Rutledge found Padgett in the police station completing his report on the housebreaking. Even before he reached the office, he could hear the ragged tap of typewriter keys and an occasional grunt as something went wrong.
Padgett looked up, his ill temper aggravated by the interruption.
Rutledge said, not waiting for Padgett's good humor to return, "You wouldn't accompany me when I went to see Brunswick. It would have been wise if you had. He believes you had something to do with Harold Quarles's death. He told me to ask you why you hated the man."
Padgett's reaction was explosive. He swore roundly, his face red with anger.
"While you were exchanging confidences, did he tell you that at the time I suspected him of drowning his wife? And I've yet to be satisfied that her death was a suicide. There's no love lost between us."
"He believes she was Quarles's lover, and that the child she might have been carrying at the time of her death wasn't her husband's. Reason enough for murder."
"Well, she wasn't carrying a child at the time of her death. Not according to O'Neil. But she did have a tumor the size of a small cabbage. Brunswick believes the doctor is covering up the truth. They had words just before the funeral. Of course he-Brunswick- wouldn't care to think he'd killed his wife for no reason other than his own jealousy."
"Could she have borne children, if the tumor was safely removed?"
"Probably not. She wasn't drowned at home, mind you, but in one of those streams on Sedgemoor. A dreary place to die. A dreary battlefield in its day, for that matter. She ought to have survived-if she'd changed her mind, she might have saved herself. The stream wasn't all that deep. The only reason I didn't take Brunswick into custody was that simple fact. But I've kept an eye on him since then."
"What was your quarrel with the victim? You might as well tell me," Rutledge said, "it will have to come out sooner or later."
He could see the defiance in Padgett's eyes as he surged to his feet and leaned forward over the desk, his knuckles white as they pressed against the scarred wooden top. "I see no reason to tell you anything. I'm a policeman, for God's sake. Do you think I killed the man? If so, say that to my face, don't go hinting about like a simpering woman."
Rutledge held on to his own temper, knowing he'd provoked the anger turned against him and that the angry man across from him hoped to use it to deflect him from his probing.
"Padgett. I'll speak to the Chief Constable if I have to. And don't push your luck with me. My temper can be as short as yours."
" 'Ware," Hamish warned Rutledge. "He's likely to come across yon desk and throttle ye."
But at mention of the Chief Constable, Padgett got himself under control with a visible effort.
"Leave the Chief Constable out of this!"
"Then talk to me."
"I'm not a suspect. I don't have to give you my private life to paw over."
Rutledge was on the point of taking Inspector Padgett into custody and letting him think his position over in one of his own cells.
But Hamish warned, "Ye ken, it will only set him against you more. There's shame here, and it willna' come out, whatever ye threaten."
Rutledge took a deep breath. "Padgett. You found the body. There's no other witness. You could have hauled Quarles up to the beams yourself, as a fitting revenge for whatever he did to you. It doesn't look good."
Padgett started for the door, intending to push Rutledge aside. "If that's what you want to believe-"
"It's what the killer's barrister will claim, to throw doubt on the evidence we collect for trial. And then whatever you're hiding becomes a matter of public record forever after. I shouldn't have to tell you this. Think about it, man!"
Padgett stopped in midstride.
"Look, set your feelings about Quarles aside and consider the case clearly. If it were Mrs. Quarles-or Jones, the baker-or even Brunswick who had found the man's body by the side of the road, and you knew the history of their relationship with the victim, that person would be suspect almost at once. An unexpected confrontation, a temper lost, an opportunity taken. You'd have no choice but to investigate the circumstances."
"I'm an honest man, a good policeman." Padgett's voice was tight, his face still flushed with his fury.
"No doubt both of these are true. Do they put you above suspicion? You may not be guilty-but you must be cleared, any question of doubt put aside so that you don't cast a shadow over the inquiry."
"Are you going to take me off the case? I don't see how we can work together now."
"I'm not removing you. But you must give me your word you didn't kill Quarles."
"What good is my word, if I'm a murderer? Do you think I'd stop at perjuring myself to escape the hangman?"
"Your word as a policeman."
It was the right thing to say. Padgett's ruffled feathers relaxed, and he swore, "As God is my witness, then. I give you my word as a policeman."
Hamish said to Rutledge, "Aye, all well and good, but he didna' swear to stop interfering." hey went on to Dr. O'Neil's surgery, to interview Stephenson.
"I was looking for the truth, not trust," Rutledge answered him grimly. The doctor greeted them, and if he saw any stiffness in their manner, he said nothing about it. Taking them to the narrow examination room where he'd put the bookseller, he added, "He's recovering well enough. Physically, if not emotionally. But that's not unexpected, given the circumstances. Be brief, if you want to question him."
"Before we go in," Rutledge said, "can you tell me if Michael Brunswick's wife was diagnosed with a tumor? Or was she pregnant at the time of her death?"
