In a hurry now, Rutledge strode out of the sitting room and went in search of Hunter, making arrangements for a packet of sandwiches and a Thermos of tea to be put up at once. "I'll be away this evening. Hold my room for my return, please." "I'll be happy to see to it. Er-did you find Mr. Quarles?" "Yes, thank you," Rutledge answered, and went up the stairs two at a time. He took a clean shirt with him and was down again just as Hunter was bringing the packet of food and the Thermos from the kitchen. The long May evening stretched ahead, and he made good time as he turned toward London. The soft air and the wafting scents of wild- flowers in the hedgerows accompanied him, and the sunset's afterglow lit the sky behind the motorcar. When darkness finally overtook him, Rutledge was well on his way. But a second night without sleep caught up with him, and just west of London, he veered hard when a dog walked into the road directly in his path.
The motorcar spun out of control, and before Hamish could cry a warning, Rutledge had crossed the verge and run into a field. Strong as he was, he couldn't make the brakes grip in the soft soil, and then suddenly the motorcar slewed in a half circle and came to an abrupt stop as the engine choked.
His chest hit the wheel and knocked the wind out of him, just as his forehead struck the windscreen hard enough to render him unconscious.
It was some time later-he didn't know how long-that he came to his senses, but the blow had been severe enough to muddle his mind. His chest ached, and his head felt as if it were detached from his body.
He managed to get himself out of his seat and into the grass boundary of the field.
There he vomited violently, and the darkness came down again.
The second time he woke, he thought he was back in France. He could hear the guns and the cries of his men, and Hamish was calling to him to get up and lead the way.
"Ye canna' lie here, ye canna' sleep, it's no' safe!"
Rutledge tried to answer him, scrambling to his feet and running forward, though his legs could barely hold him upright. He must have been shot in the chest, it was hard to breathe, and where was his helmet? He'd lost it somewhere. He shouted to his men, but Hamish was still loud in his ear, telling him to beware.
He could see the Germans now, just at that line of trees, and he thought, They hadn't told us it was that far-they lied to us-we'll lose a hundred men before we get there Despair swept him, and Hamish's accusing voice was telling him he'd killed the lot of them. And the line of trees wasn't any closer.
The machine gunners had opened up, and he called to his men to take cover, but this was No Man's Land, there was no safety except in the stinking shell holes, down in the muddy water with the ugly dead, their bony fingers reaching up as if begging for help, and their empty eye sockets staring at the living, cursing them for leaving the dead to rot.
Rutledge flung himself into the nearest depression, but his men kept running toward the German line, and he swore at them, his whistle forgotten, his voice ragged with effort.
"Back, damn you, find cover now. Do you hear me?"
He dragged himself out of the shell hole and went after them, but they were determined to die, and there was nothing he could do. He watched them fall, one by one, and he tried to lift them and carry them back to his own lines, but his chest was aching and his legs refused to support him. He could hear himself crying at the waste of good men, and swearing at the generals safe in their beds, and pleading with the Germans to stop because they were all dead, all except Hamish, whose voice rose above the sound of the guns-cursing him, reminding him that each soul was on his conscience, because he himself was unscathed.
"Ye let them die, damn you, ye let them die!"
It was what Hamish had shouted to him the last time they'd been ordered over the top, and the young Scots corporal, his face set in anger, had accused him of not caring. "Ye canna' make tired men do any more than they've done. Ye canna' ask them to die for ye, because ye ken they will. I'll no' lead them o'er the top again, I'll die first, mysel', and ye'll rot in hell for no' stopping this carnage."
But Rutledge had cared, that was the problem, he'd cared too much, and in the end, like Hamish, he had broken too. He could hear the big guns firing from behind the lines as the Germans prepared for a counterattack, and firing from his own lines to cover that last sortie over the top. The Hun artillery had their range now, and he struggled to get what was left of his men to safety.
He'd had to shoot Hamish for speaking the truth, and that was the last straw-his mind had shattered. Not from the war, not the fear of death, not even the German guns, but from the deaths he couldn't prevent and the savage wounds, and the bleeding that wouldn't stop, and the men who lived on in his head until he couldn't bear it any longer.
Hamish's voice had stopped, and he knew then that he'd killed the best soldier he had, a good man who was more honest than he was- who was willing to die for principles, while he himself obeyed orders he hated and went on for two more years killing soldiers he'd have died to save.
