In the event, Hugh Jones sent for Rutledge almost a quarter of an hour after he'd closed the bakery and come home. Rutledge had spent some time talking to the War Office on the telephone, asking for the military record of one Thomas Stephenson. After several delays as he was sent to one desk after another, Stephen- son's description of his son's death was confirmed. The officer reading it was cold, unsympathetic, and Rutledge wondered if he had ever served in France or merely kept the accounts of those who had and considered himself an expert on trench warfare.
He wasn't ready to confront the tangle of Hugh Jones and his family. But he walked there, and when no one answered his knock, he let himself in.
"I couldn't wait," Jones said as Rutledge came though the parlor door. "I shut the bakery early. My wife's not here, there's a neighbor caring for my girls, and nobody knows where Gwynnie is. I asked her sisters. They haven't seen her."
"She's with Miss O'Hara. I expect your wife has gone there against my advice. Your daughter slept most of the day. This will be the first opportunity her mother has had to speak to her."
Jones heaved himself from the horsehair sofa. "Then we'll go to the Irish woman's cottage."
Rutledge walked a little ahead of him, and when they reached the house, he could hear raised voices inside. Miss O'Hara opened her door, and it was plain that she'd had enough.
Like parents everywhere, Mrs. Jones's fright and worry had dissolved into anger, and as her daughter stood before her, hangdog and crying, she was berating her for causing the family such grief.
Gwyneth looked up to see her father coming into the room, and she stood poised for flight, like a startled animal knowing it was cornered and had nowhere to go. Mrs. Jones, whirling, gasped and fell silent.
Jones stood where he was, taking in the situation at a glance.
"You did a bad thing," he scolded his daughter. "You caused us much grief and your mother's tears." His voice was stern.
"But you wouldn't let me come home. You did nothing," the girl cried.
"And whose fault is that, and now the man is dead, and we're being looked at by the police. Because you couldn't mind your father or listen to your mother. Girl, you're going to be the death of me"
His voice broke on the last words, and he stood there, his mouth open, nothing coming out, and his face was filled with all the things he wanted to say and couldn't.
Gwyneth turned and ran back through the house, to the room where she'd been sleeping. Her mother, with a swift glance at Jones, started after her. But Rutledge stopped her.
"No. She's better off out of this. Mrs. Jones, I've come to take your husband into custody. I'd promised that he could see his daughter first."
"You'll do no such thing," she said, fighting through her emotional turmoil. "I killed that man."
"Don't be a fool, woman-" Jones began, but she turned on him next.
"And what have you done but thunder and threaten to kill the devil yourself, and fumed with frustration that your daughter had to be sent away while he still lorded it over the village? I heard you a thousand times and, yes, so have your children and, for all I know, your neighbors. Where there's the power of words, you are a murderer. And God help me, so am I, because in my heart I wanted to see him dead."
They stared at each other.
Out of the corner of his eye, Rutledge saw Miss O'Hara step out her own door and move into her garden, her hands clasping her elbows and hugging her arms to her chest.
Jones had turned to Rutledge and was repeating what he'd claimed earlier. "I killed the man. Let it be done with."
"You're a stubborn Welshman, Hugh Ioan Jones. Do you hear that? " his wife accused.
He said, for the first time showing gentleness, "What would you have me do, love, let you hang in my place?"
She began to cry. "I just want things to be the way they were. I want to go back to when we were safe and the only worry was how to feed the next mouth."
He crossed the room and gathered her in his arms. "I'd do anything for you, love. Die for you, even."
She was not a woman of beauty. Time and childbearing had worn her down, and worry had added lines to her face and drawn the color from it.
"There were times I wondered," she said, then pushed him away. "Go to your daughter, Hugh Jones, and then come home to your dinner. I doubt it's edible now. But we'll eat it anyway."
He held her for a moment, then without a word went down the passage to find Gwyneth.
Mrs. Jones looked up at Rutledge. "We're a sorry lot, bragging of being murderers. And you still aren't sure, are you?"
Rutledge asked wryly, "Are you? "
She said simply, "If he'd killed Harold Quarles, he wouldn't have touched me. He'd have gone directly to Gwynnie, for fear he'd break down."
It was a woman's reasoning, but Rutledge nodded. Whether or not it cleared Hugh Jones was another matter.
She sighed. "I'll go fetch the children and set out our dinner. I doubt any of us will swallow more than a spoonful."
He let her go, and waited. After a time, Hugh walked into the parlor without his daughter.
"She'll come home in her own time. I'll ask Miss O'Hara if she minds keeping her a little longer."
He walked past Rutledge and went out the door.
Rutledge waited, and in ten minutes, her face washed and her hair brushed, Gwyneth Jones stepped shyly into the parlor.
The resilience of youth, he thought.
"The selfishness of the young," Hamish countered. "She got what she wants, even if no one else did."
She was indeed a pretty girl, despite the dark circles beneath her eyes and the strain in them only just easing. In a small voice she apologized to Rutledge for being so troublesome, and then looked around for Miss O'Hara.
"She's in the garden. She wanted to give your family a little privacy."
Gwyneth nodded and went out.
After a time, Miss O'Hara walked back in her own house and shut the door behind her.
"Well," she said, hands shoved into the pockets of the short jacket she was wearing, "all this drama has made me hungry. You'll take me to The Unicorn to dine. I'll expect you in half an hour, and let the gossips be damned."
He found himself laughing.
And then realized that she was quite serious.
The next morning, Padgett met Rutledge at the dining room door as he was leaving after his breakfast.
Padgett followed him into Reception and said, "The rumor mill has been busy. I hear you had dinner with the lovely Miss O'Hara. Won't look good in London, will it, if you have to take her into custody for murder."
"I doubt she killed Quarles because he flirted with her in the street."
"Oh, ho! She's already in the clear-" He held up a hand before Rutledge could make the retort that Padgett saw coming. "Never mind. We've got a far different problem. The baker, Hugh Jones, is in the station wanting to make a statement."
Rutledge swore silently. "Let him make whatever statement he cares to write down and sign. But we'll not take any action on it until I'm satisfied he isn't lying."
"His girl's come home. He thinks that makes him your favorite suspect."
"And it does. But I haven't yet been able to show he knew she'd left her grandmother's. If Jones killed Quarles without knowing she was leaving Wales, it was coincidence."
"She'd written him that she was unhappy there. He just told me as much. He might have been clearing the way for her to come."
Rutledge considered Padgett. "Do you really think Hugh Jones is our murderer?"
"Better him than me," Padgett said tersely. Then he added, "I don't see him leaving his family destitute. And he would. Still, if Quarles goaded him, who knows what he might have forgotten in the heat of the moment? He's a strong man, mind you."
