He heaved himself to his feet, gripping the farmer’s outstretched hand for support until he could trust his legs to hold him upright.
“I’m all right. By the time you get your team here, I’ll be able to drive.”
“Drive? You need a doctor above all else.”
“No, I’m all right,” he repeated, though he could hear Hamish telling him that he was far from right. “Please fetch your team. What time is it? Do you know?”
“Past milking time. The cows are already in the barn, waiting.”
“Then the sooner you pull me out of here, the sooner they can be milked.”
The farmer took a deep breath. “If that’s what you’re set on, I’ll go. I don’t have time to stand here and argue.”
He tramped off, a square man with heavy shoulders and muddy boots. As the lantern bobbed with each step, Rutledge felt another surge of nausea and turned away.
Without the lantern, he couldn’t see the motorcar very well, but as he walked around it, it seemed to be in good condition. The tires were whole, and the engine turned over when he tried it, though it coughed first.
Hamish said, “Ye fell asleep.”
“I thought it was your task to keep me awake. We could have been killed.”
“It was no’ likely, though ye ken your head hit yon windscreen with an almighty crack.”
Rutledge put his hand up again to the lump. It seemed to be growing, not receding, though his chest, while it still ached, seemed to feel a little better. He could breathe without the stabbing pain he’d felt earlier. His ribs would have to wait.
“It was pride that made you drive all night. To reach London before yon inspector.”
He and Mickelson had had several run-ins, though the chief cause of Mickelson’s dislike of Rutledge had to do with an inquiry in West-morland last December.
“Aye, ye’ll no’ admit it,” Hamish said, when Rutledge didn’t reply.
The farmer was back with his horses, and the huge draft animals pulled the motorcar back to the road with ease, the bunched muscles of their haunches rippling in the light of the farmer’s lantern.
“Come to the house and rest a bit,” the man urged when the motorcar was on solid ground once more. “A cup of tea will see you right.”
Rutledge held up the empty Thermos. “I’ve tea here. But thanks.” He offered to pay the man, but the farmer shook his head. “Do the same for someone else in need, and we’re square,” he said, turning to lead his team back to the barn.
Watching the draft animals move off in the darkness, the lantern shining on the white cuffs of shaggy hair hanging over their hooves, Rutledge was beginning to regret his decision. But he could see false dawn in the east, and he would need to change his clothes and wash his face before finding Penrith.
The drive into London was difficult. His head was thundering, and his chest complained as he moved the wheel or reached for the brakes. But he was in his flat as the sun swept over the horizon. He looked in his mirror with surprise. A purpling lump above his eye and bloody streaks down to his collar—small wonder the farmer was worried about his driving on.
A quick bath was in order, and a change of clothes. He managed both after a fashion, looking down at the bruised half circle on his chest where he’d struck the wheel. His ribs were still tender, and he suspected he’d sustained a mild concussion.
Nausea stood between him and breakfast, and in the end, after two cups of tea, he set out to find Quarles’s former partner. There was a clerk just opening the door at the countinghouse in Leadenhall Street, and Rutledge asked for Penrith.
“Mr. Penrith is no longer with this firm,” the clerk said severely, eyeing the bruise on Rutledge’s forehead.
Rutledge presented his identification.
The clerk responded with a nod. “You’ll find him just down the street, and to your left, the third door.”
“Are any of your senior officials here at this hour?”
“No, sir, I’m afraid not. They’ll be going directly to a meeting at nine-thirty at the Bank of England.”
Rutledge followed instructions but discovered that Mr. Penrith had not so far arrived at his firm at the usual hour this morning. “We expect him at ten o’clock,” the clerk told Rutledge after a long look at his identification.
It took some convincing to pry Penrith’s direction out of the man.
Armed with that, Rutledge drove on to a tall, gracious house in Belgravia. Black shutters and black railings matched the black door, and two potted evergreens stood guard on either side of the shallow steps.
The pert maid who opened the door informed him that she would ask if Mr. Penrith was at home.
