The sea was rough, and the mail boat bucketed through the waves like a live thing, fighting the water every foot of the crossing. Rutledge, shouting to the master over the noise of the sea and the creaking of the boat, asked him to point out St. Anne's.
"That one, you can barely see the top of it from here. It's our third port."
"Do you know the Everings?"
"These many years. Visiting, are you?"
"An unexpected guest," Rutledge said, watching the little island take shape. But it was another hour and three-quarters before they reached the tiny bay that was St. Anne's harbor, and their voices were suddenly loud as the wind dropped and the seas smoothed in the lee of the land.
"Evering must not have got word you were coming today," the master said, lighting his pipe. "The house usually sends down a cart for visitors."
"Are there often visitors?"
"Not often. Ronald Evering's the last of the family, and not much for entertaining."
Rutledge watched as the man maneuvered the small craft toward the stone quay and efficiently secured it to the iron rings that held it against the fenders.
"Off you go," he said to Rutledge, nodding to the path that ran down to the harbor. "Up there, cross the road, and when you see the arbor, follow the path to the house. Would you mind carrying up the mail? It would save me a trip."
Rutledge took the packet that was held out to him.
"Will you be going back today?"
"Most likely."
"Then I'll come for you."
Rutledge stepped out onto the quay and waved to the departing mail boat as he reached the path. It ran up the sloping hillside in looping curves, as if a goat had been the first to climb here. As he went, the wind reached him again, and he carried his hat in his hand to keep it from flying off. Halfway up he could see the Scilly Isles spread out before him like a map, the four or five larger ones showing signs of habitation, the smaller ones dotting the sea like afterthoughts. On the northern exposures the bare rocky slopes of the nearest islands were covered with what appeared to be heather, while the sunnier southern parts of the islands were green.
It was a very different world from London or indeed from Cornwall.
The sun began to break through the clouds, watery and halfhearted, as Rutledge reached the road and crossed it to the Evering house. It was beautifully situated, facing the south, and protected from the north by a higher slope than the one on which it stood. He came to the arbor, opened the lovely swan-neck gate, and took the shell path up to the door.
The master of the mail boat told him that there had been shipbuilding on the largest island in the last century, but here on St. Anne's were fields of flowering bulbs and perennials. He could see that the daffodils were already dying back, their yellow and green leaves covering long beds.
The brass knocker on the door was shaped like a pair of swans, like the top of the gate in the arbor.
A middle-aged woman came to answer the door. She seemed surprised to see a stranger there, and craned her neck to look beyond him toward the harbor. The mail boat was just rounding the headland.
"Ronald Evering, please. My name is Ian Rutledge."
She stepped aside to let him come into the foyer, and said doubtfully, "I'll ask if Mr. Evering will see you." Disappearing down a passage, she glanced over her shoulder, as if to see if he was real or had vanished when her back was turned.
After several minutes, she led him into a small parlor that overlooked the sea. Which, he thought, every room in this house must, save for the kitchen quarters.
Evering was standing by the cold hearth and regarded Rutledge with some interest. "Do I know you? We seldom have visitors on St. Anne's, but sometimes people come to see the seals or watch the birds. We let them camp near the headland."
"I'm here to ask you about your father."
"My father?" Evering was at a loss.
"Yes. Lieutenant Timothy Barton Evering."
Ronald Evering said without inflection, "My elder brother. He's dead. Why should you be interested in him?"
"Because he served in South Africa. Can you tell me the circumstances surrounding his death?"
"They are painful to me. I prefer not to discuss them. Why are you interested in him? " he asked again. "Are you writing a book on that war? If so, my brother's death was a footnote, no more. There is more interesting material to be found, I'm sure."
Rutledge changed his ground. "It's my understanding that you were one of the investors in the Cumberline stock scheme. Is that true?"
Evering was very still. "Who are you? And what do you want here?"
"I'm Inspector Ian Rutledge, from Scotland Yard, Mr. Evering." He held out his identification. "Harold Quarles has been murdered-"
Evering turned away toward the mantelpiece, his hands gripping the mahogany edge, his head bowed. "I hadn't heard. I'm sorry. When did this happen? Where?"
"In Somerset, where his country house is located. Some ten days ago."
Evering took a deep breath. "I hope you've found his killer."
"Yes, he's already in custody. It was when I was searching Mr. Quarles's rooms that I came across your name in connection with Cumberline. In his study he kept a file on the transactions."
Evering turned to face Rutledge. "And how did you learn about my brother? "
"We were looking up Harold Quarles's service records, in an effort to find out what role, if any, his past played in his death."
"I can't see how South Africa matters? Or the Cumberline stocks. Surely neither of those could be connected to murder?"
"Not to my knowledge. But it pays to be thorough, Mr. Evering. How long have you known Mr. Quarles?"