"There's something else I want to speak to you about. Let's walk."
They went outside where they couldn't be heard. Rutledge said, "This business with Brunswick leaves me unsatisfied."
"Whether he killed his wife or she killed herself?"
"In a way. Sunday, when we were discussing past murders here in Cambury, you told me about a young soldier returning from the war who believed his wife had been unfaithful. He knocked her down and killed her."
"Yes, he claimed it was in a fit of temper."
"Who was the man he suspected of sleeping with her?"
Padgett frowned. "We never knew. He told me he'd killed his wife, and there was the end of it. Gossip claimed it was a lorry driver who'd been seen about the place from time to time, but he turned out to be her brother. And after killing her, the husband wasn't about to besmirch her good name. Odd business, but for all I know, the war turned his mind, and it was all in his imagination. There was no talk about her before he came home."
"Could the other man have been Harold Quarles? There's a rumor about a mistress. Was she this woman? Or is his mistress just wishful thinking on the part of busybodies?"
Padgett's eyebrows flew up. "Quarles? Somehow I don't see it. And nor did the gossips. But there's her farm, and this business of him playing squire when he first came to Hallowfields. It could have begun that way. What put you on to that possibility?"
"Thinking last night about Brunswick and his wife."
Padgett shook his head. "The soldier's wife was quite pretty. But water over the dam, now. Nothing we can do about it, even if it was Quarles."
"It might explain why Brunswick was so certain his own wife was unfaithful. There was precedent."
"I put that down to his naturally jealous nature. But you never know. Dr. O'Neil is releasing Stephenson today. With orders not to open the shop for the rest of the week."
"I've spoken to the Army. Stephenson's son died in France of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Has the rector been to see him?"
"Yes, according to O'Neil, Mr. Heller was there for nearly an hour. And he said that afterward, Stephenson appeared to be in a better frame of mind. We seem to be at a standstill. Do you think we'll find our man? " He was serious now, and his eyes were on Rutledge's face, trying to read his thoughts.
"We'll find him," Rutledge answered grimly. "Whoever did this went to great lengths to leave behind no evidence we could collect or use against him. But there's always something. When we have that, we'll have him."
Padgett was silent for a moment. Then he said, "You're the man on the spot. I'll see to Jones. And I'll have a brief chat with Brunswick as well."
He nodded and walked away. lmost without conscious thought, Rutledge went to the hotel
Rutledge stood looking after him with mixed feelings. yard and got into his motorcar. He hadn't planned to drive out to Hallowfields, but he found himself drawn again to the tithe barn, restless in his own mind, unable to pinpoint what it was that niggled at the corners of this inquiry, why it was he couldn't seem to draw all the edges together and make a whole.
He had watched Mrs. Newell do that with her willow strands, the basket taking shape under her deft fingers, the certainty with which she worked demonstrated by the steadily rising levels on the basket sides, the way the willows, whippy and straight, bent and wove to her fingers, and the simple grace with which it all came together.
Would, he thought, driving down the High Street toward Hallow- fields, that murder inquiries had the same subtle texture and execution.
He left the motorcar by the main gate and walked from there to the gatehouse at the Home Farm, then stood in its little garden, trying to put himself in the darkness of Saturday near midnight, and the confrontation in this place that must have led to murder. After a moment he went across to the one stone that had been slightly dislodged from its neighbors. No blood or hair would have adhered to it. Whoever had used it would have seen to that. But he hefted it in his hand and felt the smooth weight of it, the neatness with which it filled his palm and the size, which allowed him a firm grip.
It was made for murder, he thought, as perfect a weapon as even an ancient warrior could have found, before he learned how to shape a tool for killing.
Hamish said, "It's whimsy, this."
Rutledge smiled and put it back in its place beside its neighbors.
He looked up at the gatehouse, across to the tithe barn, no longer guarded by one of Padgett's constables, and then down the lane toward the Home Farm.
Was there nothing here to re-create that scene of murder?
Pacing on the grassy verges of the lane, he tried to shut his mind to someone calling somewhere in the distance and the sound of a tractor rumbling into a barn.
At the end of his next turn, he looked up, following the flight of a bird, and realized that the parkland on this side of the road, part of the estate, had a matching stretch of wood on the far side, perhaps thirty feet deep, and overgrown. Whether or not it belonged to the estate, he didn't know, but seedlings must have escaped from the park over the decades and found fertile soil there, making themselves a poor reflection of their better grown neighbors.
Walking over the road, he stepped into the bushy tangle of wild- flowers and brambles that marked the verge, and went about ten feet into the wood, so that he could look back at Hallowfields from a different perspective.
He realized he had a better view of the Home Farm lane from here than he did from the estate property, and moved another half dozen steps among the trees until he could see both gates-that to the farm, and the drive to the house.
Changing his angle a little, he nearly stumbled over a length of half- rotten wood from a fallen tree.
He turned to look down at it, and what struck him then was how out of place it appeared, even here amidst all the other tangled debris of winter.
Curious, he began to walk in a half circle, and about ten feet away he found the rest of the tree the length had come from. Lichen covered the stump from which the tree had split, and in its fall it had broken into two sections. The longest half was disintegrating where smaller branches lay half covered in last year's leaves. Just where the shortest length should have been was a mossy depression. That section had been lifted out and moved to a better vantage point.
No animal could have done that.
He walked back to the length he'd seen first and measured it, and then looked once more at the empty space where it had been removed from the rotting trunk. Yes, a perfect fit.
This wood wasn't dense. Anyone walking here could easily be seen from the road. But in failing light or in the dark, when there was no movement to attract the eye, no light to pick out shapes or brightness of skin, someone could sit on that short length of trunk and wait, with a perfect view of the entrances to Hallowfields.
How had he come here? By foot? Bicycle? Motorcar? Where would he have hidden a motorcar?
Rutledge left the wood and walked on up the main road, just as a lorry came roaring past, leaving him in a cloud of dust.
The wall of the estate ran on for some distance, but there was a rutted track some fifty or sixty yards away from the gates where a team and farm equipment could pull in and turn around. It was used often enough-the grass was matted and torn, muddy in places, deep grooves in others.
In the distance he spied a small farm, the barn's roof towering over the house, and a team standing in the yard while a man bent over the traces.
Between the track and the farm was plowed land, already a hazy green with its spring crop.
A vehicle sitting here on a Saturday evening would be invisible in the darkness.
Hamish said, "Yon inspector told ye there were no strangers in the village."
"Yes. But if someone drove through, without stopping, it would make sense."
