Charles Todd_Ian Rutledge 11

by A Matter of Justice

  Rutledge followed him there. Hunter kept his quarters Spartan. There were accounts on a cabinet beside his desk, ledgers on the shelves behind it, and a half dozen letters on his blotter. Nothing personal decorated the desk’s top, the cabinet, or the shelves. The only incongruous piece was the glass figure of a donkey, about three inches high, standing on the square table by the door.

  Hunter sat down and reached for a large magnifying glass that he kept in his drawer. With it poised in one hand, he asked, “Who is it you are enquiring about?”

  “Harold Quarles.”

  Hunter put down the glass. “Ah. I can tell you he didn’t dine with us last evening.” He frowned. “Were you told otherwise?”

  “We aren’t sure where he took his dinner. The hotel was the most logical place to begin.”

  “Yes, certainly. Er, perhaps his wife or staff might be more useful than I?”

  “They have no idea where he went when he left the house. Except to dine somewhere close by.”

  “And you haven’t seen Mr. Quarles to ask him?”

  “He’s not at home at present.”

  Rutledge got a straight look. “What exactly is it you’re asking me, Mr. Rutledge?”

  Rutledge smiled. “It’s no matter. If he wasn’t here, he wasn’t here.” He rose. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Hunter.”

  “I saw Mr. Quarles last evening. But not here. Not at the hotel.”

  Rutledge stopped. “At what time?”

  “It was close on to ten-thirty. Most of our dinner guests had left, and I stepped outside to take a breath of fresh air. I was looking up the High Street—in the opposite direction from Hallowfields, you see—and I heard raised voices. That’s not usual in Cambury, but it was a Saturday night, and sometimes the men who frequent The Black Pudding go home in rowdy spirits. I stood there for a moment, in the event there was trouble, but nothing happened. No one else spoke, there was nothing more to disturb the night. As I was about to go inside, I heard footsteps coming briskly from Minton Street, and I saw Harold Quarles turning the corner into the High.”

  “Minton Street?”

  “It’s just past us, where you see the stationer’s on the corner.”

  “Where does Minton Street lead?”

  “There are mostly houses in that direction.”

  “No other place to dine, except in a private home?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And Mr. Quarles continued to walk past the hotel, as far as you know?”

  Hunter said, “I had shut the door before he reached the hotel. I’m not on good terms with the man.”

  “Indeed?”

  “He was drunk and disorderly in the dining room last spring. There was a scene, and I had to ask him to leave. It was embarrassing to me and to the hotel—and should have been to him as well. I haven’t spoken to him since.”

  Padgett had said nothing about Hunter’s encounter. He hadn’t named the manager at all.

  “Yes, I see that it would be uncomfortable. And so you have no way of knowing where Quarles went from Minton Street?”

  “None.” It was firmly spoken, his eyes holding Rutledge’s.

  “And he was alone? On foot?”

  “Yes, on both counts.”

  “Do you know if there’s anyone on Minton Street who might count Mr. Quarles among their acquaintance?”

  “I would have no idea.”

  Rutledge thanked him and left Hunter sitting in his office, staring at the door.

  At least, he thought, it put Quarles alone and on foot in town around half past ten. With perhaps another twenty or at most thirty minutes for his journey homeward. If that was where he was intending to go. Too bad Hunter hadn’t seen which direction Quarles had taken.

  Rutledge walked out of the hotel to the corner of Minton Street. Looking down it, he could see that the nearer houses were large and well kept, the sort of home that Quarles might have visited. It would be necessary to speak to each household, then, to find out. Or Padgett’s men might be able to narrow that down.

  There was a lane at the foot of Minton Street running parallel to the High Street, where cottages backed up to the fields beyond, a line of low hills in the distance. It wasn’t likely that Quarles had dined in one of the cottages. Or was it? Had he chosen to walk into Cambury, to keep his destination private? Or was he to meet his chauffeur or retrieve the motorcar somewhere else?

  Hamish said, “If it was the home of a woman?”

  That too was possible.