Five minutes later, Rutledge was being shown into a drawing room that would have had Padgett spluttering with indignation. Cream and pale green, it was as French as money could make it.
Penrith joined him shortly, standing in the doorway as if prepared to flee. Or so it appeared for a split second. When he stepped into the room, his expression was one of stoicism. He didn’t invite Rutledge to sit down.
“What brings the police here? Is it the firm? My family?”
Rutledge replied, “Mr. Penrith, I’m afraid I must inform you that your former partner, Harold Quarles, is dead.”
The shock on Penrith’s face appeared to be genuine. “Dead? Where? How?”
Rutledge’s head felt as if there were salvos of French eighty-eights going off simultaneously on either side of him. “In Somerset, at his estate.”
After a moment, Penrith sat down and put his hands over his face, effectively hiding it, and said through the shield of his fingers, “Of what cause? Surely not suicide? I refuse to believe he would kill himself.”
Mrs. Quarles had said the same thing.
“Why are you so certain, sir?”
Penrith lowered his hands. “For one thing, Harold Quarles is—was—the hardest man I’ve ever met. For another, he was afraid of nothing. I can’t even begin to imagine anything that would make him want to die.”
“I’m afraid he was murdered.”
He thought Penrith was going to fall off his chair.
“Murdered? By whom?”
“I have no answer to that. Not yet. I’ve come to London to find it.”
“It can’t be someone in the City. I can’t think of anyone who would—I mean to say, even his professional competitors respected him.” He stopped and cleared his throat. “He was generally well liked in London. Both his business acumen and his ability to deal with people took him into the very best circles. You can ask anyone you choose.”
“I understand Quarles was from—er—different circumstances, in his youth.”
“I know very little about his past. He was frank about being poor in his youth, and people admired that. Accepted it, because of his ability to fit in, like a chameleon. That’s to say his table manners were impeccable, he knew how to dress well, and his conversation was that of a gentleman, though his accent wasn’t. People could enjoy his company without any sense of lowering their own standards. They could introduce their wives and daughters to him without fear that he would embarrass them with his attentions.”
His praise had an edge to it, as if Penrith was envious.
“Have you known him long?”
“He and I joined the firm about the same time, and we prospered there. In fact ended as partners. Still, I preferred to reduce my schedule in the last year or so, and left James, Quarles & Penrith to set up for myself. He wished me well, and I’ve been glad of more time to spend with my family.”
Penrith was fair and slim and had an air of coming from a good school, an excellent background if not a wealthy one. It was not likely that the two men had much in common beyond their business dealings. That would explain the stiffness in his answers.
“How is Mrs. Quarles taking the news?” Penrith asked. “I must send her my condolences.”
“She’s bearing up,” Rutledge answered, and saw what he suspected was a flicker of amusement in Penrith
’s blue eyes before he looked down at his hands.
“Yes, well, this has been a shock to me. Thank you for coming in person to tell me. Will you keep me abreast of the search for his killer? I’d like to know.”
“I was fortunate to find you at home at this hour.”
“Yes, I’ve just returned from Scotland and it was a tiring journey. My wife is visiting there.”
“I must call on his solicitor next. Do you know of any reason why someone would wish to harm Harold Quarles? You would be in a better position than most to know of a disgruntled client, a personal quarrel…”
“I’ve told you. His clients were pleased with him. As for personal problems, I don’t believe there were any. He wasn’t in debt, his reputation was solid, his connections of the best. But then I was his business partner, not a confidant.”
“I understand in Somerset that he had a much different reputation—for pursuing women, with or without their consent.”
A dark flush suffused Penrith’s fair skin. “It’s the first I’ve heard of it.” His tone was harsh, as if Rutledge had insulted his former partner.
“He didn’t have the same reputation in London?” Rutledge pressed.
“I told you. Not at all. Do you think he’d have been invited to weekends at the best houses if that were the case?”
