It was late. The day had worn on to the point that clouds had rolled in and the sunset was lost behind them.
Rutledge walked in the churchyard for a time, unable to bear his room-when he had come back to it, it had felt close, claustrophobic, as if storm clouds were moving in. He had left at once and, without conscious thought, found himself in the grassy paths that wandered among the headstones.
Hamish, reflecting his own mood, was giving Rutledge the rough edge of his tongue. Reminding him that barely a year before he'd been a broken man in the clinic to which his sister, Frances, had removed him. Rutledge couldn't recall much of that change. The new surroundings had confused him, and Dr. Fleming, looking for a handhold on his new patient's sanity, was probing into things best left buried deep and covered over with layer upon layer of excuses.
He hadn't expected to survive. He hadn't cared much either way, except when he saw his sister's troubled face, the strain and exhaustion almost mirroring his own as she sat with him hour after hour, day after day, seldom sleeping, sometimes taking his hand, or when he couldn't bear to be touched, talking softly to him about the distant past. About anything but the war. Or Jean, who had walked away and never looked back.
Now he was pacing a Somerset churchyard, debating his own wisdom.
To Rutledge's surprise, Padgett hadn't taken Brunswick into custody. Still, he was preparing to present their findings in the case to the Chief Constable in the morning and ask for an inquest to be held. And afterward Rutledge would be free to leave for London.
Rutledge cut across what Hamish was saying, the soft Scots voice, heavy with accusation and condemnation, finally falling silent.
"Who wrecked the bakery? I'd feel better about the case if that had been cleared up."
There was no answer from Hamish.
"There has to be a reason for it. A hand behind it. But whose?"
Silence.
"No one's shed a tear for the man-"
But that was wrong. One person had. The maid, Betty, who cleaned Quarles's rooms and kept the gatehouse tidy. Who had been left a bequest of money when all she wanted from her employer was the promise of a roof over her head when he died.
Rutledge had almost forgot her. She was a pale figure on the fringe of the group of servants, a tired woman folding the sheets, feeling her years, wondering what was to become of her.
Rutledge turned back to The Unicorn's yard and retrieved his motorcar. As he did, a few drops of rain splashed the windscreen, leaving dusty blotches.
By the time he reached Hallowfields, it was coming down in earnest, and a rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. He dashed through the rain to the door and knocked loudly. The footman who answered seemed not to know what to do about the policeman on the steps, and Rutledge said, "I'm here to see one of the maids. Take me to the servants' hall, if you please."
The man stepped back and let him enter. Rutledge walked briskly toward the door leading to the servants' stairs and found the staff gathered in Mrs. Downing's sitting room, listening to the Sunday evening reading from the Bible. Heads turned as he stood in the doorway.
Mrs. Downing said, "We're at prayers."
"I'll wait in the passage."
He shut the door and walked a dozen steps away, listening to the soft murmur of voices. After five minutes or so, Mrs. Downing came out of her sitting room, her face severe.
"What is it this time?"
"I'd like to speak to Betty. The woman who took care of Mr. Quarles's-"
"Yes. I know who she is. Give me a minute."
She went back into her parlor and dismissed the staff, keeping Betty with her. When they had gone about their duties, she herself left the room and held the door open for Rutledge to enter.
Betty was waiting, apprehension in her face.
Rutledge asked her to sit down, then told her they had very likely found her employer's murderer. It would be only a matter of days before it was official.
Her hands clenched in her lap, she said, "Who is it?"
"I'm not at liberty to tell you that. But it isn't Hugh Jones, the baker."
He could read her emotions as they flitted across her face. Surprise. Bewilderment. Shame.
"They were talking in the servants' hall," she said. "The man who brings the milk told the scullery maid that he'd confessed."
"Mr. Jones gave the police a statement. It wasn't a confession. He won't be arrested."
"Why are you telling me this? And not the others?"
"Because I think you know. Did you go to the bakery in the middle of the night? Was it you who destroyed everything you could lay hands to?"
