"Aye. It's a sticking point."
"A different kind of revenge? To bring the man down, and make him watch the dissolution of everything that matters to him?"
"It doesna' suit the man's temperament."
Rutledge wasn't satisfied. "In an odd sort of way, it does. If he thinks there's no chance for a conviction—despite his pleas to be hanged—his name and photograph will be in every newspaper in England as he talks about his wife and his music and what sort of man Harold Quarles was."
"He could ha' tried blackmail. And it didna' serve."
Hadn't Mrs. Downing said Brunswick had come to Quarles for money, after his wife's death? Was that why he was so angry that his wife wasn't carrying a child when she died? It would have made a better case...
"Yon bookseller also asked to be hanged."
"Yes, because he had nothing to live for. Brunswick's wife failed him, his music has failed him, and he would like nothing better than to make someone else pay for his trouble."
Rutledge was walking through Reception. "If we'd found Brunswick dead, I'd know where to look—at Harold Quarles."
"The Chief Constable is waiting," Hamish answered. "And Old Bowels as well."
There was nothing for it now but to cross the High Street and report his findings to Inspector Padgett.
Padgett was not as pleased as Rutledge had expected him to be. He was idly making designs on a sheet of paper, frowning as he listened, his gaze on his pen rather than Rutledge's face.
"I'll speak to the Chief Constable, of course. But are you sure? He doesn't like a muddled case. There's Jones, the little family notwithstanding. And as far as we know, he could have wrecked his own bakery in an effort to elicit sympathy. You said yourself that nothing of great value was broken. Did I tell you? I did bring in the two most likely vandals, and their parents can account for their whereabouts that night."
"I saw his face. Jones hadn't done it."
"Yes, well. We've looked at this before. Who grieves for Harold Quarles? Not his wife. The mistress that everyone would like us to believe in? As far as I'm concerned, if she exists, you were right about it being the little wife killed quite by accident by her soldier husband. I've even asked my wife if she knew who the mistress was. And her answer was telling—that Quarles hadn't started the rumor, other people had. His son? The boy was home, wasn't he, when this happened? And fourteen is a wild age, emotions hot and temper hotter, but I daresay his mother never let him out of her sight."
"If you disagree with my conclusions, tell me so."
"It's not that I disagree. I don't like any murder on my patch, and most particularly not one that attracts the notice of London."
Padgett had been vacillating since the beginning. Rutledge was losing patience.
"Then I shall speak to the Chief Constable—and leave you out of it."
"No, I'll do it. I told you. What's this business about Penrith?"
"Brunswick named him as the person arguing with Quarles outside the Greer house. I'm not sure it wasn't for a very good reason."
"No one saw a strange motorcar in Cambury that night. Nor did they see a strange man wandering about."
Rutledge had already considered that question.
"Penrith is known to many people in Cambury. He came here from time to time, when he and Quarles were partners. Would they have considered him a stranger?"
"I expect they wouldn't."
"Yet the evidence is clear. He was in Scotland."
Padgett capped his pen and threw it down on the desk. "Brunswick's a coldblooded chap. That fits the fact that the body was moved and trussed up in that rig. It's not everyone's cup of tea, touching someone they've just killed."
Rutledge said, "Tell me again why you acted so quickly to summon the Yard while Quarles was still up there in the harness? Before you'd even had time to consider the evidence."
Inspector Padgett smiled. "I wanted to walk away with clean hands. The man put me in the wrong with the Chief Constable twice over. Third time's unlucky. No one can say I didn't follow the rules to the letter. Even his widow. I got my own back there. I'm satisfied."
I t was late. The day had worn on to the point that clouds had rolled in and the sunset was lost behind them.
Rutledge walked in the churchyard for a time, unable to bear his room—when he had come back to it, it had felt close, claustrophobic, as if storm clouds were moving in. He had left at once and, without conscious thought, found himself in the grassy paths that wandered among the headstones.
