Had he been here when a murderer had brought Harold Quarles into the barn and went to take the apparatus out of its box? What had he seen?
Hamish said, "It was no' a stranger."
And that was the key to this barn. In the mist that night a stranger would have had trouble seeing it at all, if he hadn't known it was here. Rutledge himself hadn't until he was almost on it. And even if the killer had wanted to make certain the body wasn't found straightaway, the cottage was closer than the barn. In here, in the darkness—even with a torch—it would have taken time to pull the ropes and pulleys out of their chest and lay them out, when Quarles could just as well have been stowed behind one of the trestle tables or a section of the stable roof. No matter how much had been written about the Christmas pageant, understanding the mechanism—even if someone knew it was there—was another matter.
Hamish said, "Better to put the body in yon chest."
"Exactly." He'd spoke aloud, and the constable at the door peered in. Rutledge said, "Sorry. Bad habit, talking to myself."
The man grinned and shut the door again.
Whatever Padgett might want him to believe, Rutledge now had evidence of a sort that the murderer must be here, in Cambury.
The journey to London to spike Mickelson's guns had probably been an act of vanity, nothing more.
15
Rutledge found Padgett in the police station completing his report on the housebreaking. Even before he reached the office, he could hear the ragged tap of typewriter keys and an occasional grunt as something went wrong.
Padgett looked up, his ill temper aggravated by the interruption.
Rutledge said, not waiting for Padgett's good humor to return, "You wouldn't accompany me when I went to see Brunswick. It would have been wise if you had. He believes you had something to do with Harold Quarles's death. He told me to ask you why you hated the man."
Padgett's reaction was explosive. He swore roundly, his face red with anger.
"While you were exchanging confidences, did he tell you that at the time I suspected him of drowning his wife? And I've yet to be satisfied that her death was a suicide. There's no love lost between us."
"He believes she was Quarles's lover, and that the child she might have been carrying at the time of her death wasn't her husband's. Reason enough for murder."
"Well, she wasn't carrying a child at the time of her death. Not according to O'Neil. But she did have a tumor the size of a small cabbage. Brunswick believes the doctor is covering up the truth. They had words just before the funeral. Of course he—Brunswick— wouldn't care to think he'd killed his wife for no reason other than his own jealousy."
"Could she have borne children, if the tumor was safely removed?"
"Probably not. She wasn't drowned at home, mind you, but in one of those streams on Sedgemoor. A dreary place to die. A dreary battlefield in its day, for that matter. She ought to have survived—if she'd changed her mind, she might have saved herself. The stream wasn't all that deep. The only reason I didn't take Brunswick into custody was that simple fact. But I've kept an eye on him since then."
"What was your quarrel with the victim? You might as well tell me," Rutledge said, "it will have to come out sooner or later."
He could see the defiance in Padgett's eyes as he surged to his feet and leaned forward over the desk, his knuckles white as they pressed against the scarred wooden top. "I see no reason to tell you anything. I'm a policeman, for God's sake. Do you think I killed the man? If so, say that to my face, don't go hinting about like a simpering woman."
Rutledge held on to his own temper, knowing he'd provoked the anger turned against him and that the angry man across from him hoped to use it to deflect him from his probing.
"Padgett. I'll speak to the Chief Constable if I have to. And don't push your luck with me. My temper can be as short as yours."
" 'Ware," Hamish warned Rutledge. "He's likely to come across yon desk and throttle ye."
But at mention of the Chief Constable, Padgett got himself under control with a visible effort.
"Leave the Chief Constable out of this!"
"Then talk to me."
"I'm not a suspect. I don't have to give you my private life to paw over."
Rutledge was on the point of taking Inspector Padgett into custody and letting him think his position over in one of his own cells.
But Hamish warned, "Ye ken, it will only set him against you more. There's shame here, and it willna' come out, whatever ye threaten." Rutledge took a deep breath. "Padgett. You found the body. There's no other witness. You could have hauled Quarles up to the beams yourself, as a fitting revenge for whatever he did to you. It doesn't look good."
