How had he come here? By foot? Bicycle? Motorcar? Where would he have hidden a motorcar?
Rutledge left the wood and walked on up the main road, just as a lorry came roaring past, leaving him in a cloud of dust.
The wall of the estate ran on for some distance, but there was a rutted track some fifty or sixty yards away from the gates where a team and farm equipment could pull in and turn around. It was used often enough—the grass was matted and torn, muddy in places, deep grooves in others.
In the distance he spied a small farm, the barn’s roof towering over the house, and a team standing in the yard while a man bent over the traces.
Between the track and the farm was plowed land, already a hazy green with its spring crop.
A vehicle sitting here on a Saturday evening would be invisible in the darkness.
Hamish said, “Yon inspector told ye there were no strangers in the village.”
“Yes. But if someone drove through, without stopping, it would make sense.”
“Aye, but why not afoot? Quarles was on foot.”
“That limits where he came from—and where he could go afterward.”
“Ye’re searching for straws. Gie it up.”
“Someone waited there.”
“Sae ye think. But ye canna’ say when. And how did he know what was in the tithe barn?”
Rutledge began to walk back to the wood. “True enough.”
What about the man Nelson? Had he waited here for Quarles? No, Quarles left the Greer house and would have been well home and in his bed before Nelson came this way again. If Greer was telling the truth.
Who argued with Quarles outside the Greer house? Who had known to look for him there? Had the argument not been resolved, and so he had come ahead of Quarles to pursue it again?
Padgett? He admitted to being on this road the same night…
It had been some time since the incident in the dining room of The Unicorn—why should Padgett suddenly attack Quarles? Why now? That was a sticking point.
Was there something that had happened more recently? Tipping the scales, trying a temper that was already on a short leash?
Padgett hadn’t been very forthcoming. It could be true.
No one would notice a policeman passing along this road. It was regularly patrolled, because of Hallowfields. It wouldn’t be reported that Padgett had come this way—if he hadn’t taken over his man’s last run, if he hadn’t found the body, who would have known he was here waiting?
Rutledge reached the log again and sat down carefully, so as not to ruin his trousers. But this bit of wood was dry, and his feet sank comfortably into a slight depression that appeared to be made for them.
It would be possible to sit here for some time…hours if need be.
Who? And how many weekend evenings had someone waited here, to catch Harold Quarles unawares?
Standing up, he found a few long twigs and set them up around the log, put his coat over them to resemble a man, his hat on the log itself, and went back across the road.
In the daylight, he might well have seen the coat, looking for it. But it didn’t strike the eye at once, and if there was no movement, he’d have missed it. Even with the sun out.
Rutledge went back to retrieve his clothing, and cranked the motorcar.
Hamish said, “What does it prove?”
“Nothing. We still have the problem of the apparatus.”
Coming into Cambury, he was reminded of something Hamish had accused him of earlier, that he hadn’t looked into Quarles’s past.
And then one name leapt out at him. The partner, Davis Penrith.
He hadn’t asked how Quarles had been killed.
Rutledge hesitated, nearly pulled into The Unicorn’s yard to make a telephone call to London. And instead he gunned the motor and drove through the village without stopping.
Hamish called him a fool. “It’s no’ what’s wise.”
“I couldn’t think straight Monday morning. I didn’t have any reason then to question him further. It wasn’t until I’d left London that I realized he showed no curiosity about his partner’s death. If they worked together for nearly twenty years, there would have been some interest in the man’s demise. Even if they disliked each other after the breakup of the partnership.”
“Excuses,” Hamish grumbled, and settled into a morose monologue for the rest of the journey.
It was late when Rutledge reached the city. Nevertheless, he went straight to Penrith’s house.
The footman who answered the door at this late hour was dubious about disturbing Penrith.
“He’s entertaining a guest,” he informed Rutledge, “and told me he’d ring when the guest was leaving. He didn’t want to be disturbed, meanwhile.”
“Yes, I understand. But this is police business, and it comes first.”
The young footman stood there uncertainly for a moment, then replied, “I’ll go and ask.”
He came back five minutes later. “Can this wait until tomorrow?”
“It cannot.”
The footman went away again, and when he returned, he led Rutledge into a small room at the back of the house that appeared from the way it was decorated to belong to Penrith’s wife. The furnishings were feminine, painted white and gold, the chairs delicate, and the hangings at the windows trimmed with tassels.
Penrith was standing there, a frown on his face, when Rutledge walked through the door.
“I hope you’ve come to tell me that you’ve caught Harold’s murderer.”
“In fact, I haven’t,” Rutledge said easily. “I’ve come with questions I should have asked you on Monday.”
“This is not the time—”
“I’m afraid your business with your guest will have to wait.”
It was interesting, Rutledge thought, watching the man, to see that a stern front made him back down. If the partnership was to have succeeded for many years, it would have been Quarles who was the dominant force. Penrith couldn’t have controlled the other man.