"Aye, but why not afoot? Quarles was on foot."
"That limits where he came from-and where he could go afterward."
"Ye're searching for straws. Gie it up."
"Someone waited there."
"Sae ye think. But ye canna' say when. And how did he know what was in the tithe barn? "
Rutledge began to walk back to the wood. "True enough."
What about the man Nelson? Had he waited here for Quarles? No, Quarles left the Greer house and would have been well home and in his bed before Nelson came this way again. If Greer was telling the truth.
Who argued with Quarles outside the Greer house? Who had known to look for him there? Had the argument not been resolved, and so he had come ahead of Quarles to pursue it again?
Padgett? He admitted to being on this road the same night…
It had been some time since the incident in the dining room of The Unicorn-why should Padgett suddenly attack Quarles? Why now? That was a sticking point.
Was there something that had happened more recently? Tipping the scales, trying a temper that was already on a short leash?
Padgett hadn't been very forthcoming. It could be true.
No one would notice a policeman passing along this road. It was regularly patrolled, because of Hallowfields. It wouldn't be reported that Padgett had come this way-if he hadn't taken over his man's last run, if he hadn't found the body, who would have known he was here waiting?
Rutledge reached the log again and sat down carefully, so as not to ruin his trousers. But this bit of wood was dry, and his feet sank comfortably into a slight depression that appeared to be made for them.
It would be possible to sit here for some time… hours if need be.
Who? And how many weekend evenings had someone waited here, to catch Harold Quarles unawares?
Standing up, he found a few long twigs and set them up around the log, put his coat over them to resemble a man, his hat on the log itself, and went back across the road.
In the daylight, he might well have seen the coat, looking for it. But it didn't strike the eye at once, and if there was no movement, he'd have missed it. Even with the sun out.
Rutledge went back to retrieve his clothing, and cranked the motorcar.
Hamish said, "What does it prove?"
"Nothing. We still have the problem of the apparatus."
Coming into Cambury, he was reminded of something Hamish had accused him of earlier, that he hadn't looked into Quarles's past.
And then one name leapt out at him. The partner, Davis Penrith.
He hadn't asked how Quarles had been killed.
Rutledge hesitated, nearly pulled into The Unicorn's yard to make a telephone call to London. And instead he gunned the motor and drove through the village without stopping.
Hamish called him a fool. "It's no' what's wise."
"I couldn't think straight Monday morning. I didn't have any reason then to question him further. It wasn't until I'd left London that I realized he showed no curiosity about his partner's death. If they worked together for nearly twenty years, there would have been some interest in the man's demise. Even if they disliked each other after the breakup of the partnership."
"Excuses," Hamish grumbled, and settled into a morose monologue for the rest of the journey.
It was late when Rutledge reached the city. Nevertheless, he went straight to Penrith's house.
The footman who answered the door at this late hour was dubious about disturbing Penrith.
"He's entertaining a guest," he informed Rutledge, "and told me he'd ring when the guest was leaving. He didn't want to be disturbed, meanwhile."
"Yes, I understand. But this is police business, and it comes first."
The young footman stood there uncertainly for a moment, then replied, "I'll go and ask."
He came back five minutes later. "Can this wait until tomorrow?"
"It cannot."
The footman went away again, and when he returned, he led Rut- ledge into a small room at the back of the house that appeared from the way it was decorated to belong to Penrith's wife. The furnishings were feminine, painted white and gold, the chairs delicate, and the hangings at the windows trimmed with tassels.
Penrith was standing there, a frown on his face, when Rutledge walked through the door.
"I hope you've come to tell me that you've caught Harold's murderer."
"In fact, I haven't," Rutledge said easily. "I've come with questions I should have asked you on Monday."
"This is not the time-"
"I'm afraid your business with your guest will have to wait."
It was interesting, Rutledge thought, watching the man, to see that a stern front made him back down. If the partnership was to have succeeded for many years, it would have been Quarles who was the dominant force. Penrith couldn't have controlled the other man.
Hamish said, "But ye didna' know him alive."
Rutledge nearly answered aloud but caught himself in time. To Penrith he said, "This may take some time. I suggest we sit down."
Penrith sat at the small French desk, and as Rutledge took the armchair across from him, Penrith said, "I don't care for your tone."
"For that I apologize. But the fact is, time is passing and I need to confirm several pieces of information before I can move forward."
At this Penrith seemed to relax a little, marginally but noticeably. As if he was more comfortable with a simple request for information.
"In the first place, why did you and the victim sever your business ties?"
"I've told you. I wished to spend more time with my family. I'm not a greedy man, I've made enough money to live comfortably for the rest of my life. Why spend every hour of my day grubbing for more?"
"Surely you could have stayed within the partnership and simply cut back on your appointments. In fact, you appear to have one this evening."
Penrith picked up the pen by his wife's engagement book. "You didn't know Harold Quarles. There was no such thing as half measures for him."
"Did your decision to leave have anything to do with the Cumber- line debacle?"
The pen snapped in Penrith's fingers.
"Where did you hear of Cumberline?"
"I saw the box in the victim's study. And there is some talk in Cam- bury about his 'rusticating' there. I put two and two together. Something went wrong, and you left the firm."
"I didn't intend to defraud anyone, if that's your insinuation." As an afterthought he added, "And I don't think Quarles did, either."
"But he made no attempt to prevent a handful of people from investing in a foolhardy scheme that was bound to fall through."
"Some people think they know best. There's nothing you can do to educate them or protect them. Some of those who made a great deal of money during the war were hot to double it. I found that distasteful. But I didn't try to trick them."
"Did you have your own money in Cumberline?"
"A little-" He broke off. "Why am I being questioned like this?"
"Because your partner is dead and there's no one else I can ask. Let's suppose, for the sake of argument, that you disagreed with Quarles's methods in dealing with Cumberline, and in order not to be tarred by that brush, you decided the time had come to leave James, Quarles and Penrith."
He didn't need to hear confirmation of his question. It was written in Penrith's face.
"And I'd like to suggest to you that you haven't always seen eye to eye with your partner."
"Here," Penrith said, leaning forward, "you aren't suggesting that I killed the man!"
"I'm trying to get to the bottom of Harold Quarles. If his own partner didn't care to be associated with him any longer, and if his wife has made her own arrangements to deal with the problems in her marriage, I want to know more about the man and who else might have hated him."
"I didn't hate him-"
"I think it more likely that you feared him."
Penrith got to his feet. "I won't hear any more of this."
"We are speaking of Quarles, not of you. If you feared him, why didn't his wife?"
That caught Penrith off guard. "I-don't know whether she feared him or not."