Padgett started for the door, intending to push Rutledge aside. "If that's what you want to believe—"
"It's what the killer's barrister will claim, to throw doubt on the evidence we collect for trial. And then whatever you're hiding becomes a matter of public record forever after. I shouldn't have to tell you this. Think about it, man!"
Padgett stopped in midstride.
"Look, set your feelings about Quarles aside and consider the case clearly. If it were Mrs. Quarles—or Jones, the baker—or even Brunswick who had found the man's body by the side of the road, and you knew the history of their relationship with the victim, that person would be suspect almost at once. An unexpected confrontation, a temper lost, an opportunity taken. You'd have no choice but to investigate the circumstances."
"I'm an honest man, a good policeman." Padgett's voice was tight, his face still flushed with his fury.
"No doubt both of these are true. Do they put you above suspicion? You may not be guilty—but you must be cleared, any question of doubt put aside so that you don't cast a shadow over the inquiry."
"Are you going to take me off the case? I don't see how we can work together now."
"I'm not removing you. But you must give me your word you didn't kill Quarles."
"What good is my word, if I'm a murderer? Do you think I'd stop at perjuring myself to escape the hangman?"
"Your word as a policeman."
It was the right thing to say. Padgett's ruffled feathers relaxed, and he swore, "As God is my witness, then. I give you my word as a policeman."
Hamish said to Rutledge, "Aye, all well and good, but he didna' swear to stop interfering."
"I was looking for the truth, not trust," Rutledge answered him grimly.
They went on to Dr. O’Neil’s surgery, to interview Stephenson.
The doctor greeted them, and if he saw any stiffness in their manner, he said nothing about it. Taking them to the narrow examination room where he'd put the bookseller, he added, "He's recovering well enough. Physically, if not emotionally. But that's not unexpected, given the circumstances. Be brief, if you want to question him."
"Before we go in," Rutledge said, "can you tell me if Michael Brunswick's wife was diagnosed with a tumor? Or was she pregnant at the time of her death?"
O'Neil sighed. "Brunswick has convinced himself that I lied to him. I didn't. If he killed Quarles, he'll be coming for me next. He's one of those men who can picture his wife in another man's arms if she so much as smiles at a poor devil in the post office or the greengrocer's. The fact is, I believed it to be ovarian from the start, because she'd had no symptoms until the tumor was well advanced. And I told her as much, warning her to prepare herself. I did prescribe tests, to confirm my diagnosis. Her mother had died of the same condition. Sadly, she knew what to expect. And if by some miracle of surgery she survived the cancer, there would be no children."
"How did you do the tests?" From what Rutledge had seen of the small surgery, he was certain Dr. O'Neil didn't have the facilities for them here.
"I sent her to Bath, to a specialist there. Quarles lent her his motorcar and his chauffeur. She was in her last week of employment at Hallowfields the day she came to me, and when she told Quarles she was glad she was nearly finished, because it appeared that she w
as ill, he arranged to send her. It was a kind gesture. But Mrs. Brunswick made me promise to say nothing to her husband about that—she said he would disapprove."
Rutledge thought, It could have been that Brunswick found out— But that wasn't the murder he'd come to Cambury to solve.
"Why the interest in Mrs. Brunswick?" O'Neil asked, clearly busy putting two and two together.
"It could offer a reason for her husband to kill Quarles," Padgett answered, following Rutledge's thinking. "Early days, no stone unturned, and all that."
"I've finished with Quarles, by the bye. And he did eat dinner the night he was killed."
"Then let his wife bury him," Padgett said. "The sooner the better."
O'Neil looked at Rutledge for confirmation, and he nodded.
The doctor opened the door to Stephenson's room. The man looked up, sighed wearily, and visibly braced himself for what was to come.
Rutledge said, "I'm happy to see you feeling a little better."
"There's better and better," Stephenson said without spirit.
"Why kill yourself, if you've done nothing wrong?" Rutledge asked. "It's a waste of life."
