"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 d
oorway. 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.
I t 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.
"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.
Mrs. Blount, the cook, was a thin woman with graying hair. She added, "I was told not to expect Mr. Quarles for dinner, and that was that. It's not for me to question his comings and goings."
"Who gave you that message? Did you speak to Mr. Quarles yourself, or to someone else?"
"I believe it must have been Mrs. Quarles," Downing, the housekeeper, answered after no one else spoke up.
Lily, the youngest of the maids, softly cleared her throat. "I was coming to clear away the tea things when I heard him tell someone in the passage that he was dining out."
"Did you see who it was he was speaking to?"
"No, sir, I didn't."
"It was me he told." The woman standing behind the others spoke up.
"And you are..."
"My name is Betty, sir." There was strain in her face. Rutledge put her age at forty, her pale hair and pale eyebrows giving her a look of someone drained of life, enduring all the blows that came her way with patient acceptance, as if she knew all too well that she counted for little in the scheme of things. "I look after Mr. Quarles when he's to home." Her accent wasn't Somerset. Rutledge thought it might be East Anglian. A stranger among strangers.
"And no' likely to pry," Hamish put in. "Or gossip with the ithers."
"No one saw him leave?"
Downing said repressively, "We have our duties, Inspector, we don't hang about looking out the windows to see what our betters are up to."
"We was that busy in the kitchens," the cook added, as if excusing the staff. "There was no one in the front of the house just then. Mrs. Quarles had asked for a tray to be brought up, and Mr. Archer was taking his dinner alone in the dining room."
"Did any of you hear anything in the night? Dogs barking, a motorcar on the drive, shouting..."
They hadn't, shuffling a little as they denied any knowledge of what had happened.
Betty said, "Please, sir. I've been told Mr. Quarles is dead. Mrs. Quarles called us all together to say so. No one will tell me anything else."
"I'm afraid it's true," Rutledge answered her. "Someone killed him last night."
He could see the horror reflected in every face, and in Betty's eyes, a welling of tears that were quickly repressed.
"I can't give you any more information at present," he added to forestall questions.
"It would help if you could think of anyone who might wish your master harm." Padgett, speaking for the first time, kept his voice level, without emphasis.
"Mrs. Newell," the footman offered, to an accompanying ripple of nervous laughter. "She was cook here before Mrs. Blount. She was always quarrelling with him over the cost of food, and the proper way to prepare it. In the end he sacked her after a mighty row."
Padgett caught Rutledge's eye, I told you so, in his expression. Nothing of substance... A wild-goose chase.
Rutledge thanked the staff and nodded to Mrs. Downing to dismiss them, then as Betty was about to follow the others from the room, he spoke quietly to her and asked her to stay.
Mrs. Downing pursed her lips in annoyance, as if in her view he was wasting his time and the staff's. But she made no move to leave. "How long have you been with Mr. Quarles?"
Betty hesitated. "He brought me here at the start of the war."
"And you keep his rooms for him?"
"Yes, sir. I do."
"Did you also keep the gatehouse cottage tidy?"
"When it was asked of me. I was to have that cottage when I retire."
"Do you know if he chose to use that cottage himself?"
"It wasn't my business to ask, was it? He paid me well for my silence."
"Will you tell me where he went to dine last evening? Even if he asked you to keep his confidence, the situation is different now. You see, we must trace his movements from the time he left the house until he returned." Rutledge watched her face as he asked the question.
"I don't know. I asked if he wanted me to lay out his evening clothes, and he said he wasn't changing for dinner, he wasn't in the mood."
"Did any of his business associates come to visit at Hallowfields?"
"He seldom had guests," Mrs. Downing answered for her. "He was often invited elsewhere, but if he entertained it was in London. I don't remember the last real dinner I've served. He doesn't even invite Rector to dine."
Something a squire did with regularity. It was interesting that Quarles hadn't cared to exercise this particular duty. Or perhaps he was embarrassed to ask the rector to sit at table with his wife's cousin?
Rutledge thanked Betty and let her go. Then he said to Mrs. Downing, "Do you know Betty's background? Who employed her before she came to Hallowfields?"
"She was hired in London. I didn't interview her myself. She's a hard worker, though she mainly keeps to herself. We've had no trouble with her."
"We'd like to look at Mr. Quarles's rooms now, if you please."
As she led the two policemen through the passage door into the foyer, she said, "I'm not sure his solicitor would approve of this. It doesn't seem right to me that you should go through his things. I can't think why Mrs. Quarles allowed it."
"Is the solicitor a local man?" Rutledge asked.
"He's in London. Mrs. Quarles can give you his direc
tion."
Rutledge handed her the keys. Mrs. Downing unlocked the door and stepped aside, as if taking no part in this desecration of a dead man's privacy.
The first of the suite of rooms had been converted into a study, as they'd been told, with a door through to a sitting room, and beyond that, the master bedroom.
The suite was handsomely decorated, and Padgett looked around him with patent interest.
The desk, a large mahogany affair, held mainly writing paper, pens, stamps, a map of the estate, and a folder of household accounts and another of farm business, none of it of interest to the police, and nothing personal, nothing indicative of the man.
There were several paintings on the walls, mostly landscapes. Rutledge wondered if they were Quarles's taste or if they had come with the house when he purchased the estate. The furnishings of the room were mid-Victorian and well polished. Betty's work, at a guess. If she cared for his rooms and his possessions, and kept any of his secrets, it was small wonder she'd taken his death personally.
Between the windows—which faced the front of the house—were shelves on which stood gray boxes of business papers, each with a white card identifying the contents. Duplicates of the papers Quarles had kept in London, or were these documents he didn't wish to leave there? Confidential reports, perhaps, for his eyes only. Was that why no one else cleaned these rooms? Betty appeared to be honest, without curiosity, a plain woman grateful for her position and not likely to jeopardize it by risking her employer's wrath. It was even possible that she couldn't read.
The perfect safeguard.
Rutledge ran a finger along the line of cards. He recognized one or two of the names on the outside. Portfolios, then. One box bore the single word cumberline.
They moved on to the sitting room, where there was little of interest—chairs in front of the hearth, more Italian landscapes, a table for tea, and another against the wall. The only personal touch was a blue and white porcelain stand holding a collection of walking sticks with ornate handles of ivory or brass or carved wood. Lifting one of them, Rutledge admired the ivory elephant set into the handle, the trunk providing a delicate grip. The workmanship was quite good, as was the silver figure of a sleeping fox capping another stick.
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