O'Neil sighed. "Brunswick has convinced himself that I lied to him. I didn't. If he killed Quarles, he'll be coming for me next. He's one of those men who can picture his wife in another man's arms if she so much as smiles at a poor devil in the post office or the greengrocer's. The fact is, I believed it to be ovarian from the start, because she'd had no symptoms until the tumor was well advanced. And I told her as much, warning her to prepare herself. I did prescribe tests, to confirm my diagnosis. Her mother had died of the same condition. Sadly, she knew what to expect. And if by some miracle of surgery she survived the cancer, there would be no children."
"How did you do the tests?" From what Rutledge had seen of the small surgery, he was certain Dr. O'Neil didn't have the facilities for them here.
"I sent her to Bath, to a specialist there. Quarles lent her his motorcar and his chauffeur. She was in her last week of employment at Hallowfields the day she came to me, and when she told Quarles she was glad she was nearly finished, because it appeared that she was ill, he arranged to send her. It was a kind gesture. But Mrs. Brunswick made me promise to say nothing to her husband about that-she said he would disapprove."
Rutledge thought, It could have been that Brunswick found out But that wasn't the murder he'd come to Cambury to solve.
"Why the interest in Mrs. Brunswick?" O'Neil asked, clearly busy putting two and two together.
"It could offer a reason for her husband to kill Quarles," Padgett answered, following Rutledge's thinking. "Early days, no stone unturned, and all that."
"I've finished with Quarles, by the bye. And he did eat dinner the night he was killed."
"Then let his wife bury him," Padgett said. "The sooner the better."
O'Neil looked at Rutledge for confirmation, and he nodded.
The doctor opened the door to Stephenson's room. The man looked up, sighed wearily, and visibly braced himself for what was to come.
Rutledge said, "I'm happy to see you feeling a little better."
"There's better and better," Stephenson said without spirit.
"Why kill yourself, if you've done nothing wrong?" Rutledge asked. "It's a waste of life."
"My reasons seemed to be sound enough at the time-"
He broke off and turned his face toward the wall, tears welling in his eyes.
"Do we clap you in gaol as soon as Dr. O'Neil here gives us leave?" Padgett demanded irritably. "You as much as confessed that you wanted to kill Harold Quarles. Did you or didn't you? You can't have it both ways."
"But he can," Rutledge put in quietly. "If he paid someone to do what he couldn't face himself."
"That would be betrayal. I wouldn't stoop to that. By rights," he went on, "an eye for an eye, I should have killed his son. I couldn't do that, either."
"If you didn't kill Quarles, why were you so certain we were about to take you into custody for this murder? Certain enough to kill yourself before we could." He added in a level voice, no hint of curiosity or prying, merely trying to clarify, "Just what did Quarles have to do with your son?"
"I don't want to talk about it. I'm still shaken, hardly able to believe I'm still alive. I expected never to see this world again. I thought I was well out of it." His face was hidden, his voice rough with tears. "For God's sake, go away and leave me alone."
"In the end, you'll have to clear yourself by telling us the truth."
"I don't have to do anything of the sort. You can't threaten me with hanging. I know how the noose feels about my neck, and what it's like to plunge into the dark. The next time will be easier, and it won't be interrupted. I really don't give a damn."
"If you want to die so badly," Padgett reminded him, "you'd have to convince us first that you deserve to. What you're feeling now is self-pity, not evidence. Do you think you're the only man who's lost a son? I can find you a dozen such fathers without leaving the parish."
"He was my only child-my wife is dead. I never thought I'd be grateful for that, until the day the news came."
Rutledge shook his head, warning Padgett to leave it as he was about to reply. Reluctantly Padgett turned and walked away, shutting the door behind him. Rutledge said to Stephenson, "Consider your situation. If you want to claim this crime even though you didn't commit it, go ahead. That's not vengeance, it's martyrdom. And in the final moments before the trapdoor drops, you'll find martyrdom isn't a satisfactory substitute for what you'd promised your son to do."
Not waiting for a reply, Rutledge turned on his heel, leaving Dr. O'Neil alone with his patient.
As they walked down the passage, he could hear Stephenson's voice: "I loved him more than anything, anything."
Outside, Padgett said, "Why did he call that bookstore of his Nemesis, if he wasn't waiting for his chance to kill Quarles? Whatever lay between them, it must have been a fearsome hate on Stephenson's part."
They had just reached the High Street when the boot boy from The Unicorn caught up with them. "You're wanted, sir, if you're Inspector Rutledge. There's a telephone call for you at the hotel. I was told at the station you'd be with Inspector Padgett."
"And who would be calling the inspector?" Padgett asked, inquisi- tiveness alive in his face.
"London," Rutledge answered. "Who else?" He handed the flushed boot boy a coin, nodded to Padgett, and walked away toward The Unicorn.
Hunter was waiting for him at Reception, and escorted him to the telephone room. "They promised to call again in fifteen minutes." He took out his pocket watch. "That's half a minute from now."
On the heels of his words, they could hear the telephone bell, and Rutledge went to answer it.
It was Sergeant Gibson, who asked him in a formal tone to wait for Chief Superintendent Bowles to be summoned.
