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."
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."
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."
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