Hamish, reflecting his own mood, was giving Rutledge the rough edge of his tongue. Reminding him that barely a year before he'd been a broken man in the clinic to which his sister, Frances, had removed him. Rutledge couldn't recall much of that change. The new surroundings had confused him, and Dr. Fleming, looking for a handhold on his new patient's sanity, was probing into things best left buried deep and covered over with layer upon layer of excuses.
He hadn't expected to survive. He hadn't cared much either way, except when he saw his sister's troubled face, the strain and exhaustion almost mirroring his own as she sat with him hour after hour, day after day, seldom sleeping, sometimes taking his hand, or when he couldn't bear to be touched, talking softly to him about the distant past. About anything but the war. Or Jean, who had walked away and never looked back.
Now he was pacing a Somerset churchyard, debating his own wisdom.
To Rutledge's surprise, Padgett hadn't taken Brunswick into custody. Still, he was preparing to present their findings in the case to the Chief Constable in the morning and ask for an inquest to be held. And afterward Rutledge would be free to leave for London.
Rutledge cut across what Hamish was saying, the soft Scots voice, heavy with accusation and condemnation, finally falling silent.
"Who wrecked the bakery? I'd feel better about the case if that had been cleared up."
There was no answer from Hamish.
"There has to be a reason for it. A hand behind it. But whose?"
Silence.
"No one's shed a tear for the man—"
But that was wrong. One person had. The maid, Betty, who cleaned Quarles's rooms and kept the gatehouse tidy. Who had been left a bequest of money when all she wanted from her employer was the promise of a roof over her head when he died.
Rutledge had almost forgot her. She was a pale figure on the fringe of the group of servants, a tired woman folding the sheets, feeling her years, wondering what was to become of her.
Rutledge turned back to The Unicorn's yard and retrieved his motorcar. As he did, a few drops of rain splashed the windscreen, leaving dusty blotches.
By the time he reached Hallowfields, it was coming down in earnest, and a rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. He dashed through the rain to the door and knocked loudly. The footman who answered seemed not to know what to do about the policeman on the steps, and Rutledge said, "I'm here to see one of the maids. Take me to the servants' hall, if you please."
The man stepped back and let him enter. Rutledge walked briskly toward the door leading to the servants' stairs and found the staff gathered in Mrs. Downing's sitting room, listening to the Sunday evening reading from the Bible. Heads turned as he stood in the doorway.
Mrs. Downing said, "We're at prayers."
"I'll wait in the passage."
He shut the door and walked a dozen steps away, listening to the soft murmur of voices. After five minutes or so, Mrs. Downing came out of her sitting room, her face severe.
"What is it this time?"
"I'd like to speak to Betty. The woman who took care of Mr. Quarles's—"
"Yes. I know who she is. Give me a minute."
She went back into her parlor and dismissed the staff, keeping Betty with her. When they had gone about their duties, she herself left the room and held the door open for Rutledge to enter.
Betty was waiting, apprehension in her face.
Rutledge asked her to sit down, then told her they had very like
ly found her employer's murderer. It would be only a matter of days before it was official.
Her hands clenched in her lap, she said, "Who is it?"
"I'm not at liberty to tell you that. But it isn't Hugh Jones, the baker."
He could read her emotions as they flitted across her face. Surprise. Bewilderment. Shame.
"They were talking in the servants' hall," she said. "The man who brings the milk told the scullery maid that he'd confessed."
"Mr. Jones gave the police a statement. It wasn't a confession. He won't be arrested."
"Why are you telling me this? And not the others?"
"Because I think you know. Did you go to the bakery in the middle of the night? Was it you who destroyed everything you could lay hands to?"
Tears filled her eyes but didn't fall. "He's been good to me. M—Mr. Quarles. No one else cared, but I did. I wanted to punish whoever had killed him. I wanted to make him as wretched as I was."
"You succeeded in making Mr. Jones wretched. He didn't deserve it."
