by Charles Todd
"Dr. O'Neil. Inspector Rutledge from London."
O'Neil looked Rutledge up and down. "Has he been up there that long? For you to be sent for? I should have been called sooner."
"I was in Dunster, attending a wedding, and word reached me quickly. We think he must have been killed earlier tonight. Last night. But that's your province."
"Indeed." His attention turned back to the dead man. "Who in God's name strung him up like that? He couldn't have done that to himself, could he? And how are we to get him down?"
Padgett nodded to Daniels, who was standing behind the doctor, his jaw fallen in shock. It was the first time he'd been allowed inside the barn. "Constable, you've used this apparatus. Let him down."
Daniels, startled, said, "Me? Sir?"
"Yes, yes, man, get on with it. You've done it often enough for the pageant."
Daniels reluctantly went toward the shadowed west end of the barn and fumbled at something on the wall. As he did, the man above their heads swayed, his hands moving, as if he still lived, and the lamplight picked out the whites of his open eyes as he seemed to stare balefully at his tormentors.
7
Inspector Padgett sucked in his breath and took a long step back. Dr. O'Neil swore sharply, adding, "Have a care, man!" The apparatus creaked as Daniels put his weight into it, and a feather, dislodged from one of the wings, drifted down from above, turning and spinning, holding all their eyes as it wafted slowly among them, as if choosing, and then coming to rest finally at Rutledge's feet. The other men turned toward him, as if somehow he had been marked by it. A shock swept through Rutledge, and he couldn't look away from the white feather. He prayed his face showed nothing of what he felt. During the war, the women of Britain had handed out white feathers to anyone they felt should have joined the armed forces, challenging the man to do his duty or be branded a coward. It had got out of hand, this white feather business, to the point that the government had issued special uniforms for the discharged wounded, to spare them the mortification of explaining publicly why they were not now fit for active duty.
Every man there knew that story. And Rutledge could feel a slow flush rise in his cheeks, as if the feather had been earned, though in another time or place, by the charge of shell shock. That they recognized him, even without evidence, for what the world believed he was.
Padgett broke the spell, cursing Daniels under his breath. He started forward to help his constable and then thought better of it. "Horton."
Constable Horton hurried forward, his face tight, and in short order the two men got the apparatus under control. Bracing themselves against the dead man's weight, they began gently to lower Quarles into the circle of lamplight.
Rutledge saw, watching them now, that a single man could have manipulated the rope under less stressful circumstances. But Daniels, fearful of dropping Quarles, had found it impossible to work the rope smoothly.
Hamish said, "Ma' granny wouldna' care to see this," in a tone of voice that reflected his own feelings. "Witchcraft, she'd ha' called it."
It was as if Quarles flew down, landing easily first on his toes, the taut rope almost invisible against the darkness of the ceiling, the wings moving gently, as if of their own volition. And the watchers could at last see the other side of the body. The back of Quarles's head was matted with dark blood, staining the pale red of his hair
Attempting to tie off the rope, the two constables accidentally lifted the body again, and it seemed to the onlookers to have life in it still.
There was a brief hesitation, as if no one was eager to step closer. Then O'Neil said tersely, "Get him out of that wretched thing."
Releasing Quarles from the brace that had held him in the air was difficult. With a living person it would have been different, but the dead weight was awkward. And after that, detaching him from the wings hooked into the cage and the cloth at his shoulders and meant to appear from below as if they belonged where they were fastened, growing out of the man's own back, took several people. Rigor mortis hadn't set in, that much was apparent, as O'Neil quietly pointed out as they worked.
When at last Quarles slumped to the flagstone floor of the barn and the harness and cage had been dragged away, the doctor beckoned for the lamps to be brought nearer and knelt to begin his examination.
As O'Neil ran his hands over the body, a frown between his eyes, Rutledge got his first good look at the victim.
