Padgett led Stephenson out the door and Rutledge shut it firmly behind them. The broken latch held, just, and Rutledge left the sign reading CLOSED.
There were a number of people on the street, and they turned to stare as Rutledge assisted Stephenson into the vehicle.
A young woman rushed up, asking, "What's wrong? Where are you taking him? Mr. Stephenson, what's happened? You look so ill."
Stephenson, unable to face her, mumbled to Rutledge, "My part- time assistant, Miss Ogden."
She was very frightened. Rutledge was suddenly reminded of Elise, for the women were about the same age. Yet the differences between the two were dramatic. Elise with her confidence, her willingness to take on a marriage that would challenge her, had the courage of her convictions if not the patience. Miss Ogden was gripping her handbag so tightly that her knuckles were white, and she was on the verge of tears, looking from one man to the other for guidance. She struck Rut- ledge as timid, willing to serve, perfectly happy to be buried among the dusty shelves of a bookstore, and helpless in a crisis, expecting others to take the first step and then reassure her.
"We're driving Mr. Stephenson to Dr. O'Neil's surgery," he told her gently. "He'll be fine in a day or two. There's nothing to worry about."
"Could it be his heart?" she asked anxiously. "My grandfather died of problems with his heart. Please, ought I to go with you? Or should I keep the shop open?"
Others were attracted by the fuss, clustering across the street from the motorcar, trying to hear what was being said. Halting as they came out of shops, several women put their hands to their mouths, their small children staring with round, uncertain eyes as they sensed the apprehension gripping the adults: two policemen appearing to take poor Mr. Stephenson into custody Rutledge could almost feel the rising tide of speculation rushing toward him, on the heels of word that Quarles was dead.
He answered Miss Ogden before Padgett could put a word in.
"Mr. Stephenson had an accident and should see Dr. O'Neil, but there's no danger of his dying. We were lucky to find him in time. Perhaps we ought to leave the shop closed for today and let him rest." He knew how to make his voice carry so that onlookers heard him as well.
She turned to Stephenson for confirmation. He nodded wretchedly. With a long backward glance, she stood aside to let them leave.
Rutledge got into the rear seat with the bookseller, swearing to himself. Padgett drove off without acknowledging the people on the street, not interested in what they were thinking.
"Did you not consider that that woman would have been the one to find you, if we hadn't?" Rutledge demanded of Stephenson. "It was an unconscionably selfish thing you did. Next time you want to kill yourself, choose a more private place."
Stephenson said, "I was wretched-I only wanted to die." His voice had taken on a whine. "You don't know what I felt, you can't judge me."
But Rutledge did know what he felt. Disgusted with the man, he tapped Padgett on the shoulder. "Let me out just there. If you have no objection, I'll call on Mrs. Newell as planned." He tried to keep the revulsion he was feeling out of his voice.
"Go ahead. I'll be kept some time with this fool." There was irritation in the inspector's voice as well as he pulled over to let Rutledge step down. He offered begrudging instructions on how to find the former cook from Hallowfields, and then was gone almost before Rut- ledge had swung the rear door shut.
Rutledge watched them out of sight on their way to O'Neil's surgery, then set out for Mrs. Newell's small cottage.
Hamish said, "Ye've lost your temper twice now. It's yon blow to the head. Ye'll no' feel better until ye gie it a rest."
Rutledge ignored him, though he knew it to be true.
He was just passing the greengrocer's shop, its awning stretched over the morning's offerings: baskets of early vegetables and strawberries and asparagus. A motorcar drew up beside him, and Rutledge turned to see who was there. He found himself face-to-face with Charles Archer seated behind a chauffeur, one of the servants Rut- ledge had met in the Hallowfields kitchen.
Archer's invalid's chair was lashed to the boot in a special brace made for it.
"My apologies. I can't come down. Will you ride with me as far as the green? "
"Yes, of course." Rutledge got into the rear of the motorcar and nearly stopped short when he realized that there was no room for Hamish to sit. But that was foolishness. He shut the door and turned to Archer. The man shook his head. Silence fell until the motorcar pulled to the verge next to the green. There Archer said to the chauffeur, "Leave us for a few minutes, will you? A turn around the green should be sufficient."
When the man was out of earshot, Archer continued. "I've just come from Doctor O'Neil's surgery. I'm told you haven't-er- finished yet with Harold's remains. But I wanted to see the body for myself. He refused to let me, even though I was there to identify it."
"In due course."
"I haven't told Mrs. Quarles what I came to do. She will insist on carrying out that duty herself. But there's no need."
"If you'll forgive me for saying so, Mr. Archer, she doesn't seem to be distressed over her husband's death. I doubt you're sparing her, except in your own mind."
"She married the most eligible of men. It was seen as a good match in spite of his background. Only she discovered too late that the facade didn't match the man. I don't know what precipitated the break between them, but she has said she had very good reasons for turning her back on him."
"Then why not a divorce, to end the match once and for all?"
"I don't know. It isn't money. She has her own. I think it was in a way to prevent him from marrying anyone else. God knows why that mattered to her."
Hamish noted, "He's verra' plausible…"
"Perhaps to prevent another woman suffering as she has done?" Rutledge suggested.
"That's too altruistic. I love Maybelle, in spite of the fact that I'm her cousin. I'd have married her myself, if she hadn't met Quarles while I was away in Switzerland for some time. My mother was ill and the mountain air had been recommended for her. I stayed there six years, watching her die. When I came home, it was to an invitation to a wedding. And I couldn't talk her out of it. You saw Quarles dead, I imagine. You never knew him when he exerted that wretched ability to make people agree to whatever he wanted. It's what made him a successful investment banker."
