Walking back to where he'd left the motorcar along the road, Rutledge pondered his conversation with Mrs. Quarles.
Most of his questions had been based on a little knowledge and good deal of guesswork. Nevertheless, the dead man's widow had been disturbed by them.
Oddly enough he was beginning to see a pattern in Harold Quar- les's actions.
The man had removed his family from their original grave site and reburied them in a place where they weren't known. Only the headstones in the churchyard identified them, and no one in this other village would have any memory of them or the boy who wasn't-yet-laid to rest among them.
And there was the story to explain his burns, lending an air of heroism to the other tales he'd spun. Of course there had to be an explanation. The scars were obvious to anyone who met him or shook hands over a business agreement. But Rutledge thought that Mrs. Quarles had a very good idea how he'd come by them, whatever the rest of the world believed.
As for the army, Quarles's service had been quietly put behind him. Either because he hadn't particularly distinguished himself or his service record was dismal. And Davis Penrith had done the same thing.
With any luck, London would have those records for him in another day. And a telephone call to Yorkshire would confirm the removal of the graves.
Harold Quarles had created the face he showed his business associates with great care. What was behind the mask? Brunswick was right, something must be there.
Hamish said, "Ye ken, he's the victim."
"That's true," Rutledge answered, turning the motorcar back toward Cambury. "But where there are secrets, murder sometimes follows. Or blackmail. Was that what Brunswick had been moving toward? Take the bookseller, Stephenson. Quarles wouldn't tell him why he refused to contact the Army on the son's behalf. It must have seemed unbelievably cruel to a desperate father. And Stephenson brooded over it to the point that he wanted to kill the man. Who else is out there nursing a grudge and waiting for the chance to do something about it?"
"A straw in a haystack," Hamish said.
"Yes, well, the Yard is often very good at finding straws."
But Hamish laughed without humor. "It doesna' signify. If the murderer here isna' the baker nor the bookseller, ye're left with the man who plays the church organ."
He hammered on for the next hour as Rutledge sat by the long windows overlooking the High Street and wrote a report covering everything he'd learned so far.
There were loose ends. There were always loose ends. Murder was never closed in a tidy package.
Who had wrecked the bakery? How could anyone prove that Brunswick had indeed seen Quarles leaving the Greer house and turning for home? Who had argued with Quarles there? Brunswick himself? Greer?
Rutledge left the sheets of paper on the table and went out again, crossing the High Street and walking on to knock on Brunswick's door.
The man was haggard, and short-tempered as well. "What is it this time?"
"I need to find some answers that are eluding me. When you stopped playing the organ that Saturday night a week ago, when Quar- les was killed, did you leave the church at once, or sit there for a short period of time?"
Brunswick blinked, as if uncertain where Rutledge had got his information and what it signified. "I-don't recall."
"If you travel from the church to this house, for a small part of that journey, particularly when you're on foot, you have a clear view of Minton Street. At just about the time you might have done that, perhaps ten-thirty, Harold Quarles was coming out of the house where he'd dined. Between there and where Minton meets the High Street, he encountered someone who argued with him. Their voices were loud. They may have carried this far. I need to know the name of that man or woman with him."
Brunswick stood there, his gaze not leaving Rutledge's face.
It was a turning point, and the man was well aware of it. If he admitted to seeing Quarles, he was admitting as well that he could have killed the man.
He had only to say: "I must have walked home earlier than that. I didn't see Quarles at all, much less hear him talking to someone on Minton Street."
Or "I didn't leave the church for another quarter of an hour or more. I couldn't have seen him-the clock in the tower was striking eleven."
And it would have been impossible, whatever the police suspected, to prove otherwise.
Rutledge waited.
Finally Michael Brunswick said, "I didn't see Quarles."
"You must have heard his voice."
"No."
Hamish said, "He's afraid to tell ye."
After a moment Brunswick went on. "If Quarles was there, he'd already gone."
"All right, I'll accept that. The timing wasn't perfect. Who was still there? Who had been with him only a matter of seconds before?"
"It was Davis Penrith."
Brunswick had condemned himself with four words.
Davis Penrith had been in Scotland that weekend, staying with his wife.
Rutledge was torn between going to London himself and asking the Yard to request a statement from Penrith regarding his weekend in Scotland. In the end, he compromised and telephoned the man at his home.
Penrith was distant when he came to take Rutledge's call. But as the reason for it was explained, he said, "Here, this is ridiculous. I've a letter from my wife. Let me fetch it."
He came back to the telephone within two minutes.
"It's dated the Thursday after my return. I'll read you the pertinent passage: 'Mama was so pleased you could come, however short the visit. And Mr. and Mrs. Douglas were delighted you were here to dine with them. We have become dear friends. Shall I invite them to stay with us in June, when they'll be in town?' "
"Where does your mother-in-law live?"