The tone of voice, as always with Gibson, reflected the mood of the Yard.
Bowles, when he took up the receiver, shouted, "You there, Rutledge?"
"Yes, sir, I'm here."
"What's this I hear about your questioning Mr. Penrith and speaking to Hurley and Sons?"
Mickelson was back in London and complaining.
"It was in the course of-"
"I don't give a fig for your excuses. I sent you to Cambury to find a murderer, and I've had no report of your progress. Davis Penrith has been on the horn to the Yard, expressing his concern, wanting to know if we've taken anyone into custody. Have we?"
"Not yet. I reported the death of his former partner to Penrith, and asked who among the victim's business connections might have a grievance against the man dead. I asked Hurley and Sons who benefited from the will. It's the usual procedure. You gave me no instructions not to follow up in London."
In the background Rutledge could hear Hamish derisively mocking his words.
"This was an important man, Rutledge. Do you understand me? Inspector Padgett was quite right to call in the Yard, and if you aren't capable of dealing with this inquiry, I'll send someone down who can."
"We're interviewing-"
"You're wasting time, Rutledge. I can have you out of there in twenty-four hours, if you don't give us results. Do you hear me?" The receiver banged into its cradle with a violence that could be heard across the room. Rutledge smiled. Mickelson must have been very put out indeed.
As he turned around to leave, Rutledge saw that Padgett had followed him to the hotel and was standing in the doorway. He must have heard a good part of the conversation. From the look on his face, most assuredly he'd heard the receiver put up with force.
He said blandly, "I was just coming to inquire. Do you want to tell Mrs. Quarles that she can bury her husband, or shall I?"
Rutledge wiped the smile from his lips. "Yes, go ahead. I think she'll be glad of the news."
"Yes, sooner in the ground, sooner forgotten. Shall I tell the rector that he'll be posting the banns for a marriage, as soon as the funeral guests are out of sight?"
"Sorry to disappoint you. I don't think she'll marry Archer. Now or ever."
"Care for a small wager?" Padgett asked as he turned away, not waiting for Rutledge's answer.
Hamish said, agreeing with Rutledge. "She willna' marry again. There's her son."
Rutledge went up to his room, surprised at how late in the afternoon it was. He felt fatigue sweeping over him, and knew it for what it was, an admission that Padgett and Chief Superintendent Bowles had got to him.
Hamish said, "You were in great haste to get to London before yon inspector returned from Dover. You canna' expect to escape unscathed."
It was nearly four-thirty in the morning when someone knocked at the door of Rutledge's room.
He was sleeping lightly and heard the knock at once. "I'm coming."
The only reason he could think of for the summons was another murder, and he was running down a mental list as he pulled on his trousers and opened the door.
It wasn't Inspector Padgett or one of his constables. Standing on the threshold was Miss O'Hara, her hair tousled, and a shawl thrown over hastily donned clothes.
"You must come at once," she said. "I've got Gwyneth Jones at my house. She just came home, and her father's at the bakery, firing up the ovens, her sisters asleep in their beds."
He turned to find his shoes and his coat. "Is she all right?"
"Frightened to death, tired, hungry, and looking as if she's slept in her clothes. Mrs. Jones told me you knew her story. The question now is, what to do? Gwyneth's father is going to be furious, and her mother is on the point of having a fit."
"Have you told the girl that Quarles is dead?" Rutledge asked as they went toward the stairs.
She shook her head. "No, nor has her mother. Gwyneth explained to her mother that she was homesick, but she told me that she missed Cambury and wanted to work in the shop again, rather than dance to her grandmother's tune."
They opened and shut The Unicorn's door as quietly as possible, so as not to disturb the night clerk sleeping in his little cubicle.
"How did you know which room I was in?" he asked as they stepped out into the cool night air and walked briskly toward Church Street.
"How do you think? I looked in the book at Reception."
Rutledge found himself reflecting that if the story got around Cam- bury that he was seen escorting a disheveled Irishwoman out of the hotel and back to her house at this hour of the morning, gossip would be rampant. And Padgett would have much to say about it. The one bright point was that Gwyneth had been sent to Miss O'Hara's house while it was still dark. They could at least keep her arrival quiet for a while.
As if she'd read his mind, Miss O'Hara suppressed a laugh. "We'll have to avoid the man who brings round the milk. Bertie. He's the worst rumor monger in Cambury. If you wish to have your business discussed over the world's breakfast table, confide in him."
The first hint of dawn was touching the eastern sky, and the coolness of evening still lurked in the shadows. It would be light enough soon for anyone looking out a window to see them.
"Why did Mrs. Jones bring her to you?"
"If the other children had seen their sister, there'd be no keeping the news from their father. I was the only woman living alone she could think of."
"What do you know about the situation?"
"Enough to realize that if she'd fled Wales, and her father got wind of it, he'd kill Harold Quarles."
"How did the girl get home?"
"Begging lifts from anyone she thought she could trust. She had a little money with her, but not enough to pay for a train or omnibus."
They had reached the O'Hara cottage and quickly slipped inside.
