Surprised, Rutledge put out his hand for it.
The boy snatched the sheet of paper out of reach. "Mr. Padgett says you'd give me ten pence for it."
Rutledge found ten pence and dropped it into the boy's hand. The crumpled sheet was given to him and then the boy was off, racing down the High Street.
The message read:
I'm about to speak to Mrs. Newell. Care to join me?
Rutledge swore, turned on his heel, and went back to the police station, where Padgett was on the point of setting out.
"I'm surprised you got my note. I saw you hobnobbing with Archer when you'd been heading for Mrs. Newell's cottage. Anything interesting come of it? The conversation with Archer, I mean?"
The suggestion was that Rutledge had lied to the local inspector.
"He'd gone to the surgery to offer to identify the body. O'Neil put him off."
"Now, Dr. O'Neil didn't tell me that. Did Archer ask you to arrange for him to see Quarles?"
They were walking down the High Street. At the next corner, Padgett turned left onto Button Row. It was a narrow street, with houses abutting directly onto it.
"Not at all. I don't think he was eager to do his duty, but he wished to spare Mrs. Quarles. He also wanted me to understand his relationship with Mrs. Quarles."
"And did you?"
"It's unusual, but clearly acceptable to all parties. That's the point, isn't it?"
"He went to the surgery to protect Mrs. Quarles, if you want my view of it. She could have struck her husband from behind, then finished the job when he was out of his senses. It would be like her not to leave the body there, a simple murder, but to make a fool of him in death."
"Could she have dealt with that apparatus on her own?"
"Given time to get the job done? Yes. If you let the pulleys work for you, you can lift anyone's weight. That's the whole point of it, to make the angel fly without dropping her on top of the crèche scene." He smiled. "Though I'd have given much to see that a time or two. Depending on who flew as the angel that year. The question is, would she have had the stomach to touch her husband's corpse as she put him into the harness? If she hated him enough, she might have." Hamish said, "He doesna' like yon dead man and he doesna' like yon widow. Ye must ask him why."
Until Quarles and his wife came to Cambury, there was no one to make him feel inferior, Rutledge answered silently. They weren't born here, he didn't like looking up to them, and at a guess, both of them expected it.
Hamish grunted, as if unsatisfied.
Rutledge changed the subject. "How is Stephenson?"
"O'Neil says he'll be in pain for several days. The muscles in his neck got an almighty yank when he kicked the chair away. By the time we reached the surgery, he was complaining something fierce. Dr. O'Neil is keeping him for observation, but I don't think Stephenson will be eager to try his luck a second time. At least not with a rope." They were coming up to a small whitewashed cottage in a row of similar cottages. This one was distinguished by the thatch that beetled over the entrance, as if trying to overwhelm it. In the sunny doorway sat a plump woman of late middle age, her fair hair streaked with white. She was making a basket from pollarded river willows, weaving the strands with quick, knowing fingers.
She looked up, squinting against the sun. "Inspector," she said in greeting when she recognized Padgett.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Newell. I see you've nearly finished that one."
"Aye, it's for Rector. For his marketing."
"You do fine work," Rutledge said, looking at the rounds of tightly woven willow.
Behind her in the entry he could see another basket ready for work, this one square, the top edge defined and the tall strands of willow that would be the sides almost sweeping the room's low ceiling. The sleeves of Mrs. Newell's dress, rolled up past the elbows, exposed strong arms, and her large hands, handling the whippy willow as if it were fine embroidery thread, never faltered even when she looked away from them.
"Where do you get your materials?"
"I pay old Neville to bring me bundles when he and his son go to fetch the reeds for their thatching over by Sedgemoor. These he brought me a fortnight ago are some of the best I've seen. My mother made baskets. Lovely ones that the ladies liked for bringing cut flowers in from the gardens. It's how I earn my bread these days. And who might you be, sir? The man from London come to find out who killed poor Mr. Quarles?"
Bertie and his milk run had been busy.
"Yes, my name is Rutledge. I'm an inspector at Scotland Yard."