Quarles had pale red hair, a freckled complexion, and surprisingly regular features, although one eyebrow had a quizzical twist to it. A vigorous body, with a barrel chest and long legs. Rutledge judged him to be five feet ten inches tall, and put his age at either the late thirties or early forties. Without the force of his personality, he seemed oddly vulnerable, but the strong jaw and chin spoke of a man who knew what he wanted from life.
O'Neil was saying, "Nothing broken, as far as I can judge. No signs of a wound, other than what we can see on the back of his head. And that was the cause of death, if I'm not mistaken." He moved his fingers through the blood-soaked hair and then wiped them on his handkerchief. "There are several blows here. Lacerations on the scalp in two areas. I'll know more later, but someone wanted to make sure the first blow had done the job. And judging from the blood you can see in his hair, it hadn't. The aim was better the second time, because poor Quarles was semiconscious and not resisting."
"But both were struck from behind?" Rutledge asked. He had been studying the dead man's hands. They were badly scarred.
The skin was still tight and shiny in places, though the worst of the injury had faded with time.
Hamish said, "Aye, we've seen burns before. But look you, they're no' on his face."
Dr. O'Neil was regarding Rutledge, his expression puzzled.
He realized that the doctor hadn't taken his point. He clarified his question. "That is to say, do the blows indicate whether Quarles had turned away from someone he was talking with? Or was it a surprise attack, something he didn't see coming?"
"That's your task to work out, not mine. All I can say is that he might have been turning away. The first laceration is a little behind and to the right of the second. Or at the last minute he could have heard someone coming up behind him and started to turn to confront whoever it was. I can't tell you what was used to kill him. Or where he was killed. Unless there's blood on the floor that I haven't seen in this light?"
"Horton," Padgett said over his shoulder, "take one of the lanterns and go over the flagstones as carefully as you can. Pay particular attention by the mechanism of that rig."
The man set off, his light bobbing as he searched.
O'Neil stood, brushing off the knees of his trousers. "It's my opinion that he hasn't been dead very long. Hours, rather than days. Any idea who could have done this?"
"None," Padgett replied shortly.
"How did he come by those burns on his hands?" Rutledge asked.
O'Neil said, "He's had them as long as I've known him. I asked once, professional interest, but he just said it was an accident. It was clear he didn't want to talk about it. Which reminds me, has anyone thought to let Mrs. Quarles know that her husband is dead?"
"We preferred to keep this quiet until Rutledge got here." Padgett pulled out his watch. "They'll be stirring at the Home Farm soon, if they aren't already. It won't take long for someone to see the vehicles outside and come to find out what's happening. I suppose I ought to go to the house directly."
"If you'll lend me one of your men, I'll see to the moving of the body while all's quiet. Anything else you need from me?"
"Nothing at present-"
He was interrupted by Horton calling from the other end of the barn. "So far, there's no blood to indicate if he was killed in here, sir. We might do better in daylight, but I'll wager it wasn't in the barn."
Padgett turned to Rutledge. "Do you want to go to the house with me?"
Breaking bad news was not Rutledge's favorite duty, but someone had to do it, and it was just as wel
l to meet the family now. Sometimes the way the household reacted to a death could be telling. He nodded.
"All right, Horton, you help the doctor. Daniels, you and Jenkins can see to this apparatus. Put it where it belongs and shut the chest on it. I don't want to see it again. As it is, I'll be hard-pressed to attend the pageant this year. Then I want the two of you to stand watch at the barn door. I'll leave my motorcar for Jenkins. Turn about, every two hours-"
Rutledge said, "Wait, let me examine that cage."
It was indeed wicker, as he'd thought, reinforced by wires, and the wings, he discovered, were attached as a rule to a brace that locked across the wicker frame, holding the Christmas angel safely in place. It was all in all a clever device, and must create quite a spectacle. But there was nothing on the harness or the ropes or the pulleys that offered him any clue as to who had used it for a dead man.