Tears filled her eyes but didn't fall. "He's been good to me. M-Mr. Quarles. No one else cared, but I did. I wanted to punish whoever had killed him. I wanted to make him as wretched as I was."
"You succeeded in making Mr. Jones wretched. He didn't deserve it."
"But they talk, the servants. I hear them. His daughter had come home, and he was distraught. Everyone said he was the only one who could have put Mr. Quarles up in that wicker cage. They said he'd done it to show that Mr. Quarles was no angel, that he'd tormented the Jones family until they couldn't stand it any longer."
"Yes, I know. The police nearly made that same mistake. But it wasn't true. You owe him an apology, and restitution."
"How can I pay for what I've done? I only have my wages." She was gripping her hands together until the knuckles were white. And then she looked at Rutledge. "He said terrible things about Mr. Quarles when he sent his daughter away. What does he owe for that?"
"You aren't Mr. Quarles's defender. He has a wife and a son to protect his good name."
"His wife hated him as much as the rest did. But the boy, Marcus, is a good child. He would have made his father proud. It's hard to think of him fatherless. If they hang this man you've decided killed Mr. Quarles, I'd like to be there."
"Why do you think his wife turned against him? It was a happy marriage for some time, or so I was led to believe."
"And so it was. I was never told what it is she holds against him. But she said once, when she didn't know I was there, if she knew a way, she'd wash the very blood out of Master Marcus's veins if it would do any good. Mr. Archer called that a cruel thing to say, but she answered him sharply. 'You can't imagine what cruelty is, Charles. I can't sleep at night for remembering what was done.' "
"You've known Mr. Quarles for some years. What was his wife talking about?"
"He was a hard man, but not half the things said about him are true. I think she wanted an excuse to live with Mr. Archer, to make it right in her own eyes. I think she believed he'd feel better about living under her roof if he thought she was married to a monster." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "He was good to me. That's all I know. No one else ever was."
The next morning, as Rutledge was packing his valise, he was summoned to the telephone.
It was Sergeant Gibson. "I've had a bit of luck, sir. Remember the constable you spoke with on Saturday, when you left me a message?"
"Yes, I do." The lion's head and a small boy charging his mates a few farthings to look at it.
"That was Constable Wainwright, sir. Over the weekend he spoke to his father about fighting the Boers. His father saw a good deal of action. And he remembers Private Penrith. Described him as a fair, slender chap, a quiet one keeping to himself for the most part. Said he was reminded of the young Prince of Wales, sir. This was in Cape Town, just before Corporal Wainwright was to sail home. Penrith was quite the hero, according to Wainwright. He walked miles back to a depot for help, after the Boers ambushed the train he was taking north. There was talk of a medal, but Penrith himself quashed that idea. He says he was too late, all the men were dead by the time rescue reached them. He blamed himself."
"He was the sole survivor?"
"According to Wainwright's account, yes, sir. He was knocked about when the train came to a screeching halt, and dazed. But his rifle had been fired, though he couldn't remember much about the action."
"Hardly a record to be ashamed of."
"No, sir. Shall I go on looking at Mr. Penrith's military career?"
"No. Yes. When did he leave the army? And where else did he serve? Did Corporal Wainwright mention one Harold Quarles?"
"I don't believe he did, sir."
"Include him in your search. And, Gibson, I want to be sure who and what this Davis Penrith is. One source has told me his father lived in Hampshire, another that his father lived in Sussex. I want that cleared up."
"Yes, sir. I believe one Davis Penrith came in this morning to make his statement about a journey to Scotland. Is this the same man, sir?"
"It is."
"Wouldn't it be simpler to send a constable around to ask him these questions?"
Rutledge said, "He's already answered one of them. But not to my satisfaction."
Sergeant Gibson said neutrally, "Indeed, sir."
Rutledge broke the connection, absently rubbing his jaw with his fingers.
So Penrith was apparently all he claimed to be. No one, however, had so far explained the confusion between Hampshire and Sussex. But it might be nothing more mysterious than being born in one county and growing up in the other.