  Rutledge continued walking up the High Street, looking in the windows of closed shops as he passed. There were other small streets crossing the High—Church Street and Button Row, James Street and Sedge Lane.

  Beyond Sedge Lane stood the workaday world of the smithy-turned-garage and other untidy businesses that clung to the outskirts of a village struggling to become a small town, supplying the inhabitants whilst keeping themselves out of sight. Just beyond these, where the main road became Cambury’s main street, was the cluster of cottages Rutledge had noted in the dark last night.

  He turned back the way he’d come, crossing the High Street where a large pub, whitewashed and thatched, stood at the next corner, offering tables in the front garden under small flowering trees. The overhead sign showed a large kettle with steam rising from it, made of wrought iron in a black iron frame. The Black Pudding. It had the air of an old coaching inn and was one of the few buildings in Cambury that wasn’t directly on the road, only a narrow pavement for pedestrians separating most of the house walls from the street.

  He carried on to The Unicorn and went up to his room. This time he didn’t resist the temptation of his bed, and stretched out as he was, his mind restless, Hamish lurking on the threshold of wakefulness until the ringing of the church bells roused him.

  When services had ended, Rutledge retraced his steps to Church Street. Cambury had sprung into life while he slept, people stopping to speak to friends or herding their children toward home. St. Martin’s was set in a broad walled churchyard that abutted a house of the same stone as the church. The rectory, then. A sign board gave the rector’s name as Samuel Heller. The stonework of the church facade was old but well maintained, and the tall, ornate tower rose into a blue, cloudless sky. Last night’s mist might never have been. Crossing the grassy churchyard, Rutledge saw the gate set into the wall and went through, into the front garden of the rectory.

  He could hear birds singing in the trees scattered among the weathered gravestones, and a magpie perched on a shrouded marble cross watched him with a black and unreadable eye. Where there was shade the grass was still wet under his feet. On a gentle breeze came the sound of a cow lowing in a field beyond the houses.

  The rector was at his breakfast and came to answer Rutledge’s knock with his serviette still tucked under his chin. He seemed surprised to find a stranger on his doorstep, but smiled warmly and invited Rutledge to step into the narrow hall. Holding out his hand, he said, “I don’t believe you’re one of my flock. I’m Samuel Heller, rector of St. Martin’s. How may I help you?”

  “The name is Rutledge,” he said, taking the rector’s hand. The man’s grip was firm and warm. “I’m from London, from Scotland Yard, and I need a few minutes of your time to speak to you about one of your parishioners.”

  “Oh, dear. That sounds rather serious. I was just finishing my toast,” he said, taking out the serviette and wiping his lips. “Could I interest you in a cup of tea? The kitchen is a pleasant room, and my housekeeper doesn’t come in on a Sunday, to chase us out of it.”

  Rutledge followed him back to the kitchen, and it was indeed a pleasant room, giving onto a garden, a small orchard behind it, and several outbuildings that by the look of them, their wood a pale silver, had served the rectory for centuries. The kitchen door stood open to the yard, letting in the warmth and sunlight and a handful of flies.

  “I don’t usually entertain in the kitchen,” the rector went on in apology. “But the vestry meeting is in
a quarter of an hour, and I am running a little late today.”

  He did look tired. Gesturing to a chair across the table from where he had been sitting, he brought Rutledge a fresh cup, then pushed the teapot over the polished wood toward him. Rutledge helped himself. It was strong tea, black and bitter, as if it had steeped too long.

  “Now then, you were saying…?”

  It was hard to judge Heller—he was nearing middle age and thin, with an open face and calm gray eyes. Yet Padgett had included him in the list of Quarles’s enemies.

  “I believe Mr. Quarles at Hallowfields is one of your flock?”

  There was a brief hesitation in the knife buttering Heller’s toast, but his face showed nothing. “I include him in my flock, yes.”

  Which, as Hamish was pointing out, was not precisely a response to what Rutledge had asked him.

  “How well do you know him?”

  Heller put down his knife and looked at Rutledge. “Has he done something wrong, something that has drawn the attention of the police?”