"In Annan. That's just over the border from Carlisle."
Rutledge knew that part of Scotland. If Penrith had been there for the weekend, he couldn't have reached Cambury and returned to Annan without losing the better part of two days-the journey was close on three hundred miles each way.
"When did you leave for the weekend?"
"My staff can tell you-I left here Thursday evening and I set out from Annan just after our luncheon on Sunday. As you may remember, you found me at home on Monday morning because I got in so late."
"Will you go to Sergeant Gibson at the Yard and give him a written statement to that effect? Show him the letter as well."
"If it will help to find Harold's killer."
Rutledge thanked him and broke the connection.
Sitting there by the telephone, he considered his next step. He had sufficient evidence for several inquests. He could show a very good case for Hugh Jones, Stephenson, and now Brunswick. They would undoubtedly be bound over for trial. His duty done?
Why of all people had Brunswick named Penrith?
To shield someone else?
Or to make a point?
Hamish said, "He told ye he didna' care."
Rutledge crossed the room and opened the door before he answered Hamish. "Why did Brunswick look into Quarles's past?"
"Aye. It's a sticking point."
"A different kind of revenge? To bring the man down, and make him watch the dissolution of everything that matters to him?"
"It doesna' suit the man's temperament."
Rutledge wasn't satisfied. "In an odd sort of way, it does. If he thinks there's no chance for a conviction-despite his pleas to be hanged-his name and photograph will be in every newspaper in England as he talks about his wife and his music and what sort of man Harold Quarles was."
"He could ha' tried blackmail. And it didna' serve."
Hadn't Mrs. Downing said Brunswick had come to Quarles for money, after his wife's death? Was that why he was so angry that his wife wasn't carrying a child when she died? It would have made a better case…
"Yon bookseller also asked to be hanged."
"Yes, because he had nothing to live for. Brunswick's wife failed him, his music has failed him, and he would like nothing better than to make someone else pay for his trouble."
Rutledge was walking through Reception. "If we'd found Brunswick dead, I'd know where to look-at Harold Quarles."
"The Chief Constable is waiting," Hamish answered. "And Old Bowels as well."
There was nothing for it now but to cross the High Street and report his findings to Inspector Padgett.
Padgett was not as pleased as Rutledge had expected him to be.
He was idly making designs on a sheet of paper, frowning as he listened, his gaze on his pen rather than Rutledge's face.
"I'll speak to the Chief Constable, of course. But are you sure? He doesn't like a muddled case. There's Jones, the little family notwithstanding. And as far as we know, he could have wrecked his own bakery in an effort to elicit sympathy. You said yourself that nothing of great value was broken. Did I tell you? I did bring in the two most likely vandals, and their parents can account for their whereabouts that night."
"I saw his face. Jones hadn't done it."
"Yes, well. We've looked at this before. Who grieves for Harold Quarles? Not his wife. The mistress that everyone would like us to believe in? As far as I'm concerned, if she exists, you were right about it being the little wife killed quite by accident by her soldier husband. I've even asked my wife if she knew who the mistress was. And her answer was telling-that Quarles hadn't started the rumor, other people had. His son? The boy was home, wasn't he, when this happened? And fourteen is a wild age, emotions hot and temper hotter, but I daresay his mother never let him out of her sight."
"If you disagree with my conclusions, tell me so."
"It's not that I disagree. I don't like any murder on my patch, and most particularly not one that attracts the notice of London."
Padgett had been vacillating since the beginning. Rutledge was losing patience.
"Then I shall speak to the Chief Constable-and leave you out of it."
"No, I'll do it. I told you. What's this business about Penrith?"
"Brunswick named him as the person arguing with Quarles outside the Greer house. I'm not sure it wasn't for a very good reason."
"No one saw a strange motorcar in Cambury that night. Nor did they see a strange man wandering about."
Rutledge had already considered that question.
"Penrith is known to many people in Cambury. He came here from time to time, when he and Quarles were partners. Would they have considered him a stranger?"
"I expect they wouldn't."
"Yet the evidence is clear. He was in Scotland."
Padgett capped his pen and threw it down on the desk. "Brunswick's a coldblooded chap. That fits the fact that the body was moved and trussed up in that rig. It's not everyone's cup of tea, touching someone they've just killed."
Rutledge said, "Tell me again why you acted so quickly to summon the Yard while Quarles was still up there in the harness? Before you'd even had time to consider the evidence."
Inspector Padgett smiled. "I wanted to walk away with clean hands. The man put me in the wrong with the Chief Constable twice over. Third time's unlucky. No one can say I didn't follow the rules to the letter. Even his widow. I got my own back there. I'm satisfied."