"Not very long. I invested a sum of money with him, and it didn't prosper."
"Did you know when you invested your money that Quarles had served under your brother in the Boer War?"
Evering glanced toward the windows, where a shaft of errant sunlight had turned the sea from gray to deep green. "The War Department gave us very little information about my brother's death. He died on active duty and served his country well. That's what my father was told in the telegram. I was very young at the time, and if he learned more, he never spoke of it."
"And so it was quite by chance that you should choose an investment offered by two men who served in your brother's company."
"Neither Mr. Quarles nor Mr. Penrith ever mentioned the fact. If they recognized the name or knew my relationship to Timothy, I didn't realize it."
"Did you deal with both partners? Penrith and Quarles?"
"Yes, I talked to Mr. Quarles first, and then he brought in Mr. Penrith."
It sounded straightforward, told without hesitation or attempt to conceal.
"Is that all you came to ask me, Mr. Rutledge?"
"I'm informed that Penrith and Quarles were the only survivors of the Boer attack. Do you know if that's true?"
"I've told you-I know very little about how Timothy died. The fact of his death was enough. My parents never recovered from the shock."
"Yes, I can understand."
"Were you in the Great War, Mr. Rutledge? If you were, you can appreciate that many details of what happens in a battle are not reported. My brother's commanding officer wrote a very fine letter to my father, and it said very little beyond the fact that Timothy died bravely and didn't suffer. That he was an honor to his regiment, showed great promise as an officer, and would have had a fine career in the army if he'd lived. How many such letters does an officer write? He could say the same thing to a dozen grieving families, and who would be the wiser? "
"It is meant well. Sometimes the details are-distressing."
"Yes, I'm sure that must be true. For my mother's sake, I was grateful. She died not knowing whether he suffered or not. Which is what really mattered, in the end." Evering gestured to the chairs that stood between them. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Rutledge? I'll ring for tea. It will be some time before the boat returns."
"Thank you." Rutledge took the chair indicated and waited until Evering had given the order for tea to the woman who'd answered the door.
"One of the reasons I'm following up on the South African campaign is that something that happened in Harold Quarles's service out there-he served nowhere else, you see-disturbed his wife to such a degree that there was a serious breach with her husband. It lasted until his death."
Evering considered Rutledge for a moment and then said, "I don't know what to say. I've never met Mrs. Quarles or spoken to her. Does she think this-whatever it was-had to do with my brother?"
"I have no way of knowing what it is. I'm here to learn as much as I can about the only serious action Quarles saw during the war."
"It's a mystery to me. But if she tells you anything that I ought to know, please send me word. I'd be grateful."
The tea came, and they drank it in silence. Rutledge's mind was occupied, and Evering seemed to have little conversation, as if living alone in this empty, silent house had shaped his spirit.
But as he set his teacup down, Rutledge asked, "And so, as the only surviving son, you inherited this house?"
"My father's family was one of the earliest settlers here. Generations ago. We are as close to 'native' here as anyone can be. You either love or hate it. My brother joined the army because he wanted adventure and excitement, both in short supply here on St. Anne's. My mother called it a need to be a man, and persuaded herself that in due course he'd come home, marry, and settle here for the rest of his life. As the elder son, that's what was expected of him. Instead he died in a place none of us had ever heard of and couldn't find on a map. Look, there's the mail boat. No passengers to hold it up today. You should be there when it comes in, Mr. Rutledge."
"I almost forgot." Rutledge reached into his pocket and brought out the packet of mail. "I was to give you this." He glanced at the return address on the top envelop but said nothing.
Evering thanked him and sent for the maid to bring Rutledge's coat and hat. "I'm afraid it will be a wet crossing. Those clouds on the horizon spell rain. Thank you for coming, Mr. Rutledge. I'm sorry I couldn't be more helpful."
But Rutledge, as he went out into the wind, smelling now of rain, thought that on the whole Ronald Evering had not been sorry at all.
By the time the boat reached the mainland, they were caught in a downpour, and in spite of his useless umbrella, Rutledge managed to start his motorcar without drowning.
Cutting across Cornwall in the direction of Dunster, Rutledge spent the night there with the Maitlands, newly returned from their wedding trip and delighted to see him. They would have kept him longer, but he was up before dawn the next morning, and by first light was well on the road again, heading for Cambury.
He drove straight through the village when he reached the High Street, and out to Hallowfields.
Mrs. Quarles was in mourning, he was told, and not seeing anyone.
"Tell her I know about Evering," he said, and in three minutes, he was face-to-face with Harold Quarles's widow in the formal drawing room. She was not happy to see him, and the two small dogs at her feet growled as he entered.
"I thought we were fortunate in not having to deal with Scotland Yard any longer," she told him shortly. "And here you are again." She didn't ask him to sit down.