Gwyneth Jones was sitting dejectedly in the kitchen, her hands wrapped around a mug of hot tea, her face as long as her tangled dark hair.
All the same, he could see that she was a lovely girl, with curling black hair and dark lashes, dark eyes, skin like silk. But whatever spirit she might have possessed was now sunk in gloom and fear.
She started to her feet like a cornered wild thing when she saw that Miss O'Hara had brought someone with her.
Rutledge said quickly, "You needn't be afraid. Your mother has told me about you. I'm a policeman-from London. Inspector Rutledge, and you can trust me. Miss O'Hara did the right thing, asking me to help you sort out your troubles."
"A policeman?" She frowned. "My mother says I can't come home-she wants to send me directly back to Wales, and she refuses to let me see my da. It's as if I've done some terrible thing, and no one wants me anymore."
She sounded like a terrified and bewildered child.
Miss O'Hara went to her and put a hand on her arm, urging her to sit down again. Instead, Gwyneth threw her arms around the older woman and began to cry wretchedly.
"Miss Jones. Gwyneth," Rutledge began. "Listen to me. There's been some trouble here in Cambury, that's why I'm here. Rather- um-serious trouble."
His hesitation as he searched for a less threatening word than murder was enough. The girl broke free of Miss O'Hara's embrace and turned to stare at him, her tear-streaked face appalled. "My father's dead. That's why they won't let me go to him."
"No, its not your father-"
"Then it's Mr. Quarles who's dead, and you've got my father in custody for it."
"He's only one of several suspects, Gywneth. No one has been taken into custody-"
"I tried to tell him, Mr. Quarles isn't a monster, whatever the gossips say. But he believed them, just like she did." She pointed to Miss O'Hara, then added, "Mr. Quarles was nice to me, he told me that I could choose my own life. I don't have to follow my father in the bakery if I don't want to. I don't have to be the son my father never had-"
His eyes met Miss O'Hara's over the girl's head. "Gwyneth. Did Quarles offer to take you to London, and help you find this new life?"
"Of course he didn't. He told me I must learn to do something well, to make my living. To cook or to bake or to make hats, it didn't matter. He told me not to go into service. His sister did, and she was wretched to the end."
"Where does his sister live?" Rutledge asked, thinking that she could provide him with more information about Quarles than anyone else.
"She's dead. All his family is dead. They have been for years. He doesn't have anyone but his son."
"You're certain Mr. Quarles didn't try to convince you to run away from home? Or encourage you to leave your grandmother's and come back to Cambury?" Miss O'Hara asked.
"Of course not. My father thought he was flirting with me, but he wasn't. He said he hated to see such a pretty girl waste her life in Cam- bury, when she could live in Glastonbury or Bath and marry better than the young men I know here. And he's right, I don't like any of them well enough to marry them."
It was a different story from the one Jones himself had told Rut- ledge. But taking that with a grain of salt, Rutledge could see that Jones was jealous, wanted his favorite child to stay with him and inherit the bakery, not find work and happiness away from Cambury. He'd seen Quarles as the snake in his Eden, tempting his young daughter with tales that turned her head. And he'd read what he wanted to believe in the older man's attentions.
Who knew what was in Harold Quarles's mind-whether he wanted to help her or hoped to lead Gwyneth astray, perhaps take advantage of her when she was older and lonely and far from home.
She was extraordinarily pretty. But would she be any happier in a larger town? Would she find this young man of her dreams-or would she be trapped by someone who had other reasons for befriending her, and in the end, ruin her? Quarles hadn't troubled himself over Gwyneth's inexperience.
Rutledge could see and understand a father's anger. He could also see-if it were true-that Quarles might have discovered in Gwyneth more than Cambury had to offer and tried to show her that she could reach higher than her parents had, her mother with six children, her father content with his fourteen hours a day in his bakery.
It didn't matter. Quarles was dead, and Hugh Jones had a very good reason for killing this man who was interfering with his family.
Rutledge said, "Did your father know you were running away?"
She looked down, as if ashamed. "I've written to him since March, begging to come home. I told him I was wretched and couldn't bear to be there, away from everyone. He knew I was unhappy. Still, he said I must stay for now. And so I didn't tell him I had decided to run away- he'd have come to Wales and stopped me, if he'd had to lock me in my bedroom. And so I slipped away without a word."
"Didn't you think your grandmother would be frantic with worry? "
"No. She doesn't like me. She says God didn't intend for a woman to be as pretty as I am, and it's a burden for her to keep an eye on me, and the devil works through a pretty face, and-" She burst into tears again.
Even if Jones had no idea his daughter was going to run away, he knew she was unhappy, and he must have missed her greatly himself. Tormented by the need to keep her away from Quarles, he could well have decided to take matters into his own hands and rid them both of the man who had caused the family so much grief.
Either way, the baker had much to answer for.
"Did you write to Mr. Quarles, to say you were leaving Wales?"
She looked up, shocked. "Oh, no, if I did that, Da would never let me come home again!"