She studied him, still squinting, and then nodded. "I've never seen anyone from Scotland Yard before. But then Mr. Quarles was an important man in London. And he let the staff know it, every chance he got."
A ginger cat came to the door, rubbing against the frame, eyeing them suspiciously. After a moment, he turned back inside and disappeared.
"Can you think of anyone who might have wished to see Mr. Quarles dead?" Rutledge went on.
She laughed, a grim laugh with no humor in it. "He could charm the birds out of the trees," she said, "if he was of a mind to. But he had a mean streak in him, and he rubbed a good many people the wrong way when he didn't care about them. Sometimes of a purpose. If you wasn't important enough, or rich enough, or powerful enough, you felt the rough side of his tongue."
"Rubbed them the wrong way enough to make them want to kill him?"
"You'll have to ask them, won't you?"
Padgett took up the questioning. "You worked at Hallowfields for a good many years. Was there anyone among the staff or at the Home Farm who had a grievance against Mr. Quarles?"
She glanced up from her work, staring at him shrewdly. "What you want to know is, could I have killed him? Back then when he let me go, yes, I could have taken my cleaver to him for the things he said about me and about my cooking. The tongue on that man would turn a bishop gray. I'm a good cook, Mr. Rutledge, and didn't deserve to be sacked without a reference. Where was I to find new employment? It was a cruel thing to do, for no reason more than his temper. And I've paid for it. For weeks I thought about what I'd like to do to him, from hanging him from the meat hook to drowning him in the washing-up tub. But I never touched him. I didn't relish hanging for the likes of Harold Quarles."
"Perhaps someone else in the household believed it was worth the risk. How did they get on with the man?"
"I can't see Mrs. Downing touching him neither, however provoked she is. She's all bluster when it comes to trouble. Besides, she's Mrs. Quarles's creature."
"Would she kill for her mistress?"
Mrs. Newell shook her head. "She could hardly bear to see me kill a chicken."
"What about Mr. Masters at the Home Farm?"
"They had words from time to time, no doubt of it, and I've heard Mr. Masters curse Mr. Quarles something fierce, when he thought no one was in hearing. There's many a house like Hallowfields that would like to hire him away from Mr. Quarles. But he stays, in spite of the wrangling."
"Why?"
"Because nine days out of the ten, he's on his own, with no one looking over his shoulder. And he can do as he pleases."
"Mrs. Quarles herself?" Padgett asked next.
"I doubt she would dirty her hands with him."
"I understand there was no love lost between the two of them," Rutledge put in.
"But it wasn't murderous, if you follow me. It was a cold hate, that. Not a hot one. I'd put my money," she said, warming to the theme, "on Mr. Jones, the baker. Quarles was after his daughter. Such a pretty girl, raven dark hair and green eyes, and only sixteen when Quarles spotted her on the street. He gave her no peace and offered her the moon, I'll be bound, for one night. Her pa sent her to Wales, out of reach. And not before times, I heard, because Mr. Quarles offered to take the girl to London and set her up in style. I think she'd have run off with him then, if her pa hadn't got wind of it."
This was a richly embroidered version of the story, very different from what Mr. Jone
s or Mrs. Jones had claimed. Mrs. Newell's fingers were twisting the willow strands viciously as she spoke, and Rutledge could see how strongly she still felt, whatever she was willing to admit to.
"He was probably old enough to be her father," Rutledge pointed out.
"Ah, but lust doesn't count itself in years. And what young pretty thing in a town like Cambury wouldn't see stars when she pictured herself in a fine London house with a large allowance all her own."
"How did Mr. Jones discover what was happening?"
"It was Miss O'Hara who put him wise. She overheard something in the post office that concerned her, and despite not caring for making herself the center of attention again, she went to the baker. It seems Mr. Quarles had asked the girl for a decision by week's end." Hamish was asking if she'd told the unvarnished truth or seen her chance to get her own back on Quarles, even after he was dead. Or because he was.
