Todd, Charles

by A Matter of Justice

  "Yes. I had a letter from Elise. They're having a lovely time."

  "That's good to hear."

  The conversation dwindled as he turned toward Chelsea, as if neither of them knew quite what to say next. A few drops of rain spattered on the windscreen. Mrs. Channing saw them and said, "Well, I'm doubly grateful to you now, Ian." Her last words were lost in a downpour, and she laughed. "It's quite like Dunster, isn't it?"

  The thunder soon followed, and she moved a little nearer so that her voice would carry, one gloved hand pulling her coat closer against the chill of the sudden storm. "Mrs. Caldwell telephoned me. We're having lunch together next week. I think she's planning a little dinner party for the bridal pair when they return."

  He had forgot Elise Caldwell's father, and his invitation to call. Caldwell was in the same business as James, Quarles and Penrith.

  Meredith Channing was still speaking, and he realized he'd missed half of it. Just ahead was her house, and as he drew up to the walk, he said, "I think there's an umbrella somewhere—"

  "It's not far, don't bother. I should ask you to come in for tea or coffee, but I'm tired tonight. Another time?"

  "Yes, thank you."

  She got out, shut her door, and with a quick wave dashed to the house. Her maid was there to let her in almost at once.

  As the door closed behind her, he sat where he was, the motor ticking over, and wished he'd asked her where the Caldwells lived.

  18

  It wasn't difficult to find out where Caldwell & Mainwaring was located in the City, and Rutledge was there as the doors opened the next morning.

  He sent in his card, and Caldwell himself came out to greet him. "This is a pleasant surprise. What brings you to our part of the city? Not murder, I hope?"

  "As a matter of fact, it is," Rutledge said. "I'm here about the death of Harold Quarles."

  Caldwell frowned. "Yes, I've just heard. Disgraceful business. I hope you find whoever did it and quickly. What can I do to help?" Caldwell led him to a corner office where the heavy Turkey carpet set off the elegant mahogany desk and the suite of chairs arranged in a half circle near the windows. Gesturing to Rutledge to be seated, Caldwell rang and asked for tea to be brought. Then he joined Rutledge. Pointing to the portrait over the mantelpiece, he said, "My father. He was a man you'd have liked. The son I lost was his image. It was like losing my father twice."

  "I can imagine how it must have been."

  It was evident Caldwell was waiting for the tea to be brought, and when they were settled, and his clerk had withdrawn, he said, "Now, to business. You must have come for information. I hope I have it."

  "What do you know about the background of either partner, Quarles or Penrith?"

  "Not much more than everyone else. Penrith's father was a curate in Sussex—"

  "Sussex? I thought I was told Hampshire."

  "No, Sussex it was. I'm nearly certain of that."

  Then Penrith had lied.

  "Go on..."

  "Quarles came from somewhere around Newcastle. Coal mining, which he was lucky enough to escape, according to the accounts he gave. I met him several times when he was clerk to Mr. James the younger. There was something about him—and this will sound to you quite discriminating on my part, but it isn't—that didn't seem to march well with his story. I had the feeling that there was more to him than met the eye. And that was it, something in his eyes, as if the real person were locked away behind them. I had the feeling that he could be quite ruthless if he chose."

  "An interesting point."

  "Yes, and I said something to my father about it. His reply was that I had no way to measure how rough the man's life had been, or how he had managed to escape the fate of his brothers. The story was that they'd died in a mining accident and he didn't want to do the same."

  "There appears to have been some ruthlessness on his part aside from working his way into a prosperous business," Rutledge said, thinking about Cambury.

  "Nevertheless, Quarles quickly changed from the rough diamond he claimed himself to be to a rather polished one. He married well, and he had a reputation for scrupulous honesty—"

  "Even when it came to Cumberline?"

  "Ah. That was an odd story. I think it was seven men who paid dearly for investing in that disaster. Quarles swore he'd put some of his own money into it, but I find that hard to believe. He was too astute."

  "Do you know who these seven men were?"

  "I don't. But there should be files of transactions somewhere. We're required to keep track of such things."

