by Charles Todd
Padgett had moved on to the bedroom, and Rutledge followed him.
The armoire and chests yielded only the sort of belongings that were usual for a country house: walking clothes, boots, hats, two London suits with a Bond Street tailor's label, and evening dress. Several books on a table by the bed had to do with business law and practices.
One of them was a leather-bound treatise on Africa, touting the wealth and opportunities that would open up when the war ended. Thumbing through it, Rutledge could see that the florid prose offered very little substance. Railroads, mining operations, river navigation, and ports were discussed at great length, along with large farms for the cultivation of coffee and other crops, suggesting that what Rhodes had accomplished in South Africa was possible in other parts of the continent.
Padgett, looking out the window across from Quarles's bed, said, "I can't see the gatehouse or the end of the drive or the tithe barn for the trees in between."
Rutledge came to join him. "You're right. Once Quarles reached that bend of the drive where the trees begin, he'd be out of sight. He might have met a dozen people at the gates, or entertained half of Parliament in the cottage, and no one would be the wiser. By the same token, if someone was waiting for him there, friend for dinner or killer in hiding, Quarles himself would have had no warning."
"Did you ask at The Unicorn if he'd dined there?"
"He hadn't. Hunter, the manager, saw him coming alone out of Minton Street around ten-thirty. But he doesn't know where Quarles went from there-toward home or toward another destination."
"You can't be sure Hunter isn't lying. They had a falling-out, he and Quarles. And it almost cost Hunter his position. Quarles was hellbent on seeing him dismissed. It was Mr. Greer, who was dining there that night, who later smoothed the matter over." He added, "Didn't think to tell you this morning."
"Hunter didn't know that Quarles was dead."
"Or he didn't let on that he knew." Padgett took a deep breath. "But that's neither here nor there." He turned to survey the bedroom and the sitting room beyond. "If there are guilty secrets hidden in this wing, I don't know where to find them."
Rutledge agreed with him. But it was beginning to look like Quarles had no secrets to hide, personal or professional. None at least that might explain murder here in Somerset.
For that matter, if the man had been wise and clever, he'd kept no record of any misdeeds, so that they couldn't be discovered while he was alive or found after his death. An interesting thought…
The heavy dark woods and brocades of the master bedroom were almost melancholy, as if Quarles had spent very little time here, and even when he was in residence, he gathered nothing around him that might characterize the man underneath the successful facade. Was the estate itself all he needed to define himself? A measure of prestige, a visible statement that a man who had come from nothing had achieved everything? Old money, giving panache to the New. For some men it would be the crowning achievement of a lifetime.
Hamish said, "He was no' a countryman."
It appeared to be true, and that would explain why the house was treated as a symbol, not a home.
They locked the door behind them. Mrs. Downing waited for the keys to be passed to her. But Rutledge pocketed them, and her mouth thinned into a disapproving line.
On their way down the main staircase, they found themselves face- to-face with Mrs. Quarles, who was crossing the foyer. She looked up at them and said, "I see you've returned."
"Yes," Rutledge answered for both men. "Thank you for making your staff available to us. And if I may ask you one more question?"
She stopped, waiting.
Rutledge said, "Tomorrow-Monday-it will be necessary to notify your husband's solicitor and his business associates that he's dead."
"His solicitor is in the City. The firm of Hurley and Sons. As for his business associates, Davis Penrith was his partner until a year or so ago. He will be able to tell you who to contact." She hesitated and then asked, "Did Harold suffer?"
"You must ask Dr. O'Neil. But my impression was that he didn't."
"Thank you." She went on her way without another word. And he couldn't tell whether she was pleased or sorry.
From the house they went to the Home Farm, tucked in a fold of land and out of sight of Hallowfields.
It was a large, thatched stone house, and along the ridge of the roof, the thatcher had left his signature-the humorous vignette of a long- tailed cat chasing a mouse toward the chimney, while a second mouse peered out of what looked to be a hole in the thatch just behind the cat's heels. They had been created out of the same reeds that formed the roof and were remarkably clever.