Rutledge said to Miss O'Hara, "I think you should put her to bed straightaway, and keep her out of sight until I've had time to sort this out." And to Gwyneth, he said, "You must stay here for a day or perhaps two, and keep out of sight. Do you understand?"
"I want to go home to my mother and my sisters."
"I'm afraid you'll have to pay that price for leaving your grandmother's house without permission. Miss O'Hara has been put to a good deal of trouble taking you in like this, but she's done it for your mother's sake, and for your father's as well. If you don't listen to her, and gossips connect your unexpected return with Mr. Quarles's death, there could be long-lasting suspicion about your father's guilt even after we've found the killer. The bakery could suffer as well. You owe your parents this consideration."
"I understand," she answered petulantly. But she was young and, in the end, might not be ruled.
He waited until Miss O'Hara had taken the girl upstairs and put her to bed, then thanked her for her help.
She looked tired, and strained. "I know something about being hunted," she said. "That's why I took Gwyneth in. Her mother was at her wits' end. I think Mrs. Jones must be a little afraid of her husband."
"Perhaps not afraid, precisely. But she's feeling guilty about her role in hiding Gwyneth's return. Did the girl tell you more about how she managed to get this far on her own? She took an enormous chance."
Miss O'Hara smiled. "She dirtied her face and teeth, to make herself seem less attractive. Now you must go, before the neighbors begin to talk. I can hear Bertie in the next street." In fact the clink of milk bottles and Bertie's whistle were ominously close.
He smiled in return. "Thank you. Tell Mrs. Jones that patience will serve her better, and silence."
"Do you believe that this child's father killed Quarles?"
"God knows. For Gwyneth's sake, and her mother's, I pray he didn't."
Bertie had other gossip to carry with the milk that morning. Someone had told him the way in which the body had been found, and the shocking news turned the town on its ear.
It met Rutledge over his breakfast.
Rutledge said, irritated, "Who let slip this information?"
Hamish answered, "I wouldna' put it past yon inspector, in retaliation."
That was not only possible, but likely. It served two purposes. It annoyed Rutledge, and it made it more difficult for him to do his job properly. Often what the police held back was a key to tripping up a killer.
Padgett would be satisfied with both outcomes. Whether he himself was guilty of murder or not, he was in no haste to prove that someone on his patch had done such a thing. By the same token, if it could have been laid at Mrs. Quarles's door, Padgett would have been pleased enough.
Glancing out the window as he drank his tea, Rutledge saw the Quarles motorcar passing down the High Street.
Mrs. Quarles on her way to fetch her son from Rugby?
He pitied the boy. The whole ugly story of the murder was common knowledge now, and there would be no way to protect him. It would have come out in the course of the trial, and the newspapers were bound to make much of the circumstances. But that was months away, not now while the boy's grief was raw.
Padgett came to find him before he'd finished his tea.
Rutledge swallowed his ire with the last of his toast and waited.
"We're not slack in our duty in Cambury," Padgett said, sitting down. "My men have been busy. It appears one Harold Quarles dined with Mr. Greer on Saturday evening. But not until seven o'clock."
"I'm surprised that he didn't come to us with that information himself."
"You're free to ask him. That brings us to another problem. Where was Quarles between the time he left Hallowfields and his arrival on Minton Street? It doesn't take that long to walk in from the estate, now, does it?"
Half an hour at most, in a leisurely stroll. Which would mean he could have reached the High Street as early as six o'clock.
Where was Quarles for nearly an hour? At the estate still? Sitting in the gatehouse cottage, waiting for someone? Or had he come into Cambury?
"He met someone on the way," Rutledge answered Padgett. "It's the only explanation that makes sense."
"He was expecting to meet someone on the way. Or he'd have left later than he did."
"Point taken. Why did he dine with Greer? I thought they disliked each other."
"They do."
Rutledge pushed his chair back. "I'll want to pay a visit to Mr. Greer."
"I thought you might." Padgett, grinning, followed him out of the hotel.
The owner of the glove firm lived in a large house next but one to the High Street, with black iron gates and a handsome hedge setting it off.
Greer was just stepping out his door, on his way to his office, when the two policemen lifted the gate latch and started up the short walk.
Greer said, "We will speak here, at the house," as if he'd called the meeting, not the reverse.
A man of middle height with graying hair and an air of confidence, he waited for them to pass through the door before him and then shut it behind them. "This way."
He led them to a study at the back of the house, overlooking the side gardens. A bench in the grassy lawn stood beside a small pool, and a frog perched on the pool's edge. Set apart by trees, this appeared to be a retreat, and one of the long study windows opened on to it.
Greer took his chair behind the broad maple desk and gestured to the other two placed across from him.
"Well. This is to do with Harold Quarles. What is it you want to know?"
"He dined at your house on Saturday evening. What time did he arrive?"
"We had another guest, a Mr. Nelson. They came in together promptly at seven." There was something in his tone of voice that told Rutledge he was not pleased about that.
"Did Mr. Nelson bring Quarles in from Hallowfields?"
"As to that, I don't know."
"Did they leave at the same time?"