“Thank you for your help. You can always reach me through Sergeant Gibson at the Yard.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” He got up and walked with Rutledge to the door. “This is very distressing.”
Rutledge paused on the threshold. “Were you invited down to Somerset often?”
“Quarles and his wife seldom entertained after their separation. Over the years, I was probably in that house a dozen times at most, and then only when we had pressing business. I can count on one hand the number of times I dined there.”
“Did you know of Mrs. Quarles’s relationship with her cousin Charles Archer?”
“Yes, I did. By the time Archer came to live at Hallowfields, Harold and Maybelle were estranged. It made for an uncomfortable weekend there, if you must know. I never understood what the problem was, and Harold never spoke of the situation. One year they were perfectly happy, and the next they were living in different wings of the house. This must have been late 1913, or early 1914. He was angry most of the time, and she was like a block of ice. But I can tell you that after Archer arrived, wounded and in need of care, the house settled into an armed peace, if you can imagine that. I shouldn’t be telling you this—it would be the last thing Harold would countenance from me. But he’s dead, isn’t he? And I shouldn’t care for you to think that Mrs. Quarles was in any way involved in this murder.”
In spite of his claim that he shouldn’t have discussed the issue, there was an almost vindictive relish behind the words, as if Penrith was pleased that Harold’s marriage was in trouble. A counterpoint to his own happy one?
Rutledge said, “I shall, of course, need to verify your claim to have been in Scotland.”
Penrith seemed taken aback. “My claim? Oh—of course. Routine.”
Rutledge thanked him and went out the door, feeling dizzy as he reached the motorcar. But it passed, and he went on to Hurley and Sons, Quarles’s solicitors. The street was Georgian brick, and the shingles of solicitors gleamed golden in the morning light as he found a space for his motorcar.
A clerk in the outer office verified that Hurley and Sons had dealt with Mr. Quarles’s affairs for many years, and showed Rutledge into the paneled office of Jason Hurley, a white-haired man of sixty. When he realized that his visitor was from Scotland Yard, he immediately suggested that his son Laurence join them. The younger Hurley was indeed his father’s son—they shared a prominent chin and heavy, flaring eyebrows that gave them both a permanently startled expression.
Quarles’s solicitors were shocked by the news—which Rutledge gave them in full—asking questions about their client’s death, showing alarm when Rutledge told them that no one had yet been taken into custody.
“But that’s monstrous!” the elder Hurley told him. “I find it hard to believe.”
“The inquiry is in its earliest stage,” he reminded them. “There’s still much to be done. That’s why I’m here, to ask who will inherit the bulk of Harold Quarles’s estate.”
Jason Hurley turned to his son. “Fetch the box for me, will you, Laurence?”
The younger man got up and left the room.
Hurley said, as soon as the door closed, “Was it an affair with a woman, by any chance? Mr. Quarles had many good qualities, but sometimes his—er—passions got the best of him.”
“Did they indeed?”
“Occasionally we’ve been required to mollify the anger of someone who took exception to his pursuit. Mr. Quarles didn’t wish his…pecadillos…to come to the ears of his London clientele.”
“Who were these women? Where did they live?”
“In Somerset. I sometimes felt that perhaps this wasn’t really an unfortunate passion as much as it was a way of striking back at Mrs. Quarles for the separation. You know her circumstances?”
“I’ve spoken to her,” Rutledge answered the solicitor. “She was quite clear about how she felt.”
“Yes, well, they had a quarrel the year before the war. I have no idea what it was about, but the result was a decision to live separately after that. Mrs. Quarles undertook the management of her own funds, and except for the house, for their son’s benefit, they no longer held any investments in common.”
“How did Quarles take the arrival of his wife’s cousin soon after their separation?” Rutledge asked, curious now.
“He had very little to say about it. He’d already informed us that we would handle the legal aspects of the separation, and there was really nothing more to add. Certainly, Mr. Archer was on the Continent when the marriage fell apart, for whatever reason. He couldn’t be called to account for that, whatever his later relationship with Mrs. Quarles might be.”