"Thanks," he said, nodding to the two constables, and turning to Dr. O'Neil, he asked, "Do you think Quarles was still alive when he was put into this contraption?" "If he was attacked here, in the barn, I'd say he was dead before he was hoisted up into the rafters. The second blow rendered him unconscious, if he wasn't already, and he was dying. Beyond saving, in fact, even if his attacker had changed his mind. It must have taken several minutes to get him into that device. Very likely there was a cloth or coat around his wound, or you'd have seen where his head rested during the process. At a guess, that's why there's no blood to be found here. It's a deep wound, I could feel where fragments of bone have been driven into the brain. If he was brought here from somewhere else, he was dead before he got to the barn. And heavy as he is, he wouldn't have been easy to manage. But it could be done. I'd look for scuff marks-where he was dragged-outside. If we haven't obscured them with our own tramping about."
"Thank you, Doctor." Rutledge turned to follow Padgett, and O'Neil went with them as far as his own motorcar, to fetch a blanket.
Shielding his torch, Padgett studied the turf around the door. "He's right, too many feet have trod here. But there's no other way in; we had no choice."
Rutledge cast his light a little to one side, trying to find signs of torn grass. "How did the killer bring Quarles here? Motorcar? On his back?"
"If we knew that, we'd be ahead of the game, wouldn't we?" Padgett replied morosely. He climbed into the passenger seat while Rutledge was cranking the motor, and said to no one in particular, "I don't relish this. Mrs. Quarles is an unusual woman. As you'll see for yourself."
"In what way?"
"You'll see."
Rutledge turned the motorcar and went back through the trees. The mist had vanished, as if it had never been there. Where the track to the tithe barn met the farm lane, Padgett said, "We'll go through the main gates. Set me down as you get there, and I'll open them."
The drive ran through parkland, specimen trees and shrubs providing vistas as it curved toward the house. When it came out of the trees and into smooth lawns toward the southeast, it went on to loop a bed of roses in front of the door. In the light breeze of early morning, their scent was heavy and sweet, and dew sparkled like diamonds among the leaves.
The house was tall, perfectly set among gardens, its dormer windows on the eastern approach already touched with the first rays of bright gold as the sun rose. A very handsome property, Rutledge thought as he pulled up, the sort of house that spoke of old money and breeding.
For a long moment Padgett sat there, looking at nothing.
"Well," he said finally, "we must do our duty, and break their tran- quility into shards."
"I don't see any dogs. Surely if they were loose, they'd be here to greet us," Rutledge commented as they mounted the shallow steps and Padgett lifted the brass knocker. "At the very least the one you might have heard."
Padgett, listening to the sound of the bell ring through the house, said, "I doubt the dog was hers. We'll ask at the Home Farm."
For several minutes no one came to the door. Then it swung open, and a housekeeper stood there, glaring at them before she recognized Padgett.
"Inspector," she said in wary acknowledgment. "What brings you calling so early?"
"I'd like to speak to Mrs. Quarles, if I may. If she isn't awake-"
"I doubt anyone's asleep after such a summons at this hour."
"It's rather urgent," Padgett replied, goaded.
"I'll ask if she'll receive you now."
Rutledge said, "I understand Mrs. Quarles has several small dogs."
The housekeeper stared at him, as if he'd lost his mind. "If it's the little dogs you've come about, they're asleep in Mrs. Quarles's bedroom, where they belong."
She shut the door in their faces, and Padgett repeated sourly, "'I'll ask if she'll receive you.' As if I'm a bloody tradesman come to settle my accounts."
"It's a matter of form," Rutledge said
"Yes, well, we'll see who's unwanted, soon enough."
When the housekeeper came to the door again, this time she swung it wide, to allow them to enter. "Mrs. Quarles will see you. If you'll follow me."
They walked into a spacious foyer. The black and white marble of the floor had been set in a chessboard pattern, and the walls were a pale green trimmed in white. A flight of stairs curved upward, and a small winged Mercury, gleaming in a shaft of sunlight from the fanlight above the door, balanced on his toes atop the newel post. Both men glanced at it, sharply reminded of the winged corpse in the tithe barn.