For the moment he put Penrith out of his mind and went in search of Hugh Jones.
The bakery was still closed on this Monday morning, but it was ready for use as soon as fresh supplies arrived. Jones said, as Rutledge came through the door, "I managed to bake bread this morning for my regular customers. Only twenty loaves, but a start. It was all the flour I had."
"I think I've found the person who did this damage. An elderly maid at Hallowfields. She'd served Quarles, seen only his best side, apparently, and she was told that you had killed him. Hence the vandalism."
Jones sighed. "He still makes trouble for me, even in death. I'm grateful Mrs. Quarles took him away from here to bury him. Else I'd fear to walk through the churchyard of a night."
"Inspector Padgett is satisfied that we've found Quarles's killer. He'll be taken into custody sometime this morning."
"Who is it?"
"You'll hear soon enough. The evidence points strongly to Michael Brunswick."
"Another family Quarles destroyed. Ah well. I'm sorry for him. He's a man haunted by disappointment. But I never saw him as a murderer."
"Inspector Padgett believed Brunswick could have killed his wife."
"There was a lot of talk at the time. No one paid much attention to it. Thank you for telling me about what happened here."
Rutledge left the baker and walked on to the police station. Padgett had just returned from his meeting with the Chief Constable.
"He agrees, there's enough evidence to make an arrest. We'll see what the lawyers can make of it now. I expect you're wanted back in London. I'll deal with Brunswick. He's at the church, playing the organ. I spoke to Rector on my way in, and he told me. He wants to be present. I think he's afraid Brunswick will do something foolish. I don't see it that way."
Rutledge went there himself and stood in the open door at the side of St. Martin's, listening to the music for a time. Brunswick was practicing an oratorio, struggling with it, going over and over the more complicated sections until he got it right and locked into his memory. It was a long and frustrating session. When he'd finished, he launched into a hymn he knew well, and the difference in the two pieces was telling. Brunswick had ability but not the soaring skill that great musicians strove for.
Hearing voices approaching, Rutledge went back to the hotel to fetch his valise. Coming down the stairs again, he stopped by Reception.
Hunter was there to bid him farewell and a safe journey.
Half an hour after he'd driven out of Cambury, the telephone in the small parlor beyond the stairs began to ring.
The staff was busy with the noonday meal, and no one heard it.
It was an uneventful drive to the city. Rutledge arrived late and went directly to his flat.
The next morning, he called on Davis Penrith at his home.
"We've found your former partner's murderer. He was taken into custody yesterday and charged. The inquest will find enough evidence to bind him over for trial."
Penrith's face was still. "Who is he?"
"The organist at St. Martin's. He believed his late wife had an affair with Quarles. She killed herself."
Penrith searched for something to say. "I'm sorry to hear it."
"There's one small matter to clear up with you."
Penrith smiled wryly. "I told you my father was curate in Hampshire. Only for five years, before moving on to Sussex. My mother was alive then, it was a happy time. The living in Sussex was cramped and wretched. I tend not to think of it if I don't have to. I hope it didn't cause you any trouble."
"None at all," Rutledge answered blandly.
"Well, then, thank you for telling me about this man Brunswick. I'm glad the matter is cleared up, for the sake of Mrs. Quarles and Marcus."
Penrith prepared to show Rutledge out, walking to the study door.
"Actually, that wasn't the matter I wished to bring up."
Surprised, Penrith stopped, his hand on the knob.
"I can't think of anything else that needs to be clarified. I made my statement. You'll find it at the Yard."
"Thank you. No, what I wanted to clarify are several names I have here on my list. Mr. Butler is dead, I believe. Mr. Willard and Mr. Hester, Mr. Morgan and Mr. Simpleton, and Mr. MacDonald were investors in the Cumberline fiasco."
Wary, Penrith said, "Where did you find those names?"
"They were in a box marked CUMBERLINE in Harold Quarles's study."
He could see the anger and frustration in Penrith's face. "Indeed. And what else of interest did you find in his study?"