  He had answered a question with a question, almost as if he expected to learn that Quarles was on the point of being taken into custody and was reluctant to add to his troubles.

  “Do you know him, Mr. Heller?” Rutledge asked bluntly.

  “Sadly, not as well as I should like. I fear he’s not what could charitably be called a member in good standing at St. Martin’s. I expect I could count on one hand the number of times he’s attended a service. Or that I have been invited to dine at Hallowfields.” Heller smiled disarmingly. “But I’m stubborn to the bone, and I refuse to concede defeat. We asked Mr. Quarles to serve on the vestry, but he replied that it was not in anyone’s best interest. I interpreted that to mean he’s not often in Cambury and had no real knowledge of our problems here. But to give him his due, he takes a personal interest in Cambury, if not the church.”

  “In what way?”

  “I think Mr. Quarles looks upon himself as squire, much to the—er—dismay of people in some quarters. We aren’t strictly agricultural, you see, we’ve had cottage industries here for many years. Weaving, glove making. Even lace at one time. It changes one’s perspective about such things. And there’s the other side of the coin. What does a Londoner know about farming?”

  The rector was nearly as good at skirting issues as Padgett. But he had confirmed Constable Daniels’s remarks.

  When Rutledge didn’t comment, Heller said, “Now perhaps you’ll be good enough to tell me why you are here. What is your visit in aid of? Why questions about Mr. Quarles on a bright Sunday morning?”

  “I’m afraid that Harold Quarles was murdered last night.”

  “My dear Lord!” Shock wiped all expression from the rector’s face. “I—we—don’t often see murder. Surely it wasn’t here—among us? That’s why you’re from the Yard, isn’t it? The poor man died in London.”

  “I’m afraid someone met him near the Home Farm, and killed him there.”

  Heller sat back in his chair, staring at Rutledge.

  “I must go to Mrs. Quarles at once,” he said finally. “My meeting will have to wait.” He frowned. “Near the Home Farm, you say? That’s dreadful! It wasn’t someone here, was it? I mean, it stands to reason that someone from London—” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he glanced at Rutledge in consternation, as if he would recall them if he could.

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Heller blinked. “If he conducts himself in the City the same way he conducts himself here, it wouldn’t be surprising. And I’m sure some of his business dealings are not always as successful as he might wish. I’ve heard of at least one where there was great disappointment in the outcome. Not the fault of Harold Quarles, I’m sure, investments can be volatile, but when someone has lost his savings, he tends to blame the messenger, as it were.”

  “Have people here in Cambury lost money through Mr. Quarles? For instance, Mr. Stephenson?”

  “You will have to ask them, Inspector. I don’t feel it’s my place to say more about a man who is dead.”

  “If anything you know has a bearing on his murder, then you have an obligation to help the police get at the truth.”

  “Yes.” The word was drawn out. Heller removed his serviette a second time, automatically folding it and setting it neatly by his plate. “You must forgive me, Mr. Rutledge. I shall have to speak briefly to my vestry and then go to Hallowfields. Thank you for bringing me the news personally.” He stood up, and Rutledge followed suit.

  “I would prefer it if you told no one else about Mr. Quarles for the moment.”

  “But—”

  “We have many people to interview, and it would be best if we could see their reactions to the news for ourselves. But you may call on Mrs. Quarles, if she needs consolation.”

  “This is highly irregular—”

  “Murder often is, Rector.”

  They walked together from the kitchen to the door. Rutledge said, “Whoever killed Harold Quarles, he or she may come to you for comfort of a sort. In a roundabout way, perhaps, but you’ll sense when something is wrong. Be careful, then, will you? It’s likely that this person could kill again.” He saw once more the winged body in the shadows of the tithe barn’s roof. Murder hadn’t satisfied the killer—whoever it was had needed to wreak his anger on the dead as well. But in the cold light of day, as powerful emotions drained away, there could be a need to justify them, to feel that what had been done was deserved.

  “I would hate to think that anyone I knew might be capable of murder.” The rector had looked away, evading Rutledge’s eyes.

