It didn’t matter. Quarles was dead, and Hugh Jones had a very good reason for killing this man who was interfering with his family.
Rutledge said, “Did your father know you were running away?”
She looked down, as if ashamed. “I’ve written to him since March, begging to come home. I told him I was wretched and couldn’t bear to be there, away from everyone. He knew I was unhappy. Still, he said I must stay for now. And so I didn’t tell him I had decided to run away—he’d have come to Wales and stopped me, if he’d had to lock me in my bedroom. And so I slipped away without a word.”
“Didn’t you think your grandmother would be frantic with worry?”
“No. She doesn’t like me. She says God didn’t intend for a woman to be as pretty as I am, and it’s a burden for her to keep an eye on me, and the devil works through a pretty face, and—” She burst into tears again.
Even if Jones had no idea his daughter was going to run away, he knew she was unhappy, and he must have missed her greatly himself. Tormented by the need to keep her away from Quarles, he could well have decided to take matters into his own hands and rid them both of the man who had caused the family so much grief.
Either way, the baker had much to answer for.
“Did you write to Mr. Quarles, to say you were leaving Wales?”
She looked up, shocked. “Oh, no, if I did that, Da would never let me come home again!”
Rutledge said to Miss O’Hara, “I think you should put her to bed straightaway, and keep her out of sight until I’ve had time to sort this out.” And to Gwyneth, he said, “You must stay here for a day or perhaps two, and keep out of sight. Do you understand?”
“I want to go home to my mother and my sisters.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to pay that price for leaving your grandmother’s house without permission. Miss O’Hara has been put to a good deal of trouble taking you in like this, but she’s done it for your mother’s sake, and for your father’s as well. If you don’t listen to her, and gossips connect your unexpected return with Mr. Quarles’s death, there could be long-lasting suspicion about your father’s guilt even after we’ve found the killer. The bakery could suffer as well. You owe your parents this consideration.”
“I understand,” she answered petulantly. But she was young and, in the end, might not be ruled.
He waited until Miss O’Hara had taken the girl upstairs and put her to bed, then thanked her for her help.
She looked tired, and strained. “I know something about being hunted,” she said. “That’s why I took Gwyneth in. Her mother was at her wits’ end. I think Mrs. Jones must be a little afraid of her husband.”
“Perhaps not afraid, precisely. But she’s feeling guilty about her role in hiding Gwyneth’s return. Did the girl tell you more about how she managed to get this far on her own? She took an enormous chance.”
Miss O’Hara smiled. “She dirtied her face and teeth, to make herself seem less attractive. Now you must go, before the neighbors begin to talk. I can hear Bertie in the next street.” In fact the clink of milk bottles and Bertie’s whistle were ominously close.
He smiled in return. “Thank you. Tell Mrs. Jones that patience will serve her better, and silence.”
“Do you believe that this child’s father killed Quarles?”
“God knows. For Gwyneth’s sake, and her mother’s, I pray he didn’t.”
Bertie had other gossip to carry with the milk that morning. Someone had told him the way in which the body had been found, and the shocking news turned the town on its ear.
It met Rutledge over his breakfast.
Rutledge said, irritated, “Who let slip this information?”
Hamish answered, “I wouldna’ put it past yon inspector, in retaliation.”
That was not only possible, but likely. It served two purposes. It annoyed Rutledge, and it made it more difficult for him to do his job properly. Often what the police held back was a key to tripping up a killer.
Padgett would be satisfied with both outcomes. Whether he himself was guilty of murder or not, he was in no haste to prove that someone on his patch had done such a thing. By the same token, if it could have been laid at Mrs. Quarles’s door, Padgett would have been pleased enough.
Glancing out the window as he drank his tea, Rutledge saw the Quarles motorcar passing down the High Street.
Mrs. Quarles on her way to fetch her son from Rugby?