"Very little. We've managed to look at these seven men and determine that they had no reason to attack and kill Mr. Quarles."
"No, of course they wouldn't. They are men of some reputation, they value their privacy, and they aren't likely to wait almost two years for a paltry revenge."
"If you consider murder paltry."
"That's not what I meant. I'm sure they would have preferred taking the matter to court, ruining us, and making Harold Quarles and myself laughingstocks. They are ruthless businessmen. It's the way they settle matters such as Cumberline. But they saw that in taking our firm to court, their own business practices might come under scrutiny. I can tell you that these men lost no more than they could afford to lose. They knew from the start that it was a risky investment, but they also had Cecil Rhodes in their sights, and their greed won over their common sense."
"Was this other investor, a man named Evering-"
Penrith must have been prepared for the question, but it still nearly splintered his carefully preserved calm. "Evering was one of Harold's clients. He made the decision to include the man."
"Was Cumberline the reason you broke with Quarles?"
Penrith fiddled with the fob on his watch chain. "All right, yes. It was. I thought Cumberline was risky from the start. I thought Quar- les was taking a direction we'd never taken before with the firm. I thought his judgment was failing him. But he had his reasons for offering Cumberline, he said, and it would do us no harm. Financially, he was right, though it was a close-run thing. I felt that the good name of the firm-and more important, the good will of James, Quarles and Penrith-was tarnished."
"What was his reason, did he ever tell you?"
"Not in so many words. Most of these men had made their money in the war, cutting corners, shoddy goods, whatever turned a penny. He said the poor sods in the trenches didn't count for anything, if a shilling could be made from their suffering. And it was the same greed that made Cumberline so attractive to such men."
"Was Evering also profiting from the war?"
"I have no idea. You'd have to ask Quarles. And he's dead." Penrith took out his watch. "I really must go. I have matters to attend to in my office."
He held the door for Rutledge, and there was nothing for it but to thank Penrith and leave.
Rutledge drove to the Yard, and reported to Chief Superintendent Bowles, who appeared to be less than happy to hear there was a successful conclusion to the inquiry.
It was two hours later when Sergeant Gibson came to his office and said, "The Penrith in South Africa was born in Hampshire, his father lost his living there and went on to Sussex, where he didn't prosper. His son joined the army for lack of funds for a proper education, and served his time without distinction save for one heroic act-"
"-when the train was attacked. What else?"
"That's the lot. He never went back to Sussex. Instead he made his way in the City, and most recently set up his own investment firm after leaving James, Quarles and Penrith."
"And Quarles?"
"Almost the same story. Survived the attack, was badly injured, and didn't go back to his unit until they were ready to sail. He was from Yorkshire, but like Penrith, settled in London. Both men served their time, and that was that."
"All right, leave your report on my desk. A wild-goose chase."
"Why," Hamish wanted to know, "did Penrith deny they'd served atall or knew each ither before London?"
Rutledge reached for the report and went through it again, looking for what injuries had sent Quarles to hospital for such a long recovery.
He found it, a short notation in Gibson's scrawl: burned in attack, nearly lost hands.
Mrs. Quarles must have discovered this as well, if she hadn't already known about her husband's service in South Africa. Hardly sufficient reason to demand a separation. And even if Brunswick had learned of it, few people would care, even if he shouted it from the rooftops.
Hamish said, "It doesna' signify. Let it rest."
Rutledge turned to the paperwork on his desk, concentrating on the written pages before him. In his absence there were a number of cases where he would be expected to give testimony, and he marked his calendar accordingly. Then he read reports of ongoing inquiries where the sergeants in charge were collating evidence and passing it on for a superior to inspect. He made comments in the margins and set the files aside for collection. Three hours later, he'd come to the bottom of the stack, and the report that Sergeant Gibson had prepared about the military backgrounds of Quarles and Penrith.
The sergeant had summarized the material in his usual concise style, and his oral report had matched it. Rutledge tossed the folder back on his desk for collection and filing, and sat back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.