Tom Masters opened the door to the two policemen, saying, "It's true, then? The scullery maid from Hallowfields told our cook not more than half an hour ago that Mr. Quarles was dead. I went up to the house, but no one answered the door. What's happened? I'm still in shock."
He was a square man, skin reddened by the sun, his dark hair streaked with gray. Rutledge could see the worry in his eyes.
"May we come in, Mr. Masters?" Padgett asked after explaining Rutledge's presence.
"Yes, yes, to be sure." He stood aside to let them enter and took them to a pretty parlor that overlooked the pond. "Sit down, please," he said, gesturing to the chairs across from the leather one that was clearly his. The worn seat and back had over the years taken his shape, and a pipe stand was to hand.
"Do you keep dogs, Mr. Masters?" Rutledge asked.
"We have two. They're out with my youngest son at the moment. What does this have to do with Mr. Quarles? Tell me what's going on."
"Last night, I was driving past Hallowfields and heard a dog barking," Padgett explained. "It was sharp, alarmed. When I stopped to investigate I found Mr. Quarles's body."
Masters frowned. "My dogs weren't roaming about last night. I know that for a fact. One sleeps with my son, and the other is in my bedroom at night. If they were out, I'd have known when I went up to bed." The frown deepened. "Are you suggesting that Harold Quarles simply dropped dead? No, I refuse to believe it. I'd have said he's fitter than I am."
"He was murdered." Rutledge watched as several expressions flitted across Masters's face.
"Murder? Dear God. I find that just as difficult to believe. Mrs. Quarles-how is she taking the news?"
"She's bearing up," Padgett said. "Did you see Mr. Quarles yesterday?"
"Yes, several times. The last time was just as my wife was bringing our tea. I saw him walking toward the house. I didn't speak to him then, but earlier we'd discussed several repairs that are needed about the estate. He seemed in the usual spirits at the time." Masters shook his head. "This is unimaginable. I'm having trouble grasping it."
"Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Mr. Quarles?" Padgett asked.
A wary expression crept into Tom Masters's eyes. "I can think of a dozen people who couldn't bear him. That's not to say they could possibly kill him. To what end?" He hesitated. "Are you quite sure this was murder?"
"Quite," Rutledge responded. "How many people are in your household, Mr. Masters?"
"Er, my wife, two sons, and a daughter-the eldest is twelve-and four servants-a cook and two maids and a man of all work. He's married to the cook."
"Do they sleep in the house?"
"Yes."
"Can you hear anything from the direction of the cottage? Or the tithe barn? A dog in distress? A motorcar coming down the farm lane? A loud quarrel? " Rutledge asked.
"Probably not. Unless I was outside and the wind was in the right quarter." Alarm spread across Masters's face. "Are you saying we might have heard-come to his aid in time? My God, that's a terrible thought!"
"I doubt if you'd have been in time, whatever you heard."
They talked for another five minutes, but Masters appeared to have no information that could help the police in their inquiries. All the same, Rutledge had a strong feeling that the man wasn't being completely hone
st, that behind the pleasant face and forthcoming manner, there was a niggling worry.
Rutledge asked the farm manager again if he could name anyone who'd had a falling-out with Harold Quarles, and again he denied that he could.
"I shouldn't wish to make trouble for anyone. There's a difference between having words with a man and killing him in cold blood." He glanced toward Padgett. "I'm a farmer, not a policeman. The inspector, here, can give you better guidance on that score. I'd only be repeating gossip."
They left soon after that. Padgett said as they returned to the motorcar, "You could see he was hiding something. I might as well tell you what it is. His wife had a disagreement with Quarles. Over a horse, of all things. But she got the better of him, and that was that. All the same, with two policemen staring you in the face, it's hard not to think the worst. The wonder was Quarles didn't sack Masters. But then he's one of the best farm managers in the West Country. It would have been cutting off one's nose to spite one's face."