"A near run thing," Rutledge agreed with Mrs. Newell. "But if Mr. Jones was angry enough to kill Quarles, why not there and then?"
"We're none of us eager to hang, Mr. Rutledge. There's some say that vengeance is a dish better taken cold." She spoke with quiet dignity.
"Yes, I see your point."
"Anyone else who might have quarreled with the dead man? Been cheated by him? Believed he'd seduced a wife?" Padgett asked.
"That's for you to discover, isn't it? I told you what I thought. Gossip is always rampant with the likes of Harold Quarles. But gossip doesn't always end in murder."
"Nor is gossip always true," Rutledge said. "What do you know about Mr. Brunswick, the organist at St. Martin's?"
Her eyes narrowed. "What of him?"
"His name came up in another context."
"Oh, yes? Then let that other context of yours tell you what you want to know. I've nothing to say against Mr. Brunswick."
They spoke to her for another five minutes, but to no avail. And Rutledge found it frustrating that she was so reluctant to talk. She knew both the household at Hallowfields and her neighbors in Cambury. But cooks were an independent lot, master of their domains, often arbiters of staff matters, and even though she had been shown the door and was now reduced to making baskets, Mrs. Newell kept her opinions to herself. It had been ingrained in her to keep the secrets of a household. Whatever her feelings toward Quarles, old habits die hard.
As they walked away, Rutledge said dryly, "As a rule, people rush to deny they are capable of murder. Here, everyone—including yourself—admits to having a reason to commit murder."
"Refreshing, isn't it?" Padgett commented with relish. "If we find the murderer, half the village will be up in arms to protect him. Or her."
"Very likely. But I'm beginning to think that you've encouraged one another in this pastime of disparaging Quarles to the point that someone finally decided to do something about it. Or to put it another way, found himself or herself faced with a tempting opportunity that seemed foolproof, and took advantage of it."
"For the public good?" But Padgett's humor was forced this time. After a moment, he went on, "You've spoken to Jones and his wife. Anything there to support Mrs. Newell's suggestion?"
"I don't know. He swears he was prepared to kill Quarles, and then remembered that he was the sole breadwinner of a large family. So far he has the strongest motive, if Quarles had meddled with his daughter. But both of Gwyneth's parents deny that anything happened. To protect Gwyneth? Or is it true? What I'd really like to know is what triggered the actual killing. Why have old grievances all at once erupted into murder? How does one measure hate, I wonder?"
As they turned into the High Street again, a woman was coming toward them walking her little dog on a lead, and Rutledge remembered what had happened the night before, when he'd seen a dog in the middle of the road, and the farmer claimed he'd seen nothing of the sort but had drifted to sleep just before he reached the bend.
He said to Padgett, "You've told me you heard a dog barking, and went to investigate. But so far, we haven't found a dog that was running loose that night. Are you certain it was a dog, and not a fox?" Padgett, caught off guard, said, "I told you it was a dog. There's the end of it." He was short, unwilling to consider another possibility. Hamish said, "I'll gie ye a hundred pounds he's lying."
But Rutledge wasn't ready to confront Padgett. He let the subject go.
It was late, the sun low in the western sky, his head was thundering, and he'd had no luncheon. "Let's call it a day," he said as they approached The Unicorn.
"Suit yourself," Padgett said, as if Rutledge was failing in his duty. "I wonder you didn't call on a few of Quarles's clients while you were in London. To get the feel of the man in his own den."
"At a guess, many of them don't live in London. When we've found evidence pointing in that direction, we'll go back and have a look. Have you discovered where Quarles went to dine on Saturday?"
"I decided to put my men to asking if strangers were seen about the village on Saturday. So far no one's noticed anyone they didn't know by sight," he admitted grudgingly. "That simply means whoever was here wisely stayed out of sight. I wonder if he—she—was waiting in the gatehouse cottage for Quarles to return. Whoever it was couldn't be seen from the house or the farm, but he could watch the road."
"Not if Quarles returned by the main gate to Hallowfields."
"But he didn't come back by the main gate."