  Rutledge saw again in his mind's eye the box marked CUMBERLINE on the shelf in Quarles's study at Hallowfields.

  "What else can you tell me about him?"

  "Nothing, I'm afraid. Oh, there was one thing, rather strange I thought at the time, but I can't remember why it disturbed me. We were standing outside a restaurant in the Strand, and a young woman came up to us, asking if we'd like to subscribe a sum for the memorial that was being erected to the men missing on the Somme, those who were never found. We all gave her money toward the cause—how could you not? All save Quarles. He turned away from her and said something to the effect that he was not an army man, that he'd sent in his subscription for the navy dead instead."

  "It seems to me the simplest thing was to make a donation and let it go," Rutledge responded.

  "Yes, but the young woman was asking to write our names down on the subscription list, to go into a book they were intending to place in the memorial."

  Rutledge could almost hear Stephenson's voice, breaking as it recounted how he'd pled with Quarles to speak to the Army on his son's behalf. And Quarles refusing to even entertain the idea.

  "He was too old for the war," Hamish said, without warning. "And his son is verra' young still."

  Both comments were true. But Rutledge had taken up enough of Caldwell's time, and the teacups were empty. Courtesy required that he leave.

  "Is there anything else you can think of?"

  "No. I don't care to speak ill of the dead. If you weren't a policeman, and someone I trust to use the information wisely, I would never have told you as much as I have."

  "Thank you, sir, for your trust. It isn't misplaced."

  They shook hands, and Rutledge left.

  Outside in the street, he mulled over the fact that Penrith had lied. Why?

  He found a telephone in a hotel and called a friend of his who had been an Anglican priest. Anthony Godalming had lost his faith and retired to his family's home in Sussex. He rarely went out and seldom spoke to old friends. But Rutledge reached the man's sister, told her it was urgent, and in time Godalming came to the telephone.

  His voice was neither friendly nor unfriendly—it seemed to hold neither warmth nor coldness. But Rutledge could tell his call was not welcomed, a reminder of too much that still had to be put behind, for sanity's sake.

  "Anthony, thank you for speaking to me. I'm looking for someone, a curate in Sussex some years ago. Twenty perhaps? Longer, even. His name was Penrith. He had one son."

  "Penrith?" The man on the other end of the line seemed to dredge deep in memory and come up short. "I don't recall anyone of that name down here. Are you sure it was Sussex?"

  "Before your time, then?"

  "It could be. Does it matter greatly?"

  "Yes. I need to find the father, if he's alive. And the son as well, if anyone knows where he may be. London, possibly."

  There was a long silence. "Very well. Tell me how to reach you." Rutledge gave him instructions to call The Unicorn in Cambury. "Has this to do with the war, Ian? Tell me honestly." There was strain in Godalming's voice now.

  "No. To my knowledge, neither man was young enough to serve with us. This has to do with a murder inquiry. That's why I'm searching for information. Otherwise, I wouldn't have asked you."

  "Surely the police have ways to find these men."

  "I don't think they do. You have the only fact I've been able to dig up, and tha
t's little enough."

  Rutledge heard a grunt that might have been in disagreement. "Thank you, Anthony."

  "Not at all." There was a click at the other end.

  Driving fast as he reached the outskirts of London, Rutledge headed for Somerset, his mind sifting through what Penrith and Caldwell had had to say to him.

  It had been, for the most part, a very unproductive journey. Penrith's relationship to Quarles had not been worth pursuing, or so it seemed, and yet that one lie about where his father had been curate still rankled. Why had he felt the need to lie?

  "It doesna' mean," Hamish said, taking up the thread of Rutledge's thoughts, "that he's a murderer."

  "It's possible he has his own secrets to conceal. His own background. Was it really Penrith who initiated the separation from Quarles? Or the other way around?"

  But that didn't make sense. A man like Quarles would have made it his business to know any secrets that Penrith possessed. It was in his nature, as it was in Penrith's to bury his head in the sand.

  What had broken up Quarles's marriage? And what had broken up Quarles's partnership?

  This occupied Rutledge's mind all the way to Somerset, and late as it was when he arrived, he drove straight to Hallowfields and knocked on the door.

