Charles Todd_Ian Rutledge 11

by A Matter of Justice

  “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’ avoi
d 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?”