"It seems that a few years into their marriage, she learned something about him, what sort of man he was, that caused her to separate from him legally. Not just a move to another part of the house, but terms drawn up by their solicitors. Just as you did financially."
There was worry in Penrith's eyes now that he couldn't conceal.
"I don't know what their relationship was-or why. She stopped coming to London, and they stopped entertaining. And Quarles became a different man, in some ways. He never spoke of his wife to me after that. I told myself it might be because of Archer…" He stopped. "Does she tell you she feared him? That he might have made her come to regret her decision?"
There was intensity in the question that Penrith couldn't keep out of his voice.
"Whatever it was that came between them, she appears to feel a deep and abiding emotion of some sort. I think, if you want the truth, that she acted to protect her son."
Light seemed to dawn behind Penrith's eyes. "Yes," he said slowly. "I begin to see what you are saying."
"Then what was it that turned Maybelle Quarles against her husband?"
Penrith sat down heavily. "I don't know what it was."
"But you must have some suspicion. It wasn't only Cumberline that turned you away from the firm the two of you had built together. The immediate cause, perhaps, but not the long-standing one."
That hit its mark, but Penrith said nothing.
"What is there in Harold Quarles's background that could have brought someone to Cambury to kill him?"
"Considering the reputation he had for being overbearing and dictatorial in the village, I should think you would find enough suspects there to satisfy any police inquiry," he retorted.
"The more I question the villagers, the more I hear one thing: whatever their grievances, people tell me that Harold Quarles wasn't worth hanging for."
Hamish said, "He didna' mention the women… It was you."
But then, not living in Cambury, he might not know, Rutledge answered silently.
When Penrith made no reply, Rutledge said, "You never asked me how he died."
Surprised, Penrith said, "Didn't I? Of course I did."
"He was struck in the head with one of the white stones that ring the iron table in the Home Farm's gatehouse garden."
Penrith turned away. "That's terrible." But the words lacked feeling.
"Did you know that Quarles provided a Christmas pageant in the tithe barn on his property, for the entertainment of the village?"
"I was the one who went out and found that confounded camel," Penrith told him with some force. "It took me the better part of a week."
"Why were you sent on such an errand? Why not one of the house clerks?"
"Quarles was threatening to sack everyone in sight. God knows why he wanted a camel-I expect it was something his son asked for."
"We know very little about Quarles's life before he came to London, only that he'd worked in the mines, came south to make his fortune, and so on. You must know more than that."
Penrith was suddenly wary. "His background? I don't think he spoke of it, except for that early story about his mother's ring. He was an odd sort. He'd dredge up stories about going down for coal, and they rang true. People believed him. And five minutes later, he was a Londoner through and through. The time came when I didn't really know what to believe. Whether he used the coal face to promote himself, or whether he really did go down. He said once that his parents' house had been eaten by the coal. That he had nothing to go back to but bad memories."
"No one came from Yorkshire to visit him? No one stopped him on the street to beg a few pounds from an old friend? No one wrote to him?"
"He told me his family was dead. I had no reason to think that was a lie," Penrith said defensively "After all, I didn't really give a damn about his past."
"You were a curate's son, I believe?"
"Yes. How did you know that?"
"Someone told me that you gave respectability to the firm, after Quarles took over from the James family."
Penrith flushed. "If you say so. I had no prospects when I-when I came to London. Like most young men, I was grateful to find a position. I had no expectation of rising in it."
"Where was your father's living?"
"In Hampshire. Why?"
"You didn't know Quarles before you were thrown together in London?"
"That's right. I don't see where this is going."
Neither did Rutledge. He was looking for anything, a crack in Pen- rith's armor, a small piece of information that he could move ahead with. But his sixth sense, his intuition, told him that something was not right. Penrith seemed to alternate between fears for his own standing and distancing himself from Quarles.
"Look, I've left my guest for long enough. If you will come again at a more convenient time, I'll be happy to continue this conversation."
Rutledge stood up. "Thank you. I will."
Penrith was waiting for Rutledge to precede him through the door. But as Rutledge came up to him, he stopped and said, "What village was that in Hampshire?"
Penrith stiffened. "I thought perhaps you would prefer to know where in Yorkshire Harold Quarles had come from."
"I think that door is shut. Quarles himself closed it a long time ago. Thank you for your time, Mr. Penrith."
He walked by the man and down the passage the way he had come. Penrith followed him as far as the entrance to the house, as if to be certain he was gone.
When Rutledge had reached the street, he looked back, and Pen- rith was still standing there.
Hamish said, "Ye're a fool if ye drive far again tonight."
"I'll go to the flat," Rutledge answered, cranking the car.
He was caught in London traffic, and on the spur of the moment he turned toward the Yard in the hope of seeing Gibson leaving, but no such luck. He was looping back toward the west end, and as he pulled into the swirl around Trafalgar Square, he saw Mrs. Channing trying to hail a cab. It was late, a busy evening, and she looked tired.
Without thinking he maneuvered the motorcar to the lions, nearest where she was standing, and called, "Can I give you a lift?"
He would have done the same for his sister, Frances, or for Mary- anne Browning.
She looked up, smiling in recognition. "Ian. How lovely! Yes, I'd be glad of a lift."
He waited for her to slip in next to him, and she said, light and dark flitting across her face as he drove on, "I was at St. Martin-in-the- Fields with friends. A memorial service. "
"At this hour? "
"It was especially arranged for this hour, actually. An evening concert in his memory. The music was wonderful. His family arranged it-they do every year, on the Thursday evening closest to his birthday. A rejoicing for his life, short as it was."
He wanted to ask who the friend was but refrained. "You're on your way home, then."
"Yes. I had a letter from Elise. They're having a lovely time."
"That's good to hear."
The conversation dwindled as he turned toward Chelsea, as if neither of them knew quite what to say next. A few drops of rain spattered on the windscreen. Mrs. Channing saw them and said, "Well, I'm doubly grateful to you now, Ian." Her last words were lost in a downpour, and she laughed. "It's quite like Dunster, isn't it?"
The thunder soon followed, and she moved a little nearer so that her voice would carry, one gloved hand pulling her coat closer against the chill of the sudden storm. "Mrs. Caldwell telephoned me. We're having lunch together next week. I think she's planning a little dinner party for the bridal pair when they return."
He had forgot Elise Caldwell's father, and his invitation to call. Caldwell was in the same business as James, Quarles and Penrith.
Meredith Channing was still speaking, and he realized he'd missed half of it. Just ahead was her house, and as he drew up to the walk, he said, "I think there's an umbrella somewhere-"
"It's not far, don't bother. I should ask you to come in for tea or coffee, but I'm tired tonight. Another time?"