"My reasons seemed to be sound enough at the time—"
He broke off and turned his face toward the wall, tears welling in his eyes.
"Do we clap you in gaol as soon as Dr. O'Neil here gives us leave?"
Padgett demanded irritably. "You as much as confessed that you wanted to kill Harold Quarles. Did you or didn't you? You can't have it both ways."
"But he can," Rutledge put in quietly. "If he paid someone to do what he couldn't face himself."
"That would be betrayal. I wouldn't stoop to that. By rights," he went on, "an eye for an eye, I should have killed his son. I couldn't do that, either."
"If you didn't kill Quarles, why were you so certain we were about to take you into custody for this murder? Certain enough to kill yourself before we could." He added in a level voice, no hint of curiosity or prying, merely trying to clarify, "Just what did Quarles have to do with your son?"
"I don't want to talk about it. I'm still shaken, hardly able to believe I'm still alive. I expected never to see this world again. I thought I was well out of it." His face was hidden, his voice rough with tears. "For God's sake, go away and leave me alone."
"In the end, you'll have to clear yourself by telling us the truth."
"I don't have to do anything of the sort. You can't threaten me with hanging. I know how the noose feels about my neck, and what it's like to plunge into the dark. The next time will be easier, and it won't be interrupted. I really don't give a damn."
"If you want to die so badly," Padgett reminded him, "you'd have to convince us first that you deserve to. What you're feeling now is self-pity, not evidence. Do you think you're the only man who's lost a son? I can find you a dozen such fathers without leaving the parish."
"He was my only child—my wife is dead. I never thought I'd be grateful for that, until the day the news came."
Rutledge shook his head, warning Padgett to leave it as he was about to reply. Reluctantly Padgett turned and walked away, shutting the door behind him. Rutledge said to Stephenson, "Consider your situation. If you want to claim this crime even though you didn't commit it, go ahead. That's not vengeance, it's martyrdom. And in the final moments before the trapdoor drops, you'll find martyrdom isn't a satisfactory substitute for what you'd promised your son to do."
Not waiting for a reply, Rutledge turned on his heel, leaving Dr. O'Neil alone with his patient.
As they walked down the passage, he could hear Stephenson's voice: "I loved him more than anything, anything."
Outside, Padgett said, "Why did he call that bookstore of his Nemesis, if he wasn't waiting for his chance to kill Quarles? Whatever lay between them, it must have been a fearsome hate on Stephenson's part."
They had just reached the High Street when the boot boy from The Unicorn caught up with them. "You're wanted, sir, if you're Inspector Rutledge. There's a telephone call for you at the hotel. I was told at the station you'd be with Inspector Padgett."
"And who would be calling the inspector?" Padgett asked, inquisitiveness alive in his face.
"London," Rutledge answered. "Who else?" He handed the flushed boot boy a coin, nodded to Padgett, and walked away toward The Unicorn.
Hunter was waiting for him at Reception, and escorted him to the telephone room. "They promised to call again in fifteen minutes." He took out his pocket watch. "That's half a minute from now."
On the heels of his words, they could hear the telephone bell, and Rutledge went to answer it.
It was Sergeant Gibson, who asked him in a formal tone to wait for Chief Superintendent Bowles to be summoned.
The tone of voice, as always with Gibson, reflected the mood of the Yard.
Bowles, when he took up the receiver, shouted, "You there, Rutledge?"
"Yes, sir, I'm here."
"What's this I hear about your questioning Mr. Penrith and speaking to Hurley and Sons?"
Mickelson was back in London and complaining.
"It was in the course of—"
"I don't give a fig for your excuses. I sent you to Cambury to find a murderer, and I've had no report of your progress. Davis Penrith has been on the horn to the Yard, expressing his concern, wanting to know if we've taken anyone into custody. Have we?"
"Not yet. I reported the death of his former partner to Penrith, and asked who among the victim's business connections might have a grievance against the man dead. I asked Hurley and Sons who benefited from the will. It's the usual procedure. You gave me no instructions not to follow up in London."
