true.” Padgett stood up with an air of duty done. “I’m asleep on my feet. I’m going home. You’ll want at least an hour or two of sleep yourself.”
Rutledge put away his notebook. “I’ll be back here by twelve o’clock.”
“Make that one.”
They walked out together, and Padgett turned the other way, with a wave of the hand.
9
Rutledge could see The Unicorn from where he stood. It was a small hotel graced by a pedimented door and narrow balconies at the windows of the floors above. A drive led to the yard behind. He turned in there and went through the quiet side passage that opened into Reception.
At the large mahogany desk set in one corner, a young man was busy with a sheaf of papers, tallying the figures in the last columns. He put his work aside as he heard Rutledge’s footsteps approaching and greeted him with a smile.
“Are you the guest Constable Daniels told us to expect?”
“I am.”
The clerk turned the book around for his signature. “We’re pleased to have you here, Inspector. The constable mentioned that there’d been a spot of trouble up at Hallowfields.”
“Yes,” Rutledge answered, signing his name and pocketing the key. The clerk was on the point of asking more questions, but Rutledge cut him short with a pleasant thank-you and turned away, picking up his valise as he crossed to the stairway.
The hotel had probably been a family home at some time, possibly a town house or a dowager house. The curving stairs to one side of Reception were elegant, with beautifully carved balustrades. Giving radiant light from above was an oval skylight set with a stained glass medallion of a unicorn, his head in the lap of a young woman in a blue gown, her long fair hair falling down her back in cascading tendrils. As romantic as any pre-Raphaelite painting, it must have given the house and subsequently the hotel its name.
His room was down the passage on the first floor and overlooked the High Street. Long windows opened into a pair of those narrow balconies Rutledge had noticed from the police station, the sun already warm on the railings. He was pleased to see that he’d been given such large accommodations, with those two double windows, their starched white curtains ruffled by the early morning breeze. He needn’t fight claustrophobia as well as Padgett.
Hamish said, “Given to the puir policeman no doot to curry favor with them at Hallowfields?”
“Absolutely,” Rutledge returned with a smile. “Which suggests the hotel is where he came to dine last night.”
Hamish chuckled. “Aye, ye’ll be sharing the scullery maid’s quarters when the word is out he’s deid and ye’re no’ likely to drop a good word in his ear about The Unicorn.”
It was true—policemen on the premises more often than not were kept out of sight as far as possible, to prevent disturbing hotel guests. Which signified that word of the murder had not preceded Rutledge to the hotel, only the news that Quarles had business
with him.
He sighed as he considered the comfortable bed, then set his valise inside the armoire and went down to ask about breakfast.
The dining room was nearly empty.
There was an elderly couple in a corner eating in silence, as if missing their morning newspapers here in the wilds of Somerset. There was a distinct air of having said all that needed to be said to each other over the years and a determination not to be the first to break into speech, even to ask for the salt.
And a balding man of perhaps forty-five sat alone by the window, his head in a book.
Rutledge ate his meal and then asked to speak to The Unicorn’s manager. The elderly woman waiting tables inquired bluntly, “Was there anything wrong with your breakfast? If so, you’d do better speaking to the cook than to Mr. Hunter.”
“It’s to do with last evening.”
She raised her brows at that, and without another word disappeared through the door into the lounge.
It was twenty minutes before the manager arrived, freshly shaven and dressed for morning services.
Rutledge introduced himself, and said, “It’s a confidential matter.”
“About one of our guests?” Hunter was a quiet man with weak eyes, peering at Rutledge as if he couldn’t see him clearly. There were scars around them, and Rutledge guessed he’d been gassed in the war. “I hope there’s nothing amiss.”
“Do you keep a list of those who dine here each evening?”
Hunter said, “Not as such. We have a list of those we’re expecting, and which table they prefer. And of course a copy of the accounts paid by each party. The cook keeps a record of orders.”
“Were you here last evening?”
“Yes, I was. Saturday evenings are generally busy.” He glanced at the elderly couple. “Er—perhaps we should continue this conversation in my office.”
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