Remembering what Heller had hinted, Rutledge said, "Did any of his advice go wrong? I mean very wrong, not just an investment that didn't work as it had been promised to do."
"He was damned astute. That was his trademark. Nothing went wrong that he hadn't balanced in one's portfolio to take up the risk, should the worst happen. People were very pleased. That was, until Cumberline."
"Cumberline?" He'd seen the box with a label bearing that name in Quarles's study.
"Yes, it was an adventure stock. A South Seas Bubble sort of thing, as it turned out. Do you remember Cecil Rhodes's great concept of a Cairo to Cape Town Railway driven through the heart of Africa? The same sort of thing, but here the railroad would run from Dar Es Salaam to the Congo River, with goods coming by ship from the southern Indian Ocean to the East African coast, carried by train overland to the Congo, and then put on ships again for the passage north. It was expected to save the journey through the Red Sea and the Mediterranean and was to bring out ivory and other goods from East Africa as well. Zanzibar spices, Kenyan coffee, wild animals for the zoos of the world, and anything that expanded scientific knowledge. Labor would be cheap, and using the river cut the costs of such a railway nearly in half. On paper, it was exotic, and many men who had made money in the war were in search of new enterprises. Especially with Tanganyika in our hands now."
"I must have been in France while this was talked about. It sounds feasible, but then I don't know much about the Congo, other than that the Belgians fought the Germans from there. As did Britain in Kenya. How deep is the Congo where a train could transfer goods?"
"I've no idea. Neither did the promoters or the investors. It turned out to be a case of the sly fox being tricked by sharper wolves. Quarles had mentioned it to a few of his clients but for the most part didn't promote it. And it was just as well there were only a few clients involved, because the project collapsed. Gossip was soon claiming that he'd chosen men he was happy to see fall. That it was a matter of revenge, and he knew all along that the project was doomed."
"Certainly an excellent way to make enemies," Rutledge agreed.
"Quarles went to ground here in Cambury until the worst was over. The odd thing is, it was a nine days' wonder. His reputation for honesty prevailed, and the general opinion was, the men who complained were making him the scapegoat for their own poor judgment."
"Did any of those clients live here in Cambury?"
"I have no way of knowing that. But I should think that if one of the investors was out for revenge, he wouldn't have waited all this time. Nearly two years."
"I wonder. Did Quarles manipulate this scheme? Did he for instance collect investment funds but never transfer them to Cumber- line, knowing it was likely to fail? " Rutledge had read parts of the treatise on Africa in Quarles's bedchamber. Surely a man as astute as he was said to be could see through the promises made in it?
Archer turned to look at him. "What a devious mind you have."
"It won't be the first time that such a thing was done."
"Quarles has a partner. One Davis Penrith. I hardly think he could have perpetrated such a scheme without the knowledge of his partner. And Penrith is not the sort of man who could carry off such trickery, even if Harold could. He came into the firm to lend respectability. He has that kind of face and that kind of mind." Archer hesitated. "Although it was soon after the Cumberline fiasco that Penrith went his own way."
"Interesting."
"Yes, isn't it? But for Penrith, I'd almost be willing to believe in your suggestion. I don't particularly like the man, for reasons of my own. Still, Quarles has been scrupulously careful-a man of his background has to be. That's the way the class system works."
The chauffeur had made his circuit of the pond and now stood some distance away, awaiting instructions. The High Street was busy, people taking advantage of a fine afternoon. From time to time they gathered in clusters, heads together. The likely topic of gossip today was Harold Quarles and his untimely death. Or possibly the news of Stephenson driving off with Padgett was already making the rounds. A number of people cast quick glances at Charles Archer seated in his motorcar, deep in conversation with the man from London. Speculation would feed on that as well, as Rutledge knew.
He made to open his door, but Archer said, "Er-you will have noted the arrangements at Hallowfields. I wasn't cuckolding Harold, you know. I'm no longer able to do such a thing. But I would have, if I could. I've found that being with someone you love, whatever the arrangement, is better than being alone. I sank my pride long ago, in exchange for her company."
"You needn't have told me this."
"I read your expression when you saw us together. I want you to understand that what lies between Mrs. Quarles and myself didn't lead to murder. Harold's death won't change our arrangement in any way. She won't marry me. I'm honest enough to accept that."
"Why not?"
"Because she knows that pity is the last thing I could tolerate. As it is, we are friends, and it is easier to accept pity from a friend. Not from a lover."
"Thank you for being honest. I will not ask where you were late Saturday night. But I must ask if you can tell me with certainty that your invalid chair was in your sight for the entire evening and into the night."
Archer considered Rutledge. "You're saying someone moved the body. He wouldn't have been a light burden."
Rutledge said, "Yes." The full account of the nightmarish hanging in the tithe barn would be out soon enough.
"For what it's worth, I give you my word that to my knowledge the chair never left my bedside."
Rutledge got down, and as he closed the door, Archer signaled to his driver.
As the motorcar moved on toward Hallowfields, Rutledge stood on the street, looking after him.
Hamish said, "Do ye believe him?"
"Time will tell. But he made his point that neither Mrs. Quarles nor her lover had any need to murder her husband. Now the question is, why? To help us-or to hinder the investigation?"
A boy came running up, pink with exertion and hope. "A message for you, sir."
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 creche 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. Quar- les 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. Jones 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 Cam- bury. 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.