"I'm afraid that I'm rather tenacious when it comes to making certain that the man I hang is indeed the killer I was looking for."
"You have doubts about Brunswick? But I was told he confessed."
"For reasons of his own-which may or may not be the right reasons. It's Evering I'm interested in, and how he died."
"Who told you about Evering? Was it Penrith? If you tell me it was, I won't believe you."
"Penrith would as soon keep the matter quiet. He's lied to me enough to make me suspicious, and that wasn't very clever of him."
"Then you'll hear nothing from me."
"Mrs. Quarles, I'm very close to stumbling on the truth. If you know Evering's name, then you know what it is I'm after. And I warn you, it's very likely that Michael Brunswick knows more than I do, and that he'll use what he knows at his trial, to disgrace your husband publicly."
"There's no way Brunswick could know anything. I wouldn't have learned the truth myself if Harold hadn't been so drunk one night that he talked in his sleep. It was as if he were having a waking nightmare. I've never seen anything before or since to match it. The next morning I confronted him with it, and at first he told me I was imagining things. And then he swore he'd see me dead if I said anything to anyone. I knew then that it was true. And I left him, because I couldn't stand to be in the same room with him or feel those hands-"
She broke off.
"You might as well tell me, Mrs. Quarles. I won't walk away until I know the whole truth about your husband. If it has nothing to do with his murder, I will never speak of it. You can trust my word on that."
She stared at him. "What use to me is your word?"
"It's better that I find out than someone else trying to pry into the past."
Walking past him to the door, Maybelle Quarles opened it quickly, as if expecting to find Mrs. Downing there with her ear pressed to the panel. But the passage was empty. She closed it again and went to the window, looking out. When she spoke, she had pitched her voice low, so that it barely reached his ears.
"You are a persistent man, Mr. Rutledge. Very well. I will tell you what you want to know. Not because of the persistence, but because by your digging, it's possible that other people will get wind of the truth, and we will never have peace in this family again."
Turning back to him, she said baldly, "My husband burned Lieutenant Evering alive, after shooting the wounded on that train."
"Gentle God," Rutledge said softly. "In heaven's name, why?"
"I don't know. I wish I did, it would make my own nightmares easier to bear."
"Does Penrith know? Surely-"
"He must know. The soldiers who reached the train misread what they saw, and Penrith made no move to correct them. They must have thought Harold was burned trying to save the lieutenant. They believed the Boers had come into the train and killed the wounded. My husband was delirious, he couldn't tell them what had happened after Penrith went for help."
"It could well be true."
"In that nightmare, he relived listening to Evering die. He relived shooting the wounded. He lay there, writhing on the bed, and begged God to help him after he'd burned his hands to make it appear he'd done his best. He'd kept that secret so long that it was tormenting him, and that night, he confessed to God or the devil, I don't know which, and I sat there, afraid to call for help, listening to it all"
Rutledge had only to look at the torment in her face to believe her. To understand why she hated the man she'd married and couldn't bear to live with him. And yet she'd never divorced him…
"Why did you stay with Quarles?"
"I have a son. Harold would have taken him from me if I'd told anyone else. I'm not a fool, Mr. Rutledge, I knew the danger of living under the same roof with a murderer. But I did it for Marcus, and God saw fit on that Saturday night to release me from my prison. And I have thanked him on my knees for it."
"Why didn't you consider killing him yourself, if you felt afraid?"
"And leave my child without a father or a mother? I think not."
He left soon after. There was nothing more he could say to the woman standing by the empty grate staring down into flames that she could see only in her mind. And there was no comfort he could give her. It was beyond any words he could utter, and it would be patronizing to try.
Hamish said, as Rutledge pointed the bonnet of the motorcar down the drive, "It doesna' change the murder or who did it."
"Quarles was a strange man. A killer at heart, ruthless and coldblooded, and yet he could be kind as well. What was it Miss O'Hara said? That someone should be given a medal for ridding Cambury of the ogre?"
All at once he could hear shouting in the distance and stopped the car to listen. It appeared to be coming from the Home Farm. He got out, walked a little way across the lawns, and saw that Masters and one of his men were wading into the pond just beyond the barns and outbuildings. Something was in it, a long blue streak in the middle of water already turning muddy from the hurried thrashing of their feet. He raced toward the farm, watching the scene play out like a drama on a stage. Masters was close now to what appeared to be a blue gown, and he was reaching out, trying to drag it nearer, then trying to right the figure as it began to lash out wildly.
It was a woman, and she wasn't trying to cling to her rescuers, she was struggling to free herself. Rutledge, out of breath, got to the water's edge just as Masters succeeded in dragging the woman to shallower depths.
It was Betty Richards, the elderly woman who had served Quarles, and in his name tried to destroy the bakery.