  It was several minutes before someone answered his summons. Mrs. Downing, still in her black dress with the housekeeper's keys on a chain at her waist, the symbol of her office even in this modern age, was not pleased with him.

  "It's late, Mr. Rutledge, and you've disturbed the household. Mrs. Quarles is not here."

  "Yes, I understand she's gone to Rugby. I need to look at something in Mr. Quarles's study, and you don't need her permission to allow me to do that."

  "Can't this wait until the morning?"

  "I'm afraid not."

  Reluctantly she let him into the foyer, and then when the door was securely locked once more, she led him up the stairs.

  Charles Archer, in his dressing gown, was rolling down the passage toward them, coming from the other wing as Rutledge reached the first floor.

  "Is there trouble?" he asked anxiously, but Rutledge shook his head.

  "I've something I wish to see in the study Mr. Quarles used here at the house. I'm sorry to call so late, but it's rather urgent."

  "To do with what? I thought you'd inspected his rooms."

  "To do with his business in London."

  "Ah. Then I can't help you. Downing will see to it for you." He turned away but stopped and swung around. "The man who brings the milk and the gossip told the staff you were on the point of taking the baker, Hugh Jones, into custody for Harold's murder. Is this true?"

  "I can't comment on that tonight."

  "It's nonsense, Rutledge. The man's no killer. He has a family to consider."

  "Then who would you put in his place?"

  Archer had the grace to look away. "I'm not offering you a sacrificial lamb."

  "What can you tell me about Quarles's former partner, Davis Penrith?"

  "Penrith? I hardly know him. He's been to the house a time or two, dining here with his wife at least once. He never seemed comfortable in Harold's company. I always thought that odd, since they'd worked together for years."

  "They didn't appear to have much in common, other than their business dealings."

  "That's not unusual, is it? Business seems to attract opposites sometimes. It's not a requirement to share interests." Archer turned toward his rooms. "Good night, Rutledge. I hope you find what you're after."

  Mrs. Downing, standing silently by and listening to the conversation, waited for instructions. Rutledge said, "It's the study I need to see."

  She led the way, took his keys, and unlocked the door for him. From a passage table she took up a lamp and lit it for him to use.

  It took only a matter of two minutes to locate the first Cumberline box and lift it from the shelf. He took it to the nearest chair, sat down, and opened it.

  All that was inside was a thick sheaf of papers, and he thumbed through them quickly, interested not in what they referred to but in names of investors.

  He found that there were groups of paperwork, clipped together to keep them separate, and each had a name at the top.

  Seven of them. No, eight.

  He went to the desk, found paper and pen, and began to jot the names down.

  Mrs. Downing, her face disapproving, said, "I'm not sure this is regular, Mr. Rutledge. I've had no communication with Mr. Quarles's solicitors, and Mrs. Quarles is away. I can't, in good conscience, allow you to remove anything from—"

  "I'm not removing these papers, Mrs. Downing. I need the names listed on them." He continued to work, then double-checked what he had done, to make certain he had all the names down.

  Finishing with the file, he put it back where he'd found it and thanked Mrs. Downing.

  She followed him out of the rooms and she locked them again, then returned the keys. On the way down the stairs she said, "Young Marcus will be here soon, with his mother. I hope it won't be necessary for the police to be tramping about, asking questions and disturbing the family at all hours. It won't be good for the boy."

  "The police have work to do, Mrs. Downing. It can't be helped. But I'll keep in mind that the boy will be in residence."

  They had reached the door, and Mrs. Downing opened it for him. Then, as he stepped out into the night, she said, "If you want my opinion, it's Mr. Brunswick who killed Mr. Quarles. I never liked the man, he treated his wife something terrible. Jealous and overbearing and always looking for the worst in people. I saw him a time or two, prowling about, looking to see if he could catch his poor wife in something. If he didn't want her here, why didn't he put his foot down?"

  Rutledge stopped. "You didn't tell me any of this before."