"Yes, thank you."
She got out, shut her door, and with a quick wave dashed to the house. Her maid was there to let her in almost at once.
As the door closed behind her, he sat where he was, the motor ticking over, and wished he'd asked her where the Caldwells lived.
It wasn't difficult to find out where Caldwell amp; Mainwaring was located in the City, and Rutledge was there as the doors opened the next morning.
He sent in his card, and Caldwell himself came out to greet him. "This is a pleasant surprise. What brings you to our part of the city? Not murder, I hope?"
"As a matter of fact, it is," Rutledge said. "I'm here about the death of Harold Quarles."
Caldwell frowned. "Yes, I've just heard. Disgraceful business. I hope you find whoever did it and quickly. What can I do to help?"
Caldwell led him to a corner office where the heavy Turkey carpet set off the elegant mahogany desk and the suite of chairs arranged in a half circle near the windows. Gesturing to Rutledge to be seated, Caldwell rang and asked for tea to be brought. Then he joined Rut- ledge. Pointing to the portrait over the mantelpiece, he said, "My father. He was a man you'd have liked. The son I lost was his image. It was like losing my father twice."
"I can imagine how it must have been."
It was evident Caldwell was waiting for the tea to be brought, and when they were settled, and his clerk had withdrawn, he said, "Now, to business. You must have come for information. I hope I have it."
"What do you know about the background of either partner, Quar- les or Penrith?"
"Not much more than everyone else. Penrith's father was a curate in Sussex-"
"Sussex? I thought I was told Hampshire."
"No, Sussex it was. I'm nearly certain of that."
Then Penrith had lied.
"Go on…"
"Quarles came from somewhere around Newcastle. Coal mining, which he was lucky enough to escape, according to the accounts he gave. I met him several times when he was clerk to Mr. James the younger. There was something about him-and this will sound to you quite discriminating on my part, but it isn't-that didn't seem to march well with his story. I had the feeling that there was more to him than met the eye. And that was it, something in his eyes, as if the real person were locked away behind them. I had the feeling that he could be quite ruthless if he chose."
"An interesting point."
"Yes, and I said something to my father about it. His reply was that I had no way to measure how rough the man's life had been, or how he had managed to escape the fate of his brothers. The story was that they'd died in a mining accident and he didn't want to do the same."
"There appears to have been some ruthlessness on his part aside from working his way into a prosperous business," Rutledge said, thinking about Cambury.
"Nevertheless, Quarles quickly changed from the rough diamond he claimed himself to be to a rather polished one. He married well, and he had a reputation for scrupulous honesty-"
"Even when it came to Cumberline?"
"Ah. That was an odd story. I think it was seven men who paid dearly for investing in that disaster. Quarles swore he'd put some of his own money into it, but I find that hard to believe. He was too astute."
"Do you know who these seven men were?"
"I don't. But there should be files of transactions somewhere. We're required to keep track of such things."
Rutledge saw again in his mind's eye the box marked CUMBERLINE on the shelf in Quarles's study at Hallowfields.
"What else can you tell me about him?"
"Nothing, I'm afraid. Oh, there was one thing, rather strange I thought at the time, but I can't remember why it disturbed me. We were standing outside a restaurant in the Strand, and a young woman came up to us, asking if we'd like to subscribe a sum for the memorial that was being erected to the men missing on the Somme, those who were never found. We all gave her money toward the cause-how could you not? All save Quarles. He turned away from her and said something to the effect that he was not an army man, that he'd sent in his subscription for the navy dead instead."
"It seems to me the simplest thing was to make a donation and let it go," Rutledge responded.
"Yes, but the young woman was asking to write our names down on the subscription list, to go into a book they were intending to place in the memorial."
Rutledge could almost hear Stephenson's voice, breaking as it recounted how he'd pled with Quarles to speak to the Army on his son's behalf. And Quarles refusing to even entertain the idea.
"He was too old for the war," Hamish said, without warning. "And his son is verra' young still."
Both comments were true. But Rutledge had taken up enough of Caldwell's time, and the teacups were empty. Courtesy required that he leave.
"Is there anything else you can think of?"
"No. I don't care to speak ill of the dead. If you weren't a policeman, and someone I trust to use the information wisely, I would never have told you as much as I have."
"Thank you, sir, for your trust. It isn't misplaced."
They shook hands, and Rutledge left.
Outside in the street, he mulled over the fact that Penrith had lied.
Why?
He found a telephone in a hotel and called a friend of his who had been an Anglican priest. Anthony Godalming had lost his faith and retired to his family's home in Sussex. He rarely went out and seldom spoke to old friends. But Rutledge reached the man's sister, told her it was urgent, and in time Goldalming came to the telephone.
His voice was neither friendly nor unfriendly-it seemed to hold neither warmth nor coldness. But Rutledge could tell his call was not welcomed, a reminder of too much that still had to be put behind, for sanity's sake.
"Anthony, thank you for speaking to me. I'm looking for someone, a curate in Sussex some years ago. Twenty perhaps? Longer, even. His name was Penrith. He had one son."
"Penrith?" The man on the other end of the line seemed to dredge deep in memory and come up short. "I don't recall anyone of that name down here. Are you sure it was Sussex?"
"Before your time, then?"
"It could be. Does it matter greatly?"
"Yes. I need to find the father, if he's alive. And the son as well, if anyone knows where he may be. London, possibly."
There was a long silence. "Very well. Tell me how to reach you."
Rutledge gave him instructions to call The unicorn in Cambury.
"Has this to do with the war, Ian? Tell me honestly." There was strain in Godalming's voice now.
"No. To my knowledge, neither man was young enough to serve with us. This has to do with a murder inquiry. That's why I'm searching for information. Otherwise, I wouldn't have asked you."
"Surely the police have ways to find these men."
"I don't think they do. You have the only fact I've been able to dig up, and that's little enough."
Rutledge heard a grunt that might have been in disagreement.
"Thank you, Anthony."
"Not at all." There was a click at the other end.
Driving fast as he reached the outskirts of London, Rutledge headed for Somerset, his mind sifting through what Penrith and Caldwell had had to say to him.
It had been, for the most part, a very unproductive journey. Pen- rith's relationship to Quarles had not been worth pursuing, or so it seemed, and yet that one lie about where his father had been curate still rankled. Why had he felt the need to lie?
"It doesna' mean," Hamish said, taking up the thread of Rutledge's thoughts, "that he's a murderer."
"It's possible he has his own secrets to conceal. His own background. Was it really Penrith who initiated the separation from Quar- les? Or the other way around?"