“Was it before or after Mr. Archer came to live at Hallowfields that Mr. Quarles’s—er—pursuits began?”
“To my knowledge, well afterward. Which is why I drew the conclusions I have. As far as the separation went, Mr. Quarles was scrupulous in his handling of it.”
“Aye,” Hamish interjected, “he could show his vindictiveness then.”
An interesting point, and Rutledge was on the brink of following it up when the solicitor’s son returned with the box.
Hurley opened it and looked at the packets inside before choosing one. “This is Mr. Quarles’s last will and testament.” He unfolded it and scanned the document. “Just as I thought, the only bequest to Mrs. Quarles is a life interest in the house in which she now resides—the estate called Hallowfields. The remainder of his estate is held in trust until Marcus’s twenty-fifth birthday. A wise decision, as it is a rather large sum, and Marcus is presently at Rugby.”
“Nothing unusual in that arrangement,” Laurence Hurley put in. “Considering their marital circumstances.”
“Yes, I agree. What about his firm? Did he leave instructions for its future? Does anyone gain there?” Rutledge asked.
“There is provision for junior partners to buy out his share. A very fair and equitable settlement, in my opinion. When he made out his will, Mr. Quarles told me that he couldn’t see his son following in his footsteps. He felt Marcus would be better suited to the law if he wished to follow a profession. He held that money could ruin a young man if not earned by his own labor, even though his son will be well set up financially.”
“Can you think of anyone who might have clashed with Mr. Quarles, over business affairs or personal behavior? Enough to hate him and want to ridicule him in death?”
Laurence Hurley said, “By indicating that he was no angel? Or that he pretended to be an angel? I don’t quite see the point, other than to hide his body for as long as possible. His murderer would have had to know about that apparatus, wouldn’t he? That smacks of someone local.”
Jason Hurley frowned at his son’s comments. “To be honest with you, I can’t conceive of anyone. No one in London, certainly. He was respected here.”
Rutledge asked, “If he was—unhappy—about his wife’s situation, how did Mr. Quarles react to what he might have viewed as his partner’s defection? Was there retaliation?”
“Even when he and Davis Penrith dissolved their partnership, it appeared to be amicable. Although I couldn’t help but think that Mr. Penrith would have been better off financially if he’d continued in the firm. Not that he hasn’t done well on his own, you understand, but the firm is an old one and has been quite profitable over the years. It would have been to his advantage to stay on.”
“I understand from Mr. Penrith that he wished to spend more time with his family than the partnership allowed.”
“Ah, that would explain it, of course. Mr. Quarles was most certainly a man who relished his work and devoted himself to it. I sometimes wondered if that had initiated the rift with his wife. His clients loved him for his eye to detail, but it required hours of personal attention.”
“Was there anyone else who might have crossed Mr. Quarles? Who later might have felt that there were reprisals?”
Both father and son were shocked. They insisted that with the exception of his matrimonial troubles, Mr. Quarles had never exhibited a vengeful nature.
“And marriage,” Laurence Hurley added, “has its own pitfalls. I daresay he could accept the breakup, perhaps in the hope that it would heal in time. When Mr. Archer joined the household, hope vanished. Mr. Quarles wouldn’t be the first man to suffer jealousy and look for comfort where he could.”
Hamish said, “Ye ken, he’s speaking of his ain marriage…”
There was nothing more the senior Mr. Hurley could add. Quarles had left no letters to be opened after his death, and no other bequests that, in Hurley’s terms, “could raise eyebrows.”
“Except of course the large bequest to a servant, one Betty Richards,” Laurence Hurley reminded his father.
“Indeed. Mr. Quarles himself explained that she had been faithful and deserved to be financially secure when he was dead. I haven’t met her, but I understand there was no personal reason for his thoughtfulness, except the fact that she was already in her forties and as time passed would find it hard to seek other service. He was often a kind man.”
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