"Why would he use the Home Farm lane?"
Padgett was smiling. "Perhaps he heard the dog I heard."
They were sparring, taking each other's measure, pointing out each other's flaws, neither giving an inch, because they had more or less rubbed each other the wrong way from the start.
Rutledge recognized it for what it was, but he didn't think Padgett did.
Hamish said, "Aye, but watch your back."
Rutledge bade him a good evening and went up the steps into the hotel. Padgett, still standing in the street, watched him go with an unreadable expression on his face.
14
It was a long night. Rutledge's head was still aching, and he was unable to sleep, tired as he was. Hamish, awake and in a surly mood, haunted his mind until at one point Rutledge got up and sat by the window for a time, trying to shut out that persistent, familiar voice.
Still, Hamish gave him no peace. First the war, then the drive to London, then back to the war again, before shifting the theme to Meredith Channing.
That brought Rutledge up out of numbed silence.
"I canna' think why she seeks you out."
Rutledge said, "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, aye? She kens ye're no' comfortable when she's there, but she doesna' avoid ye."
"I don't think she knew I'd be at the wedding. I didn't expect to see her there."
"Yon bride stayed with her when she went to London. Ye're a fool if ye believe she didna' tell the lass that Maitland chose ye for his groom's man."
"All right. What was she to do, beg out of the wedding?"
Hamish chuckled. "Would ye ha' begged off, if Maitland had told ye she was coming?"
There was no answer to that. He would have had to explain why, and he couldn't. And it would have aroused Edgar's suspicions.
"Why did ye no' ask someone about her, since everyone knew her?"
He'd been too busy struggling with his fear of what she'd see in his mind. Whatever she said about her ability to read thoughts, mocking it as a parlor game to entertain friends, he knew too well that she could read his. He could feel it.
"Or ye didna' want to know."
And Edgar Maitland had tried to stir Rutledge's interest in that direction. It had been the perfect opportunity to ask her history. Instead he'd brushed off the suggestion that they were suited to each other, unsettled and embarrassed.
"She's no' sae bonny as the Irish lass."
Rutledge swore. How did Hamish expect him to answer that? And then realized that he needn't answer at all.
He tried to shut the voice out
of his mind, but it was nearly impossible to ignore it. Finally, as the church clock struck four, he drifted into sleep, and Hamish of necessity was silent.
Morning found the lump on his forehead a variety of shades of blue and purple. But the dizziness and the throbbing had gone. He shaved, dressed, and went down to breakfast, discovering to his surprise that it was close to nine o'clock.
As he ate he tried to piece together the parts of the puzzle facing him: who could have killed Harold Quarles?
Someone in London? Or someone here in Cambury? Hamish, bad-tempered this morning, reminded him that he hadn't gone to see the organist, Brunswick.
He finished his breakfast and went to remedy that shortcoming. Padgett was in the police station but declined accompanying him.
"There was a housebreaking last night, and I must deal with it. I know the culprits, and this is the first serious trouble they've been in. If I don't stop them now, they'll find themselves in prison. And who'll run the farm then? Their mother's at her wits' end. They're good lads, but there's no hand at the helm, so to speak. Their father's drunk, day in and day out."
Hamish said, "It could wait. He doesna' wish to come wi' ye."
It was probably true.
Rutledge left the police station and soon found himself at the small stone house close by the church where Padgett had told him that Michael Brunswick lived.
Brunswick himself answered Rutledge's knock. They stared at each other in silence. Something in his face told Rutledge he'd been waiting for it for some time.
Rutledge introduced himself and showed his identification, but Brunswick brushed it aside.
"I know who you are." He stepped back to allow Rutledge to enter.
There was a piano taking pride of place by the window of the sitting room, and books of music were scattered about. Untidy the room was, but it had been well dusted and cleaned, as if keeping up standards. Rutledge remembered that this man's wife had died, a suicide.
"Then you know what I'm here to ask. Where were you Saturday night?"
"At home, asleep. I don't go out of an evening since my wife's death."
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