"Strange," Rutledge said, "how many people who readily tell us how much Quarles was disliked, stop short at making a guess about who could have killed the man. It's almost like a conspiracy of silence: you did what I'd have enjoyed doing, and now I'll thank you by not giving you away."
Padgett laughed. "You had only to know the man to hate him. But I've heard he was highly thought of in London. Imagine that-the nobs taking to him like one of their own. Here there were two problems with Harold Quarles. One was his pursuit of women, the other his belief that most people could be used."
"Or else," Hamish said quietly from the rear seat, "he didna' wish to be treated as one of the villagers."
Which came back to Quarles's simple roots.
It was late afternoon when they reached Cambury. Padgett stretched his shoulders and said, "Precious little came of interviewing anyone at Hallowfields. I expect you'll want to leave for London tonight and try your luck there."
"What do you know about the church organist? Brunswick."
"How did you come across him?" Padgett turned to stare at him. "Is there something you aren't telling me?"
"I saw him going into the church just before I came to meet you."
"Ah. He was practicing, I expect. He seems to prefer that to going home. Not that I blame him. His wife is dead. A suicide. She just went out and drowned herself, without a word to anyone."
"Why did Mrs. Quarles list him among those who hated her husband?"
"Yes, well, probably to throw you off the scent."
Rutledge stopped the motorcar in front of the police station, but Padgett made no move to step out. "You'd better hear the rest of it," he said after a moment.
"His wife worked for Mr. Quarles for three months, while he was rusticating here in Somerset. He needed someone who could type letters, keep records. When he went back to London, he gave her an extra month's wages and let her go. It wasn't long afterward that she killed herself. Brunswick jumped to the conclusion that something had happened between his wife and Quarles and that she couldn't live with the knowledge."
"Had something happened?"
Padgett shrugged. "I expect the only two people who can answer that question are dead. There was no gossip. There's always gossip where there's scandal. But you can't convince Brunswick otherwise. I kept an eye on him at first, thinking he might do something rash."
"And you didn't think he might wait until your guard was down and then go after Quarles?"
"He's not the kind of man who kills in cold blood."
But Rutledge had seen the look in the organist's eyes. And heard the passionate music pouring through the empty church.
He let the subject drop, and said instead, "We should speak to the doctor."
Padgett brought himself back from whatever place his thoughts had wandered. "Oh. Yes, O'Neil. We can leave the motorcar at The Unicorn and walk."
It was not far to the doctor's surgery, where James Street crossed the High Street. O'Neil lived in a large stone house set back behind a low wall, a walk dividing two borders of flowers. A pear tree stood by the gate to the back garden, and a stone bench had been set beneath it. The other wing of the house was the surgery, with a separate entrance along a flagstone path. The two men knocked at the house door, and after several minutes O'Neil himself answered it and took them through to his office.
In a small examining room beyond it, Harold Quarles lay under a sheet. He seemed diminished by death, as if much of what made him the man he was had been pride and a fierce will.
"I've examined him, and my earlier conclusion about the blows on the head stand. The first was enough to stun him. The second was deliberate, intended to kill. In my view, whoever did this wasn't enraged. Angry enough to kill certainly, but there are only two blows, you see. If the killer had been in a fury, he'd have battered the head and the body indiscriminately. You'd have marks on the face and the shoulders and back, even after the man was dead."
Rutledge asked, "You said the first blow was intended to stun."
"That's how it appears. You can see for yourself that he's a strong man, well able to defend himself. If the purpose of the attack was to kill, it would have been easier to accomplish if Quarles was down. If the murderer had stopped then, Quarles would have survived. Perhaps with a concussion and a devil of a headache, but alive."
"If he'd stopped, Quarles might have been able to identify him. Which could mean they were face-to-face, and then Quarles turned his back."