"No, Mr. Nelson remained here for another hour or more. He had a business proposition to put before us. Neither Quarles nor I approved of it. We both preferred to see Cambury stay as it is, rather than bring in new industry to the area. Mr. Nelson believed that the village could support two business enterprises and wanted our backing in presenting his concept to the town fathers."
"And so he stayed on to try to convince you?"
"Quarles was adamant in his position. He said what he had to say early on, and then left. I expect Mr. Nelson had already put as much effort into persuading Quarles as he did afterward with me."
"What sort of new industry?" Padgett wanted to know.
"He felt that gloves had seen their day, and that the up-and-coming field would be leather goods of a different sort. Valises, wallets, diaries-a long list of items. I think if Quarles had believed it would benefit me in any way, he'd have been against change on general principles. But I disliked the idea as well. For once," he said, smiling wryly, "we were actually in agreement about this matter."
"You felt that Nelson met Quarles first, possibly driving him here, in order to bring him around to his position?"
"As Quarles left first and on foot, it's a natural assumption."
"How did you know he left on foot?"
Greer flushed. "I asked my butler."
"As he was leaving, did Nelson follow Quarles into the street to finish the conversation between them?"
"No, of course not, I told you he'd stayed. He joined me in a glass of port, and continued to try to persuade me."
"Do you think Mr. Nelson had any reason to wish Quarles harm? That he might have followed him back to Hallowfields, talked to him again, and in a fit of anger, attacked him?" It was Padgett's question now, and Greer turned to him in disgust.
"That's absurd. Nelson mentioned three villages he's interested in for his factory. We were the first he spoke to, because of my glove firm. He still had two others to visit. One of them has nearer access to the railway. It would suit his purpose much better. But there's less competition in Cambury, and I think that held a great appeal." He shrugged. "Labor would be cheaper here, you see, versus the convenience of the railway for shipping."
"Is it possible that Quarles agreed with Mr. Nelson after all, and you went out as Quarles left and had words with him?" Rutledge asked.
"I don't pursue my guests into the street to harangue them."
"But you failed to inform us that you'd seen the victim on the evening he was killed," Rutledge said.
"I saw no reason to present myself at the police station just to tell them I'd had a dinner guest who later died. You found me soon enough, and as you can see, I was in no way involved with what happened to Harold Quarles."
"Has your staff told you that not only was Quarles murdered, he was also put into the Christmas angel harness and hauled into the rafters of the tithe barn?"
No one had. They could see the shock in Greer's eyes, and the graying of the skin on his face.
"My good God!"
Rutledge waited, saying nothing.
After a moment, Greer went on, "You suspect Nelson of having done such a thing? But how could he know the harness existed? He lives in Manchester." Greer stirred uneasily, as if thinking that should it benefit Nelson to kill one of the objectors to his project, why not make it a clean sweep and kill both?
He reached for the telephone on his desk and asked to be connected to Manchester, and the firm of one R. S. Nelson.
They waited, and in due course, Nelson was brought to the telephone at the other end.
There was a brief conversation, as if Nelson thought Greer was calling to change his position. Then Greer said, "No, I just wanted to ask if you'd spoken to Harold Quarles after you left me on Saturday evening? "
There was a reply at the other end.
Greer said, "No reason in particular. I could see that he was not going to budge. I wondered if you'd felt otherwise."
After a moment, grimacing, he said, "Well, if you must know, Quarles was murdered that night. And the police are here asking if you or I know anything about that, as apparently we're the last people to have seen him alive."
He listened, then said, "I see. I'll wish you a good day."
Hanging up the receiver with some force, Greer said, "He informed me he had no need to turn to murder to see his business prosper, and he'd judged Quarles as the sort who resisted change for the sake of resisting. And he accepted that, because, and I quote, 'I grew up in the north myself, and know a stubborn bastard when I see one.' "
He spoke the words with distaste. "I had no desire to work with that man on Saturday evening, and even less desire to do it now. If you will excuse me, I'm late at my office, and I think there's nothing more I can do to help the police in their inquiry." He stood up, dismissing them.
Rutledge said, "Thank you for your time. You'll still be required to make a statement about events of that evening. If you will give Inspector Padgett the direction of Mr. Nelson in Manchester, he'll ask the police there to take his."
That seemed to please Greer and make up for the unpleasantness of having to present himself at the police station.
He followed them out, and as he closed the gate behind them, he said, "I never liked Harold Quarles, and I've made no pretense of anything else. But I don't resort to murder to settle my differences. I would not have willingly invited the man to dine, most certainly not on a social occasion. Because he doesn't entertain at Hallowfields, it was left to me to invite both men here. I can tell you that my wife didn't join us. It was not that sort of evening."
He nodded and left them standing there.
"Pompous ass," said Padgett, watching Greer walk up the street.
"But he filled in that hour for us. What's left is to find out who argued with Quarles before he reached the corner of the High Street, where Hunter tells us he was alone."
"You believe him then?" Padgett asked. "And Nelson as well?"