Hamish was restless, his voice loud in the small office, rattling the windows with its force. Rutledge warned, "They'll hear you in the passage," before he realized he was speaking aloud.
But Hamish was in no mood to be silent.
Rutledge reached for a folder again, realized it was Gibson's report, and tried to read it word for word in an effort to shut out Hamish's tirade. Gibson in his thoroughness had attached a copy of Penrith's military service record to support his notes.
It was nearly impossible to concentrate, and Rutledge shut his eyes against the thundering noise in his head. The last line on the page seemed to burn into his skull, and he flipped the folder closed, shutting his eyes and trying to concentrate.
It was several minutes before his brain registered anything more than pain.
He wasn't even certain he'd seen it, but he lifted the report a last time and tried to find it, first in the summation, and then in the military record itself.
And almost missed it again. Lieutenant Timothy Barton Evering.
The name of the officer in charge when the train was attacked.
Gibson, for all his thoroughness, had had no way of knowing that it mattered. Rutledge had been searching for different information, and it was only because the sergeant was not one to leave any fact undocumented that the name was even included.
Rutledge stood up, the sheet of paper still in his hand, and went to find Gibson. But the sergeant had gone out to interview a witness for one of the other inspectors.
Rutledge went back to his desk, took up the file, reached for his hat, and left the building.
He found Davis Penrith in his office. Brushing aside a reluctant clerk, Rutledge opened the door instead and strode in
Without waiting for Penrith to take in his abrupt appearance, Rut- ledge said, "I thought you told me you didn't know an Evering. That he was Quarles's client."
"I don't-"
"The officer in charge of the train ambushed out on the veldt was Timothy Barton Evering."
Penrith's mouth dropped open. It took him several seconds to recover. Then he fell back on anger. "What are you doing, searching through my past? I'm neither the murder victim nor a suspect in his death. You'll speak to my solicitor, Inspector, and explain yourself."
"Timothy Barton Evering."
"He's dead, man! There were no other survivors."
"Then who is Ronald Evering? His son?"
"I don't know any Ronald Evering. I told you, the investors in Cumberline were Quarles's clients, not mine. Now get out of my office and leave me alone!"
Rutledge turned on his heel and left. Back at the Yard, he left a message for Chief Superintendent Bowles that he would not be in the office for the next three days, went to his flat, and packed his valise.
It was a long drive all the way to Cornwall. Rutledge had sufficient time to wonder why it mattered so much to tie up a loose end that in no way affected the outcome of a case that was already concluded. All the same, action had improved his headache, and that in itself was something.
Penrith had given incomplete answers three times. Once about where his father had been curate, once about Quarles's background, and again about Evering. Whatever it was that Mrs. Quarles knew and Brunswick had been determined to ferret out, Davis Penrith must know as well.
There was a secret somewhere, and whether it had a bearing on this murder or not, it connected three people who on the surface of things had nothing in common.
Hamish said, "Do ye think the three acted together? If so, ye're a fool."
"Why has Penrith felt compelled to lie to me? If I'd gone to Hampshire looking for his past, I'd have found only a five-year-old boy. If I'd gone to Sussex, I'd have discovered that the grown man had served in the Army. And there was nothing in the legend of Harold Quarles about his military career, short as it was. He'd have used it if it had in any way served his purpose."
"They were no' deserters, they didna' need to hide."
"Precisely. Constable Wainwright's father called Penrith the sole survivor of that massacre on the train. Yet Quarles survived as well."
"It was Penrith who was pointed oot to him."
"Yes, the handsome young soldier who reminded Wainwright of the Prince of Wales: slender and fair and a hero. What was Quarles doing while Penrith was being a hero? Why wasn't he one as well? His wounds were serious enough to keep him in hospital for a long time. And back in London, why didn't Penrith's heroics become as famous as Quarles's escape from the mines? It would have stood him in good stead in many quarters." He drove on. "What will one Ronald Evering have to say about his own investment in the Cumberline stocks, and his father's dealings with Penrith and Quarles?"