Her hair was down, gray streaked and straggling, half covering her face, and she was crying, trails of tears spreading into the muddy stream running from her hair and into her eyes.
Masters, his breathing tumultuous, was shaking her, demanding to know in broken sentences what the hell she thought she was doing.
Rutledge said, "She was trying to drown herself, man. Get her inside and fetch some blankets. Tea as well, and towels to dry her hair."
Masters let her go, turning to Rutledge. "What are you doing here? I thought you'd found your killer."
"In more ways than one." He reached out and put a hand on Betty's shoulder, comforting her as best he could.
"There was nothing else I could do," she said, sobbing into the wet skirt she held to her face. "I had nowhere else to go, nothing left."
Rutledge asked sharply, "Did Mrs. Quarles give you notice?"
She tried to shake her head but her hair was a heavy mass down her back. "It was Mrs. Downing. She said they'd be cutting back staff now, and I'd not be needed any longer. Mr. Archer told her I could take care of his rooms. But she said it would be up to Mrs. Quarles, and I mustn't hold out any hope."
Rutledge swore. Hadn't they read the will? Hadn't they seen the bequest to this poor wretch?
As if in answer, Betty said, "Mrs. Downing never liked it that I wasn't under her. But I wasn't and never was meant to be. She was told that from the start."
Mrs. Masters had come with blankets and they wrapped Betty in them as water ran from her clothes and she began to shiver. Rutledge let Mrs. Masters take over, guiding Betty toward her kitchen, making soothing noises.
Masters said, "I never liked that woman."
"Betty?"
"Not Betty, I hardly knew her. No, Mrs. Downing. She creeps around the house, listening at doors and spreading gossip. I don't know how Mrs. Quarles can stand her."
"I don't think she sees that side of her housekeeper. Will Betty be all right with your wife?" He watched Mrs. Masters close the kitchen door behind them.
"She'll see that Betty is taken care of. I've half a mind to take her on myself, to get her out of Mrs. Downing's clutches. But I don't need more staff."
"Then you might spread a little gossip of your own. Harold Quarles left a sizeable bequest to that housemaid. She'll never want for anything again."
"Why on earth should he do that?"
"I don't know. But I think Mrs. Downing might. I'll have a word with her."
Rutledge walked back the way he'd come, and leaving the motorcar where it was, he went on to the house and knocked again at the door.
Mrs. Downing opened it to him, and he stepped inside before she could prevent him.
"Has there been a reading of the will?" he asked, and her eyes flickered.
"It was read privately. The staff wasn't invited to hear. Afterward, we were told by Mrs. Quarles how we were to be provided for."
"Was nothing said to you about a bequest to the woman who had served Mr. Quarles by taking care of his rooms?"
"Not to me. I wasn't told anything at all."
"But you overheard something, didn't you? When Mrs. Quarles spoke privately to Betty."
"She never did-"
Rutledge said, "Bring her down here to me. I want to speak to Mrs. Quarles."
"I can't-"
But he ignored her and called Mrs. Quarles's name. She came to the top of the stairs, her face flushed with her anger. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Come down here, or I'll come up there."
Without a word, she came down the stairs and walked past him to the small sitting room. He followed.
"What is it you want?" She stood there, cold and straight, as if nothing more could touch her.
"There was a bequest in your husband's will. To the housemaid who looked after him. Betty Richards."
"What business is that of yours?"
"She was never told, after the will was read. I want to know why."
"I didn't think it was an appropriate bequest. She's not capable of handling that much money-"
"Tell me the truth. Or I'll see to it that you're taken into Cambury police station for theft."
"It's not theft," she retorted. "It's my husband's money-"
"And he left it to that woman."
"That woman, as you put it, is his widowed sister. He kept her here as a maid, and let the world think he was kind to take her on. But he did it to keep the rest of us out of his rooms and his affairs. He knew he could trust her. She's not fit to be my son's aunt, and I won't have her in this house any longer."
"Then give her the money he left to her, and let her go."
"For all I care, she can starve. She's a Quarles and I hate them all!"
She went past him out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Any sympathy he'd felt for her had vanished. He pulled open the door and called to Mrs. Downing.
"You'll pack Betty Richard's things and send them to Cambury to the house of Miss O'Hara. She'll be staying there until someone from the solicitor's office can be summoned. I want them there within the hour, do you hear me?"
Mrs. Downing said, "I'll see to it-"
But he was out the door. As he looked back at the house on his way to his motorcar, he saw a face staring at him from the window. A boy, he realized, in Harold Quarles's rooms.
It was Marcus Quarles, a bewildered, frightened expression on his face.
Rutledge drove to the Home Farm and asked Tom Masters and his wife to send Betty Richards to Cambury as soon as she'd recovered.
"