But that didn't make sense. A man like Quarles would have made it his business to know any secrets that Penrith possessed. It was in his nature, as it was in Penrith's to bury his head in the sand.
What had broken up Quarles's marriage? And what had broken up Quarles's partnership?
This occupied Rutledge's mind all the way to Somerset, and late as it was when he arrived, he drove straight to Hallowfields and knocked on the door.
It was several minutes before someone answered his summons. Mrs. Downing, still in her black dress with the housekeeper's keys on a chain at her waist, the symbol of her office even in this modern age, was not pleased with him.
"It's late, Mr. Rutledge, and you've disturbed the household. Mrs. Quarles is not here."
"Yes, I understand she's gone to Rugby. I need to look at something in Mr. Quarles's study, and you don't need her permission to allow me to do that."
"Can't this wait until the morning?"
"I'm afraid not."
Reluctantly she let him into the foyer, and then when the door was securely locked once more, she led him up the stairs.
Charles Archer, in his dressing gown, was rolling down the passage toward them, coming from the other wing as Rutledge reached the first floor.
"Is there trouble?" he asked anxiously, but Rutledge shook his head.
"I've something I wish to see in the study Mr. Quarles used here at the house. I'm sorry to call so late, but it's rather urgent."
"To do with what? I thought you'd inspected his rooms."
"To do with his business in London."
"Ah. Then I can't help you. Downing will see to it for you." He turned away but stopped and swung around. "The man who brings the milk and the gossip told the staff you were on the point of taking the baker, Hugh Jones, into custody for Harold's murder. Is this true?"
"I can't comment on that tonight."
"It's nonsense, Rutledge. The man's no killer. He has a family to consider."
"Then who would you put in his place?"
Archer had the grace to look away. "I'm not offering you a sacrificial lamb."
"What can you tell me about Quarles's former partner, Davis Penrith? "
"Penrith? I hardly know him. He's been to the house a time or two, dining here with his wife at least once. He never seemed comfortable in Harold's company. I always thought that odd, since they'd worked together for years."
"They didn't appear to have much in common, other than their business dealings."
"That's not unusual, is it? Business seems to attract opposites sometimes. It's not a requirement to share interests." Archer turned toward his rooms. "Good night, Rutledge. I hope you find what you're after."
Mrs. Downing, standing silently by and listening to the conversation, waited for instructions. Rutledge said, "It's the study I need to see."
She led the way, took his keys, and unlocked the door for him. From a passage table she took up a lamp and lit it for him to use.
It took only a matter of two minutes to locate the first Cumberline box and lift it from the shelf. He took it to the nearest chair, sat down, and opened it.
All that was inside was a thick sheaf of papers, and he thumbed through them quickly, interested not in what they referred to but in names of investors.
He found that there were groups of paperwork, clipped together to keep them separate, and each had a name at the top.
Seven of them. No, eight.
He went to the desk, found paper and pen, and began to jot the names down.
Mrs. Downing, her face disapproving, said, "I'm not sure this is regular, Mr. Rutledge. I've had no communication with Mr. Quarles's solicitors, and Mrs. Quarles is away. I can't, in good conscience, allow you to remove anything from-"
"I'm not removing these papers, Mrs. Downing. I need the names listed on them." He continued to work, then double-checked what he had done, to make certain he had all the names down.
Finishing with the file, he put it back where he'd found it and thanked Mrs. Downing.
She followed him out of the rooms and she locked them again, then returned the keys. On the way down the stairs she said, "Young Marcus will be here soon, with his mother. I hope it won't be necessary for the police to be tramping about, asking questions and disturbing the family at all hours. It won't be good for the boy."
"The police have work to do, Mrs. Downing. It can't be helped. But I'll keep in mind that the boy will be in residence."
They had reached the door, and Mrs. Downing opened it for him. Then, as he stepped out into the night, she said, "If you want my opinion, it's Mr. Brunswick who killed Mr. Quarles. I never liked the man, he treated his wife something terrible. Jealous and overbearing and always looking for the worst in people. I saw him a time or two, prowling about, looking to see if he could catch his poor wife in something. If he didn't want her here, why didn't he put his foot down?"
Rutledge stopped. "You didn't tell me any of this before."
"No, and for a very good reason," she said. "Hazel Brunswick confided in me. She took her tea in my rooms, not with Mr. Quarles, and she talked sometimes about her life. I kept her confidences. All he wanted to spend money for was music. The house was bursting at the seams with it, and she was tone-deaf; she couldn't hear anything he played. That's why she came to work here, to provide for herself and the children to come. She defied him, if you want the truth, and Mr. Quarles thought it was all a game, but I knew it wasn't. He struck her once-"
"Quarles?"
"God save us, no, it was Mr. Brunswick struck his wife. And that's when she decided to find work, because she said he would respect her more if she could stand up to him and didn't have to beg for whatever she wanted. But once is never the end of it, is it? Once becomes twice, and twice thrice, and it's on its way to being a habit, isn't it?"
"Surely the people at St. Martin's Church knew? The rector?"
"He never hit her in the face, you see." There was something in her gaze that looked back to another woman and another past. "I was married to one such, I know their ways. He was killed in a mill fire, and I was glad of it."
Rutledge believed her. "Did you know Mrs. Brunswick was ill?"
"She told me what she thought it might be. It crushed her. All her hopes and plans gone for naught. She said he didn't care for sick people, that he'd turn away from her and wait for her to die."
"Do you think Brunswick killed her, or that her death was a suicide?"
"I can't answer that. But Mr. Brunswick had the nerve to come here. He followed Mr. Quarles home one night, just after she died, and called him a murderer. I'd been to the Home Farm to take a lemon cake to Mrs. Masters, and I heard them down by the gatehouse. He was shouting, you couldn't help but hear, asking for money to pay for her burial, asking for compensation for turning his wife from him."
"What did Mr. Quarles say to that charge?"
"He laughed and told Mr. Brunswick not to be tiresome. I thought they'd come to blows, but just then I saw Mr. Quarles striding up the lane, and I went the other way, so as he wouldn't think I was eavesdropping."
"I've heard Mr. Brunswick play. He's a very fine organist."
"He has to work hard at it, he's not gifted. Hazel told me that was the sorrow of his life, and why she pitied him. He wanted to play in a cathedral, and all he was fit for was St. Martin's Church, in a small living like Cambury."
"I wish you'd spoken to me before-" he said again, but she shook her head.