"But they talk, the servants. I hear them. His daughter had come home, and he was distraught. Everyone said he was the only one who could have put Mr. Quarles up in that wicker cage. They said he'd done it to show that Mr. Quarles was no angel, that he'd tormented the Jones family until they couldn't stand it any longer."
"Yes, I know. The police nearly made that same mistake. But it wasn't true. You owe him an apology, and restitution."
"How can I pay for what I've done? I only have my wages." She was gripping her hands together until the knuckles were white. And then she looked at Rutledge. "He said terrible things about Mr. Quarles when he sent his daughter away. What does he owe for that?"
"You aren't Mr. Quarles's defender. He has a wife and a son to protect his good name."
"His wife hated him as much as the rest did. But the boy, Marcus, is a good child. He would have made his father proud. It's hard to think of him fatherless. If they hang this man you've decided killed Mr. Quarles, I'd like to be there."
"Why do you think his wife turned against him? It was a happy marriage for some time, or so I was led to believe."
"And so it was. I was never told what it is she holds against him. But she said once, when she didn't know I was there, if she knew a way, she'd wash the very blood out of Master Marcus's veins if it would do any good. Mr. Archer called that a cruel thing to say, but she answered him sharply. 'You can't imagine what cruelty is, Charles. I can't sleep at night for remembering what was done.' "
"You've known Mr. Quarles for some years. What was his wife talking about?"
"He was a hard man, but not half the things said about him are true. I think she wanted an excuse to live with Mr. Archer, to make it right in her own eyes. I think she believed he'd feel better about living under her roof if he thought she was married to a monster." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "He was good to me. That's all I know. No one else ever was."
The next morning, as Rutledge was packing his valise, he was summoned to the telephone.
It was Sergeant Gibson. "I've had a bit of luck, sir. Remember the constable you spoke with on Saturday, when you left me a message?"
"Yes, I do." The lion's head and a small boy charging his mates a few farthings to look at it.
"That was Constable Wainwright, sir. Over the weekend he spoke to his father about fighting the Boers. His father saw a good deal of action. And he remembers Private Penrith. Described him as a fair, slender chap, a quiet one keeping to himself for the most part. Said he was reminded of the young Prince of Wales, sir. This was in Cape Town, just before Corporal Wainwright was to sail home. Penrith was quite the hero, according to Wainwright. He walked miles back to a depot for help, after the Boers ambushed the train he was taking north. There was talk of a medal, but Penrith himself quashed that idea. He says he was too late, all the men were dead by the time rescue reached them. He blamed himself."
"He was the sole survivor?"
"According to Wainwright's account, yes, sir. He was knocked about when the train came to a screeching halt, and dazed. But his rifle had been fired, though he couldn't remember much about the action."
"Hardly a record to be ashamed of."
"No, sir. Shall I go on looking at Mr. Penrith's military career?"
"No. Yes. When did he leave the army? And where else did he serve? Did Corporal Wainwright mention one Harold Quarles?"
"I don't believe he did, sir."
"Include him in your search. And, Gibson, I want to be sure who and what this Davis Penrith is. One source has told me his father lived in Hampshire, another that his father lived in Sussex. I want that cleared up."
"Yes, sir. I believe one Davis Penrith came in this morning to make his statement about a journey to Scotland. Is this the same man, sir?"
"It is."
"Wouldn't it be simpler to send a constable around to ask him these questions?"
Rutledge said, "He's already answered one of them. But not to my satisfaction."
Sergeant Gibson said neutrally, "Indeed, sir."
Rutledge broke the connection, absently rubbing his jaw with his fingers.
So Penrith was apparently all he claimed to be. No one, however, had so far explained the confusion between Hampshire and Sussex. But it might be nothing more mysterious than being born in one county and growing up in the other.
For the moment he put Penrith out of his mind and went in search of Hugh Jones.
The bakery was still closed on this Monday morning, but it was ready for use as soon as fresh supplies arrived. Jones said, as Rutledge came through the door, "I managed to bake bread this morning for my regular customers. Only twenty loaves, but a start. It was all the flour I had."