  "No, and for a very good reason," she said. "Hazel Brunswick confided in me. She took her tea in my rooms, not with Mr. Quarles, and she talked sometimes about her life. I kept her confidences. All he wanted to spend money for was music. The house was bursting at the seams with it, and she was tone-deaf; she couldn't hear anything he played. That's why she came to work here, to provide for herself and the children to come. She defied him, if you want the truth, and Mr. Quarles thought it was all a game, but I knew it wasn't. He struck her once—"

  "Quarles?"

  "God save us, no, it was Mr. Brunswick struck his wife. And that's when she decided to find work, because she said he would respect her more if she could stand up to him and didn't have to beg for whatever she wanted. But once is never the end of it, is it? Once becomes twice, and twice thrice, and it's on its way to being a habit, isn't it?"

  "Surely the people at St. Martin's Church knew? The rector?"

  "He never hit her in the face, you see." There was something in her gaze that looked back to another woman and another past. "I was married to one such, I know their ways. He was killed in a mill fire, and I was glad of it."

  Rutledge believed her. "Did you know Mrs. Brunswick was ill?"

  "She told me what she thought it might be. It crushed her. All her hopes and plans gone for naught. She said he didn't care for sick people, that he'd turn away from her and wait for her to die."

  "Do you think Brunswick killed her, or that her death was a suicide?"

  "I can't answer that. But Mr. Brunswick had the nerve to come here. He followed Mr. Quarles home one night, just after she died, and called him a murderer. I'd been to the Home Farm to take a lemon cake to Mrs. Masters, and I heard them down by the gatehouse. He was shouting, you couldn't help but hear, asking for money to pay for her burial, asking for compensation for turning his wife from him."

  "What did Mr. Quarles say to that charge?"

  "He laughed and told Mr. Brunswick not to be tiresome. I thought they'd come to blows, but just then I saw Mr. Quarles striding up the lane, and I went the other way, so as he wouldn't think I was eavesdropping."

  "I've heard Mr. Brunswick play. He's a very fine organist."


  "He has to work hard at it, he's not gifted. Hazel told me that was the sorrow of his life, and why she pitied him. He wanted to play in a cathedral, and all he was fit for was St. Martin's Church, in a small living like Cambury."

  "I wish you'd spoken to me before—" he said again, but she shook her head.

  "I had to weigh up what I felt I could say. Mrs. Quarles wants to see this inquiry closed quietly, for the boy's sake, and if you arrest Mr. Brunswick, Hazel Brunswick's unhappiness and her suicide will be dragged up again and talked about, and the gossip about Mr. Quarles and her being lovers as well. It wasn't true, Hazel Brunswick wasn't that kind of woman. Now my conscience troubles me. I should have done more to help her than I did. I should have told Mr. Quarles about the beatings, or Rector. And if her husband killed her, and then killed Mr. Quarles, then justice must be done. I hope Mrs. Quarles will understand."

  "Who met Mr. Quarles in the gatehouse, Mrs. Downing? Someone did. You have only to walk through it to guess what its purpose was." She gave him a pitying smile. "It was where he would have brought his mother, if she'd lived. Though he'd go and sit there sometimes, brooding."

  Rutledge could hear Hamish's voice in the darkness as they had walked through the small, tidy rooms. Respectability—

  "There was never a mistress who waited for him there?"

  "He'd have liked the world to think so."

  "Why wouldn't his mother have lived here, in the house? If he cared so much for her?"

  "He'd have passed her off as his old nanny, no doubt. I ask you," she replied spitefully. "He was ashamed of his roots, didn't you know? He bragged about them, and he used them, but he didn't want to be what he was. He'd buried his past so deep even he couldn't remember the half of it."

  She shut the door in his face, and Rutledge stood there, remembering what someone had told him, that Mrs. Downing was Mrs. Quarles's creature. She might not have killed for her mistress, but could she be counted on to veil the truth or twist it in a different direction to serve another purpose? He'd have to keep that in mind.

  Still, servants were often guilty of snobbery. They took their standing and their self-worth from the man or woman they worked for. And Mr. Quarles had never lived up to Mrs. Downing's standard—how could he, when she perceived his social level to be so much lower than her own?