He pitied the boy. The whole ugly story of the murder was common knowledge now, and there would be no way to protect him. It would have come out in the course of the trial, and the newspapers were bound to make much of the circumstances. But that was months away, not now while the boy’s grief was raw.
Padgett came to find him before he’d finished his tea.
Rutledge swallowed his ire with the last of his toast and waited.
“We’re not slack in our duty in Cambury,” Padgett said, sitting down. “My men have been busy. It appears one Harold Quarles dined with Mr. Greer on Saturday evening. But not until seven o’clock.”
“I’m surprised that he didn’t come to us with that information himself.”
“You’re free to ask him. That brings us to another problem. Where was Quarles between the time he left Hallowfields and his arrival on Minton Street? It doesn’t take that long to walk in from the estate, now, does it?”
Half an hour at most, in a leisurely stroll. Which would mean he could have reached the High Street as early as six o’clock.
Where was Quarles for nearly an hour? At the estate still? Sitting in the gatehouse cottage, waiting for someone? Or had he come into Cambury?
“He met someone on the way,” Rutledge answered Padgett. “It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”
“He was expecting to meet someone on the way. Or he’d have left later than he did.”
“Point taken. Why did he dine with Greer? I thought they disliked each other.”
“They do.”
Rutledge pushed his chair back. “I’ll want to pay a visit to Mr. Greer.”
“I thought you might.” Padgett, grinning, followed him out of the hotel.
The owner of the glove firm lived in a large house next but one to the High Street, with black iron gates and a handsome hedge setting it off.
Greer was just stepping out his door, on his way to his office, when the two policemen lifted the gate latch and started up the short walk.
Greer said, “We will speak here, at the house,” as if he’d called the meeting, not the reverse.
A man of middle height with graying hair and an air of confidence, he waited for them to pass through the door before him and then shut it behind them. “This way.”
He led them to a study at the back of the house, overlooking the side gardens. A bench in the grassy lawn stood beside a small pool, and a frog perched on the pool’s edge. Set apart by trees, this appeared to be a retreat, and one of the long study windows opened on to it.
Greer took his chair behind the broad maple desk and gestured to the other two placed across from him.
“Well. This is to do with Harold Quarles. What is it you want to know?”
“He dined at your house on Saturday evening. What time did he arrive?”
“We had another guest, a Mr. Nelson. They came in together promptly at seven.” There was something in his tone of voice that told Rutledge he was not pleased about that.
“Did Mr. Nelson bring Quarles in from Hallowfields?”
“As to that, I don’t know.”
“Did they leave at the same time?”
“No, Mr. Nelson remained here for another hour or more. He had a business proposition to put before us. Neither Quarles nor I approved of it. We both preferred to see Cambury stay as it is, rather than bring in new industry to the area. Mr. Nelson believed that the village could support two business enterprises and wanted our backing in presenting his concept to the town fathers.”
“And so he stayed on to t
ry to convince you?”
“Quarles was adamant in his position. He said what he had to say early on, and then left. I expect Mr. Nelson had already put as much effort into persuading Quarles as he did afterward with me.”
“What sort of new industry?” Padgett wanted to know.
“He felt that gloves had seen their day, and that the up-and-coming field would be leather goods of a different sort. Valises, wallets, diaries—a long list of items. I think if Quarles had believed it would benefit me in any way, he’d have been against change on general principles. But I disliked the idea as well. For once,” he said, smiling wryly, “we were actually in agreement about this matter.”
“You felt that Nelson met Quarles first, possibly driving him here, in order to bring him around to his position?”
“As Quarles left first and on foot, it’s a natural assumption.”
“How did you know he left on foot?”
Greer flushed. “I asked my butler.”
“As he was leaving, did Nelson follow Quarles into the street to finish the conversation between them?”
“No, of course not, I told you he’d stayed. He joined me in a glass of port, and continued to try to persuade me.”