Hamish said, “But ye didna’ know him alive.”
Rutledge nearly answered aloud but caught himself in time. To Penrith he said, “This may take some time. I suggest we sit down.”
Penrith sat at the small French desk, and as Rutledge took the armchair across from him, Penrith said, “I don’t care for your tone.”
“For that I apologize. But the fact is, time is passing and I need to confirm several pieces of information before I can move forward.”
At this Penrith seemed to relax a little, marginally but noticeably. As if he was more comfortable with a simple request for information.
“In the first place, why did you and the victim sever your business ties?”
“I’ve told you. I wished to spend more time with my family. I’m not a greedy man, I’ve made enough money to live comfortably for the rest of my life. Why spend every hour of my day grubbing for more?”
“Surely you could have stayed within the partnership and simply cut back on your appointments. In fact, you appear to have one this evening.”
Penrith picked up the pen by his wife’s engagement book. “You didn’t know Harold Quarles. There was no such thing as half measures for him.”
“Did your decision to leave have anything to do with the Cumberline debacle?”
The pen snapped in Penrith’s fingers.
“Where did you hear of Cumberline?”
“I saw the box in the victim’s study. And there is some talk in Cambury about his ‘rusticating’ there. I put two and two together. Something went wrong, and you left the firm.”
“I didn’t intend to defraud anyone, if that’s your insinuation.” As an afterthought he added, “And I don’t think Quarles did, either.”
“But he made no attempt to prevent a handful of people from investing in a foolhardy scheme that was bound to fall through.”
“Some people think they know best. There’s nothing you can do to educate them or protect them. Some of t
hose who made a great deal of money during the war were hot to double it. I found that distasteful. But I didn’t try to trick them.”
“Did you have your own money in Cumberline?”
“A little—” He broke off. “Why am I being questioned like this?”
“Because your partner is dead and there’s no one else I can ask. Let’s suppose, for the sake of argument, that you disagreed with Quarles’s methods in dealing with Cumberline, and in order not to be tarred by that brush, you decided the time had come to leave James, Quarles and Penrith.”
He didn’t need to hear confirmation of his question. It was written in Penrith’s face.
“And I’d like to suggest to you that you haven’t always seen eye to eye with your partner.”
“Here,” Penrith said, leaning forward, “you aren’t suggesting that I killed the man!”
“I’m trying to get to the bottom of Harold Quarles. If his own partner didn’t care to be associated with him any longer, and if his wife has made her own arrangements to deal with the problems in her marriage, I want to know more about the man and who else might have hated him.”
“I didn’t hate him—”
“I think it more likely that you feared him.”
Penrith got to his feet. “I won’t hear any more of this.”
“We are speaking of Quarles, not of you. If you feared him, why didn’t his wife?”
That caught Penrith off guard. “I—don’t know whether she feared him or not.”
“It seems that a few years into their marriage, she learned something about him, what sort of man he was, that caused her to separate from him legally. Not just a move to another part of the house, but terms drawn up by their solicitors. Just as you did financially.”
There was worry in Penrith’s eyes now that he couldn’t conceal.
“I don’t know what their relationship was—or why. She stopped coming to London, and they stopped entertaining. And Quarles became a different man, in some ways. He never spoke of his wife to me after that. I told myself it might be because of Archer…” He stopped. “Does she tell you she feared him? That he might have made her come to regret her decision?”
There was intensity in the question that Penrith couldn’t keep out of his voice.
“Whatever it was that came between them, she appears to feel a deep and abiding emotion of some sort. I think, if you want the truth, that she acted to protect her son.”
Light seemed to dawn behind Penrith’s eyes. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I begin to see what you are saying.”
“Then what was it that turned Maybelle Quarles against her husband?”
Penrith sat down heavily. “I don’t know what it was.”
“But you must have some suspicion. It wasn’t only Cumberline that turned you away from the firm the two of you had built together. The immediate cause, perhaps, but not the long-standing one.”
That hit its mark, but Penrith said nothing.
“What is there in Harold Quarles’s background that could have brought someone to Cambury to kill him?”
“Considering the reputation he had for being overbearing and dictatorial in the village, I should think you would find enough suspects there to satisfy any police inquiry,” he retorted.
“The more I question the villagers, the more I hear one thing: whatever their grievances, people tell me that Harold Quarles wasn’t worth hanging for.”
Hamish said, “He didna’ mention the women…It was you.”
But then, not living in Cambury, he might not know, Rutledge answered silently.
When Penrith made no reply, Rutledge said, “You never asked me how he died.”
Surprised, Penrith said, “Didn’t I? Of course I did.”
“He was struck in the head with one of the white stones that ring the iron table in the Home Farm’s gatehouse garden.”
Penrith turned away. “That’s terrible.” But the words lacked feeling.
“Did you know that Quarles provided a Christmas pageant in the tithe barn on his property, for the entertainment of the village?”