"I had to weigh up what I felt I could say. Mrs. Quarles wants to see this inquiry closed quietly, for the boy's sake, and if you arrest Mr. Brunswick, Hazel Brunswick's unhappiness and her suicide will be dragged up again and talked about, and the gossip about Mr. Quarles and her being lovers as well. It wasn't true, Hazel Brunswick wasn't that kind of woman. Now my conscience troubles me. I should have done more to help her than I did. I should have told Mr. Quarles about the beatings, or Rector. And if her husband killed her, and then killed Mr. Quarles, then justice must be done. I hope Mrs. Quarles will understand."
"Who met Mr. Quarles in the gatehouse, Mrs. Downing? Someone did. You have only to walk through it to guess what its purpose was."
She gave him a pitying smile. "It was where he would have brought his mother, if she'd lived. Though he'd go and sit there sometimes, brooding."
Rutledge could hear Hamish's voice in the darkness as they had walked through the small, tidy rooms. Respectability "There was never a mistress who waited for him there?"
"He'd have liked the world to think so."
"Why wouldn't his mother have lived here, in the house? If he cared so much for her?"
"He'd have passed her off as his old nanny, no doubt. I ask you," she replied spitefully. "He was ashamed of his roots, didn't you know? He bragged about them, and he used them, but he didn't want to be what he was. He'd buried his past so deep even he couldn't remember the half of it."
She shut the door in his face, and Rutledge stood there, remembering what someone had told him, that Mrs. Downing was Mrs. Quar- les's creature. She might not have killed for her mistress, but could she be counted on to veil the truth or twist it in a different direction to serve another purpose? He'd have to keep that in mind.
Still, servants were often guilty of snobbery. They took their standing and their self-worth from the man or woman they worked for. And Mr. Quarles had never lived up to Mrs. Downing's standard-how could he, when she perceived his social level to be so much lower than her own?
He turned back to his motorcar, feeling the miles he'd driven, and the lateness of the hour. But Hamish was saying, "Ye canna' leave it."
"Her charges against Brunswick? No. But tomorrow is soon enough."
"If he followed him once, he followed yon dead man again and again."
"Very likely that's why the log was moved."
"And when Quarles turned away, this time a weapon was to hand."
Rutledge stopped as he was getting into the motorcar, listening to the silence of the night and the quiet ticking over of the motor. "I wonder why Brunswick was chosen as her scapegoat? Because he's guilty? Or because he's vulnerable?" Hamish was silent. Rutledge drove back into Cambury and left his motorcar in the yard behind The Unicorn. The hotel was quiet, and there was no sign of the night clerk. As Rutledge turned to the stairs, he thought he could hear him snoring gently on his cot behind Reception. As he reached his room, he saw the small message slipped into the brass number on his door. Anthony Godalming had telephoned and asked that Rutledge return his call at his earliest convenience. Rutledge glanced at his watch. It was close to midnight. He would have to wait until tomorrow.
Rutledge was on his way down to breakfast when Constable Dan- _ iels met him in the lobby. " 'Morning, sir. I think you'd better come…" "What is it?" Rutledge asked. "I was stopped on the street and told the bakery hasn't opened this morning," the constable said. "So I went to have a look for myself, bearing in mind what happened to Mr. Stephenson." "Quite right, Constable." As he followed the man out the door, he said, "Did you look in the windows?" "The shades are still down, sir. Usually at this hour you can smell the bread baking." They were walking briskly down the High Street. "But I don't think the ovens have been fired up." "Under the circumstances, he may have chosen to stay home." "He didn't close the bakery when his girls were born," Daniels said. "It's most unusual." They had reached the shop now, and Daniels was right, the shades had not been raised and the door was firmly closed. What's more, there were no trays of fresh baked goods in the window.
Rutledge said, "Go to the Jones house. Don't alarm his wife, man, just find out if he's still at home."
The constable trotted back the way he came, and Rutledge moved forward to knock at the door. But no one answered.
Hamish said, "He's no' there."
Rutledge used his fist now, hammering at the door, and behind him he could feel people on the street stopping to see what he was about. He had just raised his fist again before walking to the back of the shop when the door moved an inch or two and Rutledge could just see Jones's face in the shadows.
"We're closed-" Jones began, but recognizing Rutledge, he opened the door wide and said, "Come in. Quickly."
Rutledge stepped inside and stopped, appalled.
The once tidy bakery was a scene of chaos. Flour and sugar were scattered around the shop, eggs flung everywhere, their broken shells crunching under Jones's feet as he stepped back. Handfuls of sultanas and spices and other ingredients were smeared on the walls, and a stone jar of lard lay on its side, cracked. The smell of cinnamon and allspice, ginger and nutmeg filled the air, almost overwhelming to the senses. Even the pretty chairs where Rutledge and the baker had sat talking had been caked with water and flour.
"Gentle God," Rutledge said.
"Someone believes I killed him," Jones was saying, defeat in his voice. "That's what it must be."
"You can't be sure of that-"
"Oh, yes. In all the years I've lived here, I never gave short measure to my neighbors. What's more, they never repaid me like this. Never." He gestured to the destruction of his bakery. In the past twenty-four hours he had been through emotional turmoil, and he had not expected it to touch his livelihood in this way.
"Did you give a statement to Inspector Padgett?"
"I did that. I put down the truth, and I signed it." He shrugged. "I talked to my wife. She made me see reason. But the police can still claim I knew Gwyneth was coming home and went to Hallowfields. My word against theirs. You know that as well as I do." He was speaking of Padgett but not by name. "I'm not out of the woods, and if they try to bring my wife into it, I'll do what I have to for her sake. By backing off, I gave her peace of mind for a bit, that's all. And I daren't tell her about this, and ask her help clearing away, can I?"
"Who in Cambury would come to Harold Quarles's defense?"
"I never expected anyone would do that. I thought he was roundly disliked." He glanced around his shop again. "It's petty, this. Thank God nothing is broken. The glass, the ovens, the trays. But my stock…"
There was no way to rescue the ruined spices, the flour, the sugar, the sultanas, or the spilled milk and eggs. Even after cleaning up, the bakery would have to close for several days until such things could be replenished. And more than one household would go without bread for its meals and cakes for its tea.
"Let me send for Gwyneth. This is work she can do."
"No. I'll see to it myself."
There was a knock at the door.
"Send them away," Jones said. "I haven't the heart to face them."
But it was only the constable, returned from the Jones house. Rut- ledge let him in.
"I asked the woman come to help his wife clean the carpets if he was at home-"
Daniels broke off, whistling at his first glimpse of the ruined shop, then glanced at his boots, as if half expecting them to be ruined as well.
Rutledge, righting the stone crock that held lard, said, "The sooner you start, the sooner it will be cleared away. The chairs can be cleaned, the walls and floor as well. It will take longer to see to the shelves and the counters, but it can be done. I don't believe Miss Ogden would talk, if you asked for her help. The bookshop is closed for now."