"It doesn't appear to be a motive strong enough for what happened at the tithe barn. I hardly see this man Nelson killing someone he had never met before just to rid himself of an obstacle to the site for his factory. Do you?"
"No," Padgett returned grudgingly. "But by God, I'll see to it we have both statements in our hands."
They had reached the High Street themselves now, and in the distance Greer was just walking through a door. "His place of business?" Rutledge asked.
"Yes. Beyond Nemesis, in fact. You know, it could have been Stephenson who spoke to Quarles on the street. Or Brunswick. But probably not the baker, Jones. He would have been home at that hour, not prowling the streets. But my men tell me that sometimes Stephenson is restless and walks about at night."
"We'll have to ask him-"
Rutledge broke off. The rector, Samuel Heller, was coming toward them, distress in his face.
When he reached Rutledge he said, "You misled me."
"In what way, Mr. Heller?"
"You told me that Mr. Quarles was dead. But not the manner in which he was found. My housekeeper informed me this morning. Is it true? And if so, why did you keep it from me?"
"It was a police decision," Rutledge replied. "I didn't want that part of Quarles's death to be public knowledge until I was ready."
"And so we all have learned such terrible news with our morning tea, and from a servant! It's not proper."
"Would it have made any difference in what you told me?" Rut- ledge asked. "As I remember, you were not eager to judge others."
Heller had the grace to flush. "And I would still tell you the same thing. But this is-I don't know-I can hardly find the word for it. Blasphemous. Yes. Blasphemous suits it best. To use that angel in such a fashion. What drives another human being to that sort of barbarity? "
"If you remember, I warned you to beware of a confession that might mean someone is looking for absolution for what he'd done."
"Yes, Mr. Rutledge, you warned me, and I have been on my guard. But no one has come to confess. Though I have heard from Dr. O'Neil that Mr. Stephenson from the bookshop might have need of my counseling. Apparently he's distraught, working himself up into an illness."
"Any idea why?" Rutledge asked.
"He lost his only child in the war. And he feels that he himself is partly responsible for the boy's death."
"In the war?" Padgett asked. "Quarles didn't have anything to do with it?"
Heller lifted his eyebrows. "Harold Quarles? I should think not. If there's anyone to blame, it's the Army. Or the Kaiser. What made you suggest Mr. Quarles?"
"Because Stephenson admits to hating him, indeed, he told us he wanted to kill the man. Where's the connection, if he's haunted by the son and hates Quarles?" Padgett asked.
"In his own poor imagination, I expect," Heller said with some asperity. "A man who is in great distress, great agony of spirit, sometimes blames others for his misfortunes, rather than face them himself."
"I'm a greater believer in connections than in spiritual agony, thank you all the same, Rector," Padgett said.
Heller smiled grimly. "I would never have guessed that, Mr. Padgett," and with a nod to Rutledge that was brief and unforgiving, Heller turned away and strode back toward his church.
"I think," Rutledge said slowly, "we ought to have another chat with Stephenson."
"What's the use? He's not ready to tell us anything. And I have work to do. You might contact the Army, to see if there's any truth in what the rector was told."
Changing the subject, Rutledge asked, "Has Mrs. Quarles made any decision about her husband's burial?"
"Yes, oddly enough. She's taking him back to Yorkshire."
"I can understand that she might not want him here, although that might be his son's choice. But why not London?"
"She said that he deserved to return to his roots," Padgett answered him. "Whatever that might mean."
Rutledge considered the matter. "Then whatever turned her against him might also have to do with his roots."
"She knew what he was when she married him."
"Yes, she's honest about that. But what did she learn later that made her judge him differently and demand a separation? Apparently Quarles didn't fight it, and it's possible he didn't want whatever it was to become open knowledge. For that matter, why was she searching his background in the first place? Was she looking for something- or did she stumble over it? And I don't believe it was Charles Archer wounded in France that upset the marriage."
"You can't be sure of that," Padgett objected.
Rutledge gave him no answer. He was already in a debate with Hamish over the subject, Hamish strongly supporting the need to find out more about Quarles's past while his own pressing concern at the moment was the bookseller.
Padgett said, "Well, I'll leave you to your wild goose chase. I'll be at the station, if you want me."
Hamish was saying now, "What about yon lass? Ye canna' leave her much longer."
"Let her sleep. Then we'll see what to do about her. I'll have to tell her father. And that should answer a lot of questions."
He walked on to the doctor's surgery, found that Dr. O'Neil was busy with another patient, and asked his nurse if he could speak to Stephenson without disturbing the doctor.
She was willing to allow him to see the patient, she said, if he promised not to upset the man. "We've got five people in the waiting room, and I don't want a scene."
"Has Stephenson been upsetting the household?"
"Not precisely, but his state of mind is delicate. I was asking him just this morning if there was anyone we might send for, a cousin or something, to help him through his distress, and he began to howl. I can't describe it as a cry, and the doctor's wife came running to see what was the matter."
Small wonder that O'Neil had sent for the rector.
Rutledge gave her his word and hoped that he could keep it as he was led back to the room where Stephenson was sitting on the edge of his bed, his face buried in his hands.