“I was the one who went out and found that confounded camel,” Penrith told him with some force. “It took me the better part of a week.”
“Why were you sent on such an errand? Why not one of the house clerks?”
“Quarles was threatening to sack everyone in sight. God knows why he wanted a camel—I expect it was something his son asked for.”
“We know very little about Quarles’s life before he came to London, only that he’d worked in the mines, came south to make his fortune, and so on. You must know more than that.”
Penrith was suddenly wary. “His background? I don’t think he spoke of it, except for that early story about his mother’s ring. He was an odd sort. He’d dredge up stories about going down for coal, and they rang true. People believed him. And five minutes later, he was a Londoner through and through. The time came when I didn’t really know what to believe. Whether he used the coal face to promote himself, or whether he really did go down. He said once that his parents’ house had been eaten by the coal. That he had nothing to go back to but bad memories.”
“No one came from Yorkshire to visit him? No one stopped him on the street to beg a few pounds from an old friend? No one wrote to him?”
“He told me his family was dead. I had no reason to think that was a lie,” Penrith said defensively “After all, I didn’t really give a damn about his past.”
“You were a curate’s son, I believe?”
“Yes. How did you know that?”
“Someone told me that you gave respectability to the firm, after Quarles took over from the James family.”
Penrith flushed. “If you say so. I had no prospects when I—when I came to London. Like most young men, I was grateful to find a position. I had no expectation of rising in it.”
“Where was your father’s living?”
“In Hampshire. Why?”
“You didn’t know Quarles before you were thrown together in London?”
“That’s right. I don’t see where this is going.”
Neither did Rutledge. He was looking for anything, a crack in Penrith’s armor, a small piece of information that he could move ahead with. But his sixth sense, his intuition, told him that something was not right. Penrith seemed to alternate between fears for his own standing and distancing himself from Quarles.
“Look, I’ve left my guest for long enough. If you will come again at a more convenient time, I’ll be happy to continue this conversation.”
Rutledge stood up. “Thank you. I will.”
Penrith was waiting for Rutledge to precede him through the door. But as Rutledge came up to him, he stopped and said, “What village was that in Hampshire?”
Penrith stiffened. “I thought perhaps you would prefer to know where in Yorkshire Harold Quarles had come from.”
“I think that door is shut. Quarles himself closed it a long time ago. Thank you for your time, Mr. Penrith.”
He walked by the man and down the passage the way he had come. Penrith followed him as far as the entrance to the house, as if to be certain he was gone.
When Rutledge had reached the street, he looked back, and Penrith was still standing there.
Hamish said, “Ye’re a fool if ye drive far again tonight.”
“I’ll go to the flat,” Rutledge answered, cranking the car.
He was caught in London traffic, and on the spur of the moment he turned toward the Yard in the hope of seeing Gibson leaving, but no such luck. He was looping back toward the west end, and as he pulled into the swirl around Trafalgar Square, he saw Mrs. Channing trying to hail a cab. It was late, a busy evening, and she looked tired.
Without thinking he maneuvered the motorcar to the lions, nearest where she was standing, and called, “Can I give you a lift?”
He would have done the same for his sister, Frances, or for Maryanne Browning.
She looked up, smiling in recognition.
“Ian. How lovely! Yes, I’d be glad of a lift.”
He waited for her to slip in next to him, and she said, light and dark flitting across her face as he drove on, “I was at St. Martin-in-the-Fields with friends. A memorial service.”
“At this hour?”
“It was especially arranged for this hour, actually. An evening concert in his memory. The music was wonderful. His family arranged it—they do every year, on the Thursday evening closest to his birthday. A rejoicing for his life, short as it was.”
He wanted to ask who the friend was but refrained. “You’re on your way home, then.”
“Yes. I had a letter from Elise. They’re having a lovely time.”
“That’s good to hear.”
The conversation dwindled as he turned toward Chelsea, as if neither of them knew quite what to say next. A few drops of rain spattered on the windscreen. Mrs. Channing saw them and said, “Well, I’m doubly grateful to you now, Ian.” Her last words were lost in a downpour, and she laughed. “It’s quite like Dunster, isn’t it?”
The thunder soon followed, and she moved a little nearer so that her voice would carry, one gloved hand pulling her coat closer against the chill of the sudden storm. “Mrs. Caldwell telephoned me. We’re having lunch together next week. I think she’s planning a little dinner party for the bridal pair when they return.”
He had forgot Elise Caldwell’s father, and his invitation to call. Caldwell was in the same business as James, Quarles and Penrith.
Meredith Channing was still speaking, and he realized he’d missed half of it. Just ahead was her house, and as he drew up to the walk, he said, “I think there’s an umbrella somewhere—”
“It’s not far, don’t bother. I should ask you to come in for tea or coffee, but I’m tired tonight. Another time?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She got out, shut her door, and with a quick wave dashed to the house. Her maid was there to let her in almost at once.
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