As he looked around, Padgett's face mirrored his thoughts: Ostentatious. But the foyer, while handsome enough, was by no means the finest the West Country had to offer. Did Padgett know that? Rutledge wondered, or would it matter if he did? He seemed to resent everything about Harold Quarles.
The housekeeper led them to a door down the passage and tapped lightly.
"Come." The woman's voice inside the room was well bred and composed.
The housekeeper opened the door and said, "Inspector Padgett, madam."
The small sitting room was clearly a woman's morning room. A French gilt-trimmed white desk stood between the windows, and there was a pretty chintz on the settee and the two side chairs that stood before the hearth, the pattern showing a field of lupines on a cream background. The blue of the lupines had been picked up again in the draperies and the carpet.
Mrs. Quarles was standing with her back to the grate, her fingers pressing the collar of her cream silk dressing gown at her throat, her fair hair neatly pinned into place. She was a very attractive woman, perhaps in her middle thirties.
At her side was a tall man sitting in an invalid's wheeled chair, a rug over his knees. His dark hair was graying at the temples, and his face was distinguished, with dark eyes beneath heavy lids. He had an air of sophistication about him, despite his infirmity. Mrs. Quarles's other hand fell to rest on his shoulder as Padgett introduced Rutledge.
"From Scotland Yard?" she repeated in a clear, cool voice, examining Rutledge. "Why are you here at this hour? Is something wrong? You haven't come about my son, have you?"
"There's been a death, Mrs. Quarles," Padgett said, taking it upon himself to break the news. "I'm afraid it's your husband-"
"Death?" Her eyebrows rose as if she couldn't quite understand the word. "Are you sure?"
"Quite sure. We've just found his body-that is, a few hours ago-" Padgett stopped, tangled in his own explanation. It was clear that he felt ill at ease in her presence, and that it annoyed him.
"Are you telling me that my husband killed himself?" she demanded. "I refuse to believe anything of the sort. Where did you find him, and what has happened to him? "
"We found him in the tithe barn-that is, I did, and summoned Mr. Rutledge here because of the unusual circumstances."
She said testily, "Please get to the point, Inspector."
Padgett bristled. "He was murdered, Mrs. Quarles." The words were blunt, his voice cold.
Rutledge silently cursed the man. He was letting Mrs. Quarles set the direction of the interview.
Her hand, resting on the man's shoulder, gripped hard. Rutledge could see the slender knuckles whiten with the force.
"Murder?"
The man raised a hand to cover hers.
Rutledge thought, they are lovers… there was something in that touch that spoke of years of companionship and caring. But here? In Quarles's house?
Mrs. Quarles recovered herself and said, "By whom, for God's sake? Are you quite sure it wasn't an accident of some sort? My husband was forever poking about the estate on his weekends here, and sometimes drove Tom Masters to distraction."
"We don't have the answer to that at present. Shall I send Dr. O'Neil to you directly? Or the rector?" It was noticeable that Padgett failed to offer the formal words of condolence.
"To me? I shan't need Dr. O'Neil. Or the rector." Her face showed shock, but no grief.
"We'll need to speak to the staff. And I should like to see Mr. Quarles's rooms if I may. I understand he'd come down from London for the weekend. Was he expected?"
The man in the chair answered for her. "Generally he sends word ahead. But not always. It's his house, after all. This time he arrived in the late afternoon Friday, and spent most of yesterday with Tom Masters, who sees to the Home Farm. He came back around four, I should think, and told the staff that he intended to dine out. This was relayed to me when I came down before dinner."
Padgett asked, "Mrs. Quarles?" Sharply seeking confirmation.
"Yes, as far as I know, that's all true."
"Were you on good terms with Mr. Quarles during this visit?"
"On good terms?"
"Did you quarrel? Have words?"
He watched the first crack in her facade of cool reserve as she snapped, "We never quarrel. Why should we?"
"Most married couples do. Did you see him when he returned from his dinner engagement?"
"I was not waiting up for him, if that's what you're asking."
Rutledge stepped in before Padgett could follow up on that. "Did he dine alone?"