"What sort of weapon made these wounds?" Rutledge lifted the sheet.
"I couldn't begin to guess. Not angular, but not all together smooth. Solid, I should think. But not large. The edge of a spanner is too narrow. But that sort of thing."
"A river stone?" Rutledge gently restored the sheet.
"Possibly. But not exclusively that. An iron ladle? I'm not sure about a croquet ball. The brass head of a firedog? A paperweight, if it was a heavy one and there was enough force behind it. Surely it depends on whether someone came to do murder, or attacked the man on the spur of the moment. I couldn't find anything in the wound-no bits of grass or rust or fabric to guide us. I've given you all I can."
"Something a woman could wield?" Padgett suggested.
"I can't rule out a woman," O'Neil said skeptically. "But how did she manage to carry Quarles to the tithe barn, and then put him into that harness?"
"She had help. Once she'd done the deed, she went for help." It was Padgett speaking, his back to the room as he looked out the narrow window.
"Possible. But who do you ask to help you do such a thing to a dead man?"
"A good question."
Rutledge asked, "Is Charles Archer capable of walking?"
O'Neil's eyebrows flew up. "Archer? Of course not. I've been his physician for several years. He can stand for a brief time, he can walk a few steps. But if you're suggesting that he helped carry Quarles to the tithe barn, you are mad."
"What if Quarles was put into that invalid's chair of Archer's, and pushed?" Padgett interjected.
"I can't see Archer helping, even so. Of course I can't rule out the use of his chair."
"It's important to eliminate the possibility. We've been told that Quarles went out to dine last night. Did he in fact eat his dinner?" Rutledge asked.
"I haven't looked to see. Is it important?"
"Probably not. He was seen on the High Street around ten-thirty. That would indicate he'd spent the evening in Cambury." He turned to Padgett. "Did Quarles have friends on Minton Street, friends he might have dined with?"
Padgett said, "I'll have one of my men go door to door tomorrow. But offhand I can't think of anyone in particular. He was a queer man, not one to make friends here. Mr. Greer is his equal, that's to say, financially. You'd think they might have got on together. Instead they were often at loggerheads."
O'Neil said, "Are you saying it might be one of us? I can't think of anyone I know who would kill a man and then hang him in that infernal contraption."
"Perhaps
the point of that was to make sure he wasn't found for some time. If Padgett here hadn't heard a dog barking and gone to investigate, it might have been a day or two before the barn was searched."
"Which would give the murderer time to get clear of Cambury and see to his alibi," Padgett said.
Soon after, they thanked O'Neil and left.
"I must telephone London," Rutledge commented as the two men walked back the way they'd come. "Someone may already have spoken to the solicitors and the partner."
He'd suspected that Bowles had put someone else in charge of the London side of the inquiry. Now he had an excuse to find out.
"I thought you were in charge," Padgett said.
"Here, yes."
Padgett paused by a bookshop. Rutledge looked up and saw that the name in scrolled gold letters above the door was NEMESIS. The shop was dark, but he could see the shelves of books facing the windows and a small, untidy desk on one side.
Padgett was saying, "You didn't tell me this." There was dissatisfaction in his voice. He'd hoped to be rid of the Yard.
If that was the case, why had he sent for them in the first place? Rutledge wondered.
With a sigh Padgett prepared to take his leave. "See what your London colleague has to say, and perhaps we'll have a better grip on what's to be done here. Tomorrow I'll send Constable Horton to Minton Street to discover where Quarles dined. We'll see if it holds with what Hunter told you at the hotel." He nodded in farewell and went on toward his house.
Rutledge watched him go. Hamish, in the back of his mind, said, "It wouldna' astonish me if yon policeman was the killer."
Surprised, Rutledge said aloud, "Why?"
"I dona' ken why. Only that he muddles the ground at every turn. And there's only his word that he found the body."
It was true. Padgett had offered a number of suspects for consideration, and then changed his mind. Others he'd neglected to mention.