  “Let us hope it was not one of your flock. But the fact remains that someone was capable of it. Or Quarles would still be alive, and you’d be finishing your breakfast in peace.”

  Heller stopped at the door. “I don’t believe in judging, Inspector. So that I myself need not fear judging.”

  With that remark, the rector swung the door shut.

  Hamish said, “A verra’ fine sentiment. But no’ the whole truth.”

  Rutledge was halfway down the rectory path when he saw a man crossing the churchyard toward the north door, carrying a sheaf of papers under his arm. The man looked up, and for a moment their eyes met. Then he turned away and stepped inside the church. But there was something in that glance—even at the distance between the two men—that held more than curiosity about a stranger. It had lasted long enough to be personal, as if weighing up an adversary.

  Rutledge changed course as he went through the gate that separated the churchyard from the rectory. As he reached the porch and opened the door, he could hear music pouring from the church organ, the opening notes of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. It was triumphant and sure, the instrument responding to the touch of trained hands. The great pipes sent their echoes through the sanctuary, filling it with sound, and the acoustics were perfect for such an emotional piece.

  Hamish said, “His thoughts may ha’ been elsewhere. He came to practice.”

  “I’d swear he knows why I’m here in Cambury. Not many people do. Yet.”

  “Ye ken, he must ha’ seen you with yon inspector. And he’s feeling guilty for anither reason.”

  Rutledge considered that for a moment, half of his mind on the music as it seemed to wrap around him there in the doorway. He hadn’t mistaken that brief challenge. And he was certain the man knew Rutledge had taken it up and come as far as the church door.

  Indeed, as he turned to go, he could feel the organist watching him in the small mirror set above the keys.

  Let him wonder why the encounter had ended here. Or worry.

  Outside, Rutledge stopped by the church board to see the name of the player. It was the third line down. One Michael Brunswick, and Mrs. Quarles had mentioned his name only four hours earlier.

  10

  It was past one o’clock when Rutledge walked into the police station. Padgett was on the point of leaving, and he frowned as Rutledge met him in the passage.<
br />
  “I thought you might be sleeping still. I can tell you, I’d have stayed in my own bed if I’d been given the choice.”

  Rutledge said, “I went to speak to the rector.”

  Padgett’s tone had an edge. “And was he any help in our inquiries?”

  “Did you expect him to help?”

  There was a twitch in Padgett’s jaw. “Where’s your motorcar? Still at The Unicorn? Constable Jenkins hasn’t returned with mine.”

  As Padgett followed Rutledge across the High Street, he went on. “I’ve had time to think. I was all for blaming Mrs. Quarles. But I was wrong. This killing is most likely connected with London in some fashion. That’s where Quarles lived and did business. We’re wasting our time at Hallowfields.”

  “If that’s true, why wasn’t he killed in London?”

  “Too obvious. There, the first people the police will want to speak to are his clients and business associates. You know the drill. But kill him in Somerset, and the police are going to look at his neighbors here, never thinking about London.”

  Rutledge smiled. “Which is precisely what someone here in Cambury may have been counting on—that we will hare off to London. Someone at Hallowfields may point us in the right direction.”

  Padgett had no answer to that.

  Hamish said, “He wants you away to London. Ye ken, he’d like naething better than to find the killer himsel’.”

  But as the other inspector climbed into the motorcar, Rutledge found himself thinking that Padgett had other reasons to want to see the back of Scotland Yard.

  They drove in uneasy silence back to Hallowfields.

  Mrs. Downing summoned the indoor staff to her sitting room off the passage across from the kitchen, and they stood in front of the policemen in a ragged row, clearly uneasy. Rutledge counted them. The cook, her scullery maid, three upstairs maids and a footman, the boot boy, and the chauffeur.

  All of them denied any knowledge of where Mr. Quarles had gone last evening. He had not called for the motorcar, nor had he taken it out himself. Aside from the message to the kitchen that he wouldn’t be dining at home, no one had seen him after five o’clock.