“Do you think Mr. Nelson had any reason to wish Quarles harm? That he might have followed him back to Hallowfields, talked to him again, and in a fit of anger, attacked him?” It was Padgett’s question now, and Greer turned to him in disgust.
“That’s absurd. Nelson mentioned three villages he’s interested in for his factory. We were the first he spoke to, because of my glove firm. He still had two others to visit. One of them has nearer access to the railway. It would suit his purpose much better. But there’s less competition in Cambury, and I think that held a great appeal.” He shrugged. “Labor would be cheaper here, you see, versus the convenience of the railway for shipping.”
“Is it possible that Quarles agreed with Mr. Nelson after all, and you went out as Quarles left and had words with him?” Rutledge asked.
“I don’t pursue my guests into the street to harangue them.”
“But you failed to inform us that you’d seen the victim on the evening he was killed,” Rutledge said.
“I saw no reason to present myself at the police station just to tell them I’d had a dinner guest who later died. You found me soon enough, and as you can see, I was in no way involved with what happened to Harold Quarles.”
“Has your staff told you that not only was Quarles murdered, he was also put into the Christmas angel harness and hauled into the rafters of the tithe barn?”
No one had. They could see the shock in Greer’s eyes, and the graying of the skin on his face.
“My good God!”
Rutledge waited, saying nothing.
After a moment, Greer went on, “You suspect Nelson of having done such a thing? But how could he know the harness existed? He lives in Manchester.” Greer stirred uneasily, as if thinking that should it benefit Nelson to kill one of the objectors to his project, why not make it a clean sweep and kill both?
He reached for the telephone on his desk and asked to be connected to Manchester, and the firm of one R. S. Nelson.
They waited, and in due course, Nelson was brought to the telephone at the other end.
There was a brief conversation, as if Nelson thought Greer was calling to change his position. Then Greer said, “No, I just wanted to ask if you’d spoken to Harold Quarles after you left me on Saturday evening?”
There was a reply at the other end.
Greer said, “No reason in particular. I could see that he was not going to budge. I wondered if you’d felt otherwise.”
After a moment, grimacing, he said, “Well, if you must know, Quarles was murdered that night. And the police are here asking if you or I know anything about that, as apparently we’re the last people to have seen him alive.”
He listened, then said, “I see. I’ll wish you a good day.”
Hanging up the receiver with some force, Greer said, “He informed me he had no need to turn to murder to see his business prosper, and he’d judged Quarles as the sort who resisted change for the sake of resisting. And he accepted that, because, and I quote, ‘I grew up in the north myself, and know a stubborn bastard when I see one.’”
He spoke the words with distaste. “I had no desire to work with that man on Saturday evening, and even less desire to do it now. If you will excuse me, I’m late at my office, and I think there’s nothing more I can do to help the police in their inquiry.” He stood up, dismissing them.
Rutledge said, “Thank you for your time. You’ll still be required to make a statement about events of that evening. If you will give Inspector Padgett the direction of Mr. Nelson in Manchester, he’ll ask the police there to take his.”
That seemed to please Greer and make up for the unpleasantness of having to present himself at the police station.
He followed them out, and as he closed the gate behind them, he said, “I never liked Harold Quarles, and I’ve made no pretense of anything else. But I don’t resort to murder to settle my differences. I would not have willingly invited the man to dine, most certainly not on a social occasion. Because he doesn’t entertain at Hallowfields, it was left to me to invite both men here. I can tell you that my wife didn’t join us. It was not that sort of evening.”
He nodded and left them standing there.
“Pompous ass,” said Padgett, watching Greer walk up the street.
“But he filled in that hour for us. What’s left is to find out who argued with Quarles before he reached the corner of the High Street, where Hunter tells us he was alone.”
“You believe him then?” Padgett asked. “And Nelson as well?”
“It doesn’t appear to be a motive strong enough for what happened at the tithe barn. I hardly see this man Nelson killing someone he had never met before just to rid himself of an obstacle to the site for his factory. Do you?”