Someone was grappling with him, and he couldn't find his revolver. His head was aching, blinding him, and his chest felt as if the caisson mules had trampled him, but instinct was still alive. He swung his fist at the man's face, and felt it hit something solid, a shoulder, he thought Hamish had come back His breath seemed to stop in his throat. Hamish's shoulder, hard and living, under his fist. If he opened his eyes A voice said, "Here, there's no need for that, I've come to help."
And Rutledge opened his eyes and stared in the face of Death. He slumped back, willing to let go, almost glad that it was over, and longing for silence and rest.
The farmer grasped his arm. "Where are you hurt, man, can you tell me?"
Rutledge came back to the present with a shock, blinking his eyes as the light of a lantern sent splinters of pain through his skull.
They were going to truss him up in that contraption, and hang him in the tithe barn And then the darkness receded completely, and he said, "I'm sorry-"
The farmer gruffly replied, "There's a bloody great lump on your forehead. It must have addled your brains, man, you were shouting something fierce about the Germans when I came up."
Rutledge shook his head to clear it, and felt sick again. Fighting down the nausea, he said, "Sorry," again, as if it explained everything.
"You need a doctor."
"No. I must get to London." He looked behind the farmer's bulk and saw the motorcar mired in the plowed field. His first thought was for Hamish, and then he realized that Hamish wasn't there. "Oh, damn, the accident. Is it-will it run now?"
"There's nothing wrong with your motorcar that a team can't cure. But I didn't want to leave you until I knew you were all right. There's no one to send back to the house. I saw your headlamps when I went to do the milking. You're not the first to come to grief in the dark on that bend in the road."
Rutledge managed to sit up, his eyes shut against the pain. "There's no bend-a dog darted in front of me, I swerved to miss him."
"A dog? There's no dog, just that bend. You must have fallen asleep and dreamt it."
It was a dog barking that had brought Padgett to the tithe barn…
"Yes, I expect I did." He put up a hand and felt the blood drying on his forehead and cheek, crusting on his chin. It was a good thing, he thought wryly, that he'd brought that fresh shirt with him.
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 Westmorland 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 clerkjust 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 amp; 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 reputa- tion-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 ofJason 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 thoughtful- ness, 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."
"In the will is there any mention of the gatehouse at Hallowfields?"
Hurley frowned. "The gatehouse? No. There's no provision for that. I would assume that it remains with the house and grounds. Were you under the impression that someone was to inherit it?"
Hamish said, "He's thinking of yon man in the wheelchair."
Archer…
"The gatehouse came up in a conversation, and I wondered if it held any specific importance to Mr. Quarles."
Laurence Hurley said, "None that we are aware of."
"What do you know of Mr. Quarles's background?"
"He came from the north, coal country, I'm told. He arrived in London intending to better himself, and because of his persistence and his abilities, rose to prominence in financial circles. He made no claim to being other than what he was, a plain Yorkshireman who was lucky enough to have had a fine sponsor, Mr. James, the senior partner of the firm when Quarles was taken on."
Which meant, Hamish suddenly commented in a lull in Rutledge's headache, Hurley knew little more than anyone else.
"How did he burn his hands so badly?" "It happened when he was a young man. There was a fire, and he tried to rescue a child. I believe he brought her out alive, though burned as well."
"In London?"
"No, it happened just before he decided to leave the north."
"Is there any family to notify?"
"Sadly, no. His brothers died of black lung, and his mother of a broken heart, he said. It was what kept him out of the mines-her wish that he do more with his life than follow his brothers. He said she was his inspiration, and his salvation. Apparently they were quite close. He spoke sometimes of their poverty and her struggle to free him from what she called the family curse. It was she who saw to it that he received an education, and she sold her wedding ring to provide him with the money to travel to London. He was always sad that she died before he'd saved enough to find and buy back her ring."
It was quite Dickensian. The question was, how much of the story was true? Enough certainly for a man like Hurley to believe it. The old lawyer was not one easily taken in. Or else Quarles had been a very fine spinner of tales…
Rutledge left soon after. The morning sun was so bright it sent a stab of pain through his head, but he had done what he'd come to London to do, and there was nothing for it but to return to Somerset as soon as possible.
Hamish was set against it, but Rutledge shrugged off his objections. He stopped briefly to eat something at a small tea shop in Kensington, then sped west.
It was just after he crossed into Somerset, as the throbbing in his head changed to an intermittent dull ache, that he realized Davis Pen- rith had not asked him how Harold Quarles had died.