He looked up as Rutledge came through the door, then dropped his head again, saying, "What is it you want? Can't you leave me alone?"
"I'm worried about you," Rutledge said easily. "I think there's something on your mind that you can't let go. Is it the fact that Quarles is out of reach now, and there's no one else to hate? Except yourself?"
His words must have struck a chord. Stephenson lifted his head again, his eyes showing alarm. "What have you found out? What do you know? "
"Very little. You mourn for your son. You hated Harold Quarles. There has to be a link somewhere. And if you hate yourself, it was because you feel you let your son down in some way, when he needed you most."
Stephenson began to cry in spite of himself. "Yes, yes, I should have put him on the first ship out of England, and let him go somewhere-anywhere-safe. But I didn't. He was so young, and I wanted to keep him with me. He was so like his mother, so gentle and sweet- natured. I couldn't let him go-and so I killed him."
Alarmed, Rutledge said, "When?"
"Damn you, not literally. I'd never have laid a finger on him."
"Then how is Quarles involved? I'm tired of playing solve the riddle."
Stephenson, burdened by his shame, buried his face in his hands again, unable to look anyone in the eye.
Rutledge, considering what Stephenson had just told him, asked, "Was your son called up in the draft and afraid to go to war?" It was hazarding a guess, but he was surprised at the reaction.
Stephenson rose to his feet to defend his son, gathering himself together to shout Rutledge down. He could see it coming.
And so he added, "Or was the coward you?"
Stephenson gasped, his features changing from pure blazing anger to such self-loathing that Rutledge had to look away.
But he thought Stephenson was lying when he said, "Yes, it was I. I couldn't bear to see him brutalized by the army, shoved into the battle lines, told to kill or be killed. I couldn't live with that."
It was the boy who'd been afraid, who had wanted to take ship. And the father who was determined to keep him in England. The boy, not the man.
"What could you do about it?"
"I went to the only person I could think of important enough to help me. I went to Harold Quarles-I'd grown up in Cambury, my mother was still living here-and I begged him to find a way to get my son out of the army. I told Quarles what would happen if I let him go, and I promised him anything, that I would do anything he asked, however difficult it was, if he would go to the Army and tell them not to send Tommy across to France."
"And what did Harold Quarles promise you?"
Stephenson's face twisted in grief. "He wouldn't even hear me out. He refused to help. I tried to tell him that they have all sorts of units. Quartermaster, signals, radio, enlistments-none of them having to do with actual fighting-and I told him Tommy could do those. He was cold, unyielding, and told me that he would not speak to the Army for me or anyone else. And so Tommy went to be trained as a soldier, and he was shipped to France, and on his first day at the Front, he waited until the trench had emptied and bent over his rife and pulled the trigger. The letter from his commanding officer called him a coward and said that he had disgraced the company. All I could think of was that he was dead, and that surely there had been some way for a man as powerful and well thought of as Harold Quarles to stop him from going abroad."
He was silent in his grief now, and that was all the more telling as he stared into a past he couldn't change. Rutledge rested a hand on his shoulder.
"I wanted to kill his commanding officer, then I realized those were only words, they didn't matter. It was Quarles who was to blame, and I wanted to make him suffer as I had done. I came here to haunt him, I wanted him to think about Tommy every time he passed the shop or saw me on the street, and remember his own child. I made a point to find out when he was returning to Cambury, and I put myself in his way as often as I could. And when I had wrought up my determination, I was going to kill him. But like my son, I couldn't find the courage to do anything. Like my son, I couldn't bring myself to kill, and yet I wanted it as I'd never wanted anything before or since, save to keep Tommy alive."
Stephenson saw himself as failing Tommy twice, Rutledge realized. In not saving him in the first place and then in not being able to avenge him in the second. And as long as Harold Quarles was alive, the opportunity to kill him still existed. Once Quarles was dead, it was too late for vengeance. And so the bookseller had punished himself by putting that rope around his neck. It wasn't so much a fear of the police that had driven him; it was the knowledge that when he was questioned, his shame would be exposed to the whole world. Tommy the coward, son of a coward.
But the story was out now.
As if Stephenson realized that, he lay back on his cot, his arm over his face, and his face to the wall.
Rutledge said, "Thank you for telling me. Whatever you feel about Harold Quarles, the fact remains that we must find out who killed him. It's a question ofjustice. As for his failure to help you and your failure to help your son, there are times when no one can help and a man's life has to take its course. Tommy wasn't the only one in that battle who was afraid. Most of us in the trenches were terrified. It would have been unnatural not to be."
Stephenson said, "He was the only one who didn't go over the top that morning. He was the only one who used his weapon against himself rather than the enemy. He let all the world see his fear and judge him for it. I think of that often, how awful his last hours-minutes- must have been, with no one to tell him he was loved and must live. I wasn't there, I wasn't there."
The final failure, in the father's eyes.
"Nor was God," Rutledge said, and sat with the grieving man for another quarter of an hour, until he was calmer.