“No,” Padgett returned grudgingly. “But by God, I’ll see to it we have both statements in our hands.”
They had reached the High Street themselves now, and in the distance Greer was just walking through a door. “His place of business?” Rutledge asked.
“Yes. Beyond Nemesis, in fact. You know, it could have been Stephenson who spoke to Quarles on the street. Or Brunswick. But probably not the baker, Jones. He would have been home at that hour, not prowling the streets. But my men tell me that sometimes Stephenson is restless and walks about at night.”
“We’ll have to ask him—”
Rutledge broke off. The rector, Samuel Heller, was coming toward them, distress in his face.
When he reached Rutledge he said, “You misled me.”
“In what way, Mr. Heller?”
“You told me that Mr. Quarles was dead. But not the manner in which he was found. My housekeeper informed me this morning. Is it true? And if so, why did you keep it from me?”
“It was a police decision,” Rutledge replied. “I didn’t want that part of Quarles’s death to be public knowledge until I was ready.”
“And so we all have learned such terrible news with our morning tea, and from a servant! It’s not proper.”
“Would it have made any difference in what you told me?” Rutledge asked. “As I remember, you were not eager to judge others.”
Heller had the grace to flush. “And I would still tell you the same thing. But this is—I don’t know—I can hardly find the word for it. Blasphemous. Yes. Blasphemous suits it best. To use that angel in such a fashion. What drives another human being to that sort of barbarity?”
“If you remember, I warned you to beware of a confession that might mean someone is looking for absolution for what he’d done.”
“Yes, Mr. Rutledge, you warned me, and I have been on my guard. But no one has come to confess. Though I have heard from Dr. O’Neil that Mr. Stephenson from the bookshop might have need of my counseling. Apparently he’s distraught, working himself
up into an illness.”
“Any idea why?” Rutledge asked.
“He lost his only child in the war. And he feels that he himself is partly responsible for the boy’s death.”
“In the war?” Padgett asked. “Quarles didn’t have anything to do with it?”
Heller lifted his eyebrows. “Harold Quarles? I should think not. If there’s anyone to blame, it’s the Army. Or the Kaiser. What made you suggest Mr. Quarles?”
“Because Stephenson admits to hating him, indeed, he told us he wanted to kill the man. Where’s the connection, if he’s haunted by the son and hates Quarles?” Padgett asked.
“In his own poor imagination, I expect,” Heller said with some asperity. “A man who is in great distress, great agony of spirit, sometimes blames others for his misfortunes, rather than face them himself.”
“I’m a greater believer in connections than in spiritual agony, thank you all the same, Rector,” Padgett said.
Heller smiled grimly. “I would never have guessed that, Mr. Padgett,” and with a nod to Rutledge that was brief and unforgiving, Heller turned away and strode back toward his church.
“I think,” Rutledge said slowly, “we ought to have another chat with Stephenson.”
“What’s the use? He’s not ready to tell us anything. And I have work to do. You might contact the Army, to see if there’s any truth in what the rector was told.”
Changing the subject, Rutledge asked, “Has Mrs. Quarles made any decision about her husband’s burial?”
“Yes, oddly enough. She’s taking him back to Yorkshire.”
“I can understand that she might not want him here, although that might be his son’s choice. But why not London?”
“She said that he deserved to return to his roots,” Padgett answered him. “Whatever that might mean.”
Rutledge considered the matter. “Then whatever turned her against him might also have to do with his roots.”
“She knew what he was when she married him.”
“Yes, she’s honest about that. But what did she learn later that made her judge him differently and demand a separation? Apparently Quarles didn’t fight it, and it’s possible he didn’t want whatever it was to become open knowledge. For that matter, why was she searching his background in the first place? Was she looking for something—or did she stumble over it? And I don’t believe it was Charles Archer wounded in France that upset the marriage.”
Charles Todd_Ian Rutledge 11 Page 19