"Clear away? In aid of what?" Jones asked, his voice flat. But he went for a broom and bucket, then set to work, his heart not in it.
"Who did this?" Constable Daniels asked quietly, looking to Rut- ledge. "And why?"
"We don't know," he answered shortly. "Stay here, Constable, keep an eye on the shop and on Mr. Jones. I want to have a chat with Inspector Padgett."
Daniels, standing aside to let him pass, said, "It's the sort of damage a child might do. We don't lock our doors, anyone can come and go." He hesitated, then added, "The Quarles lad. Marcus. Constable Horton saw the motorcar just after two this morning, bringing him home along with his mother. If he heard the servants gossiping or the tales flying about just now, he's of an age where this sort of thing might help the hurt a little."
"Do you know the boy well? Is he like his father?"
"He's away at school. I haven't seen him much of late."
Rutledge nodded and went out the door.
It was still too early to telephone Godalming in Sussex, and Inspector Padgett wasn't in his office. Rutledge went back to The Unicorn and encountered Padgett just coming out of the hotel's dining room. He turned around and followed Rutledge to his table. Sitting in the sunny window, Rutledge quietly filled him in.
Padgett shook his head when Rutledge told him what Mrs. Downing had claimed to have seen and heard.
"Much as I'd like to believe it's Brunswick, you must consider the source. Like you, I wouldn't put it past Mrs. Quarles to get her housekeeper up to this. Or Archer, for that matter. The family is scrambling to give the man a better reputation in death by seeing this inquiry is over with as soon as possible."
"If it's Brunswick, Quarles comes out of the trial as a saint, not a libertine."
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him…
"It would also support your theory that Brunswick killed his wife," Rutledge went on. "And if he killed Hazel Brunswick, the odds are good that he killed Quarles. I've found a place in the wood opposite the gatehouse where someone waited just out of sight."
"Yes, well, that could have been anyone. And at any time. We can't prove it was Saturday night." Padgett reached over and helped himself to a slice of Rutledge's toast, heaping a spoonful of marmalade on it. It was intended to irritate, but Rutledge said nothing.
"My wife detests marmalade. I never get it at home." He wiped his fingers on his handkerchief. "The Chief Constable sent down a message that he's awaiting word we'd settled on a murderer."
Rutledge dropped the subject of Brunswick. "Last night someone wrecked the bakery. Jones found it this morning when he came in. Constable Daniels is there now."
Padgett swore. "Some months ago, Jones gave me the names of two boys who had stolen tarts when he wasn't looking. I expect they wanted revenge, and since the town's gabbling about the man's guilt, they must have decided this was as good a time as any. I'll have a word with them."
Rutledge held his tongue. In another ten minutes he could make the telephone call to Godalming.
But Padgett sensed something in the texture of the silence and said, "What are we to tell the Chief Constable?"
"Whatever you like," Rutledge answered and stood up. "I've got something to attend to. Then I'm going back to speak to Brunswick."
"Suit yourself." Padgett got to his feet. "I'll be at the station."
Rutledge waited until he had gone out, then went to the telephone room to make his call.
Godalming himself answered, and Rutledge asked, "Did you find our man? "
"A curate by the name of Penrith had the living for some years in a village northeast of Chichester. He died of typhoid early in 1903. He had one son and no money to educate him. The boy went into the army. He never came back to see his father. Whether that means he's dead as well, or that he knew his father was no longer living, I can't say."
"And that's all you've turned up?"
"It isn't enough?" There was a weariness in the voice coming down the line that had nothing to do with fatigue.
"Yes, thank you, it is. I was-hoping for more."
"Yes. We all do, don't we?"
And the connection was broken.
A dead end. Whatever reason Penrith might have had for lying about his father, it appeared to have nothing to do with Quarles. There might be other skeletons that filled that particular closet. Penrith could be illegitimate, for one, and the curate took him in. Or because their names were the same, Davis Penrith might have tried to provide himself with more respectable antecedents than a serving girl sacked because someone had tired of her.
Hence the lie to Rutledge…
He had learned through his years in the police that no detail was so small it could be safely ignored.
And so he put in a call to London, to Sergeant Gibson, who was not on duty at the Yard that day, if he cared to leave a message…
Rutledge did. It was brief. "Find out if one Davis Penrith served in the British Army between 1898 and 1905. If so, where, and what became of him." Let them sort it out. It would take time, and he'd already given two hours to the War Office on behalf of Stephenson's son.
The voice on the other end of the line, laboriously writing out the message, said, "1898 and 1905?"
"That should be inclusive. If it isn't, we'll look again."
"My father was in the Boer War," the voice said. "Saw a bit of fighting, and came home with a lion's head mounted for the wall. Drove my mother mad hanging it where it could be seen, coming down the stairs. We were the only family on our street with a real lion's head. I used to charge my mates a farthing a look. Very good, sir, I'll see he gets the message on Monday morning."
Rutledge fished in his pocket for the list he'd made in Harold Quarles's study. Then he put in his third and final telephone call, this one to Elise Caldwell's father.
"Sir, can you tell me anything about these men?" he asked after Caldwell's greeting. He read the list of eight names.
"I know six of them. They made their fortunes from the war. Butler is dead, of course-an apoplexy. Simpleton went to Canada, as I recall. Talbot and Morgan live in London, as does Willard. MacDonald is in Glasgow. Hester and Evering are new to me. Here, are these by any chance a list of investors in Cumberline?"
"Yes, they are."
Caldwell chuckled. "Well, well. I've always wondered. If you're thinking of the six I know in terms of the murder of Harold Quarles, then you're barking up the wrong tree. While I wouldn't trust them with my purse, I can tell you they aren't likely to avenge themselves with a spot of murder. They'd rather lose a second fortune than admit to investing unwisely. And they seldom sue, because there's the risk that a canny barrister might find that their own coattails are none too clean."
"Would they be likely to hire someone to do the deed for them?"
"Not likely at all. Of course I can't speak for this man Hester, or Evering. What can you tell me about them? "
"Hester is from Birmingham. A manufacturer of woolens-I have the name of his firm. Broadsmith and Sons."
"Ah. He's Willard's son-in-law. You can strike him off the list as well."
"That leaves Evering. He lives in the Scilly Isles. No firm given."
"Don't know him at all. You'll probably find your murderer closer to home," Caldwell informed him. "I wouldn't worry about these eight men."
"Thank you, sir. This has saved a great deal of footwork."
Caldwell said, "Any time, Ian. Good hunting."