"I think I've found the person who did this damage. An elderly maid at Hallowfields. She'd served Quarles, seen only his best side, apparently, and she was told that you had killed him. Hence the vandalism."
Jones sighed. "He still makes trouble for me, even in death. I'm grateful Mrs. Quarles took him away from here to bury him. Else I'd fear to walk through the churchyard of a night."
"Inspector Padgett is satisfied that we've found Quarles's killer. He'll be taken into custody sometime this morning."
"Who is it?"
"You'll hear soon enough. The evidence points strongly to Michael Brunswick."
"Another family Quarles destroyed. Ah well. I'm sorry for him. He's a man haunted by disappointment. But I never saw him as a murderer."
"Inspector Padgett believed Brunswick could have killed his wife."
"There was a lot of talk at the time. No one paid much attention to it. Thank you for telling me about what happened here."
Rutledge left the baker and walked on to the police station. Padgett had just returned from his meeting with the Chief Constable.
"He agrees, there's enough evidence to make an arrest. We'll see what the lawyers can make of it now. I expect you're wanted back in London. I'll deal with Brunswick. He's at the church, playing the organ. I spoke to Rector on my way in, and he told me. He wants to be present. I think he's afraid Brunswick will do something foolish. I don't see it that way."
Rutledge went there himself and stood in the open door at the side of St. Martin's, listening to the music for a time. Brunswick was practicing an oratorio, struggling with it, going over and over the more complicated sections until he got it right and locked into his memory. It was a long and frustrating session. When he'd finished, he launched into a hymn he knew well, and the difference in the two pieces was telling. Brunswick had ability but not the soaring skill that great musicians strove for.
Hearing voices approaching, Rutledge went back to the hotel to fetch his valise. Coming down the stairs again, he stopped by Reception.
Hunter was there to bid him farewell and a safe journey.
Half an hour after he'd driven out of Cambury, the telephone in the small parlor beyond the stairs began to ring.
The staff was busy with the noonday mea
l, and no one heard it.
It was an uneventful drive to the city. Rutledge arrived late and went directly to his flat.
The next morning, he called on Davis Penrith at his home.
"We've found your former partner's murderer. He was taken into custody yesterday and charged. The inquest will find enough evidence to bind him over for trial."
Penrith's face was still. "Who is he?"
"The organist at St. Martin's. He believed his late wife had an affair with Quarles. She killed herself."
Penrith searched for something to say. "I'm sorry to hear it."
"There's one small matter to clear up with you."
Penrith smiled wryly. "I told you my father was curate in Hampshire. Only for five years, before moving on to Sussex. My mother was alive then, it was a happy time. The living in Sussex was cramped and wretched. I tend not to think of it if I don't have to. I hope it didn't cause you any trouble."
"None at all," Rutledge answered blandly.
"Well, then, thank you for telling me about this man Brunswick. I'm glad the matter is cleared up, for the sake of Mrs. Quarles and Marcus."
Penrith prepared to show Rutledge out, walking to the study door.
"Actually, that wasn't the matter I wished to bring up."
Surprised, Penrith stopped, his hand on the knob.
"I can't think of anything else that needs to be clarified. I made my statement. You'll find it at the Yard."
"Thank you. No, what I wanted to clarify are several names I have here on my list. Mr. Butler is dead, I believe. Mr. Willard and Mr. Hester, Mr. Morgan and Mr. Simpleton, and Mr. MacDonald were investors in the Cumberline fiasco."
Wary, Penrith said, "Where did you find those names?"
"They were in a box marked Cumberline in Harold Quarles's study."
He could see the anger and frustration in Penrith's face. "Indeed. And what else of interest did you find in his study?"
"Very little. We've managed to look at these seven men and determine that they had no reason to attack and kill Mr. Quarles."
"No, of course they wouldn't. They are men of some reputation, they value their privacy, and they aren't likely to wait almost two years for a paltry revenge."
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