In the background Rutledge could hear Hamish derisively mocking his words.
"This was an important man, Rutledge. Do you understand me? Inspector Padgett was quite right to call in the Yard, and if you aren't capable of dealing with this inquiry, I'll send someone down who can."
"We're interviewing—"
"You're wasting time, Rutledge. I can have you out of there in twenty-four hours, if you don't give us results. Do you hear me?" The receiver banged into its cradle with a violence that could be heard across the room. Rutledge smiled. Mickelson must have been very put out indeed.
As he turned around to leave, Rutledge saw that Padgett had followed him to the hotel and was standing in the doorway. He must have heard a good part of the conversation. From the look on his face, most assuredly he'd heard the receiver put up with force.
He said blandly, "I was just coming to inquire. Do you want to tell Mrs. Quarles that she can bury her husband, or shall I?"
Rutledge wiped the smile from his lips. "Yes, go ahead. I think she'll be glad of the news."
"Yes, sooner in the ground, sooner forgotten. Shall I tell the rector that he'll be posting the banns for a marriage, as soon as the funeral guests are out of sight?"
"Sorry to disappoint you. I don't think she'll marry Archer. Now or ever."
"Care for a small wager?" Padgett asked as he turned away, not waiting for Rutledge's answer.
Hamish said, agreeing with Rutledge. "She willna' marry again. There's her son."
Rutledge went up to his room, surprised at how late in the afternoon it was. He felt fatigue sweeping over him, and knew it for what it was, an admission that Padgett and Chief Superintendent Bowles had got to him.
Hamish said, "You were in great haste to get to London before yon inspector returned from Dover. You canna' expect to escape unscathed."
I t was nearly four-thirty in the morning when someone knocked at the door of Rutledge's room.
He was sleeping lightly and heard the knock at once. "I'm coming."
The only reason he could think of for the summons was another murder, and he was running down a mental list as he pulled on his trousers and opened the door.
It wasn't Inspector Padgett or one of his constables. Standing on the threshold was Miss O'Hara, her hair tousled, and a shawl thrown over hastily donned clot
hes.
"You must come at once," she said. "I've got Gwyneth Jones at my house. She just came home, and her father's at the bakery, firing up the ovens, her sisters asleep in their beds."
He turned to find his shoes and his coat. "Is she all right?"
"Frightened to death, tired, hungry, and looking as if she's slept in her clothes. Mrs. Jones told me you knew her story. The question now is, what to do? Gwyneth's father is going to be furious, and her mother is on the point of having a fit."
"Have you told the girl that Quarles is dead?" Rutledge asked as they went toward the stairs.
She shook her head. "No, nor has her mother. Gwyneth explained to her mother that she was homesick, but she told me that she missed Cambury and wanted to work in the shop again, rather than dance to her grandmother's tune."
They opened and shut The Unicorn's door as quietly as possible, so as not to disturb the night clerk sleeping in his little cubicle.
"How did you know which room I was in?" he asked as they stepped out into the cool night air and walked briskly toward Church Street.
"How do you think? I looked in the book at Reception."
Rutledge found himself reflecting that if the story got around Cambury that he was seen escorting a disheveled Irishwoman out of the hotel and back to her house at this hour of the morning, gossip would be rampant. And Padgett would have much to say about it. The one bright point was that Gwyneth had been sent to Miss O'Hara's house while it was still dark. They could at least keep her arrival quiet for a while.
As if she'd read his mind, Miss O'Hara suppressed a laugh. "We'll have to avoid the man who brings round the milk. Bertie. He's the worst rumor monger in Cambury. If you wish to have your business discussed over the world's breakfast table, confide in him."
The first hint of dawn was touching the eastern sky, and the coolness of evening still lurked in the shadows. It would be light enough soon for anyone looking out a window to see them.
"Why did Mrs. Jones bring her to you?"
"If the other children had seen their sister, there'd be no keeping the news from their father. I was the only woman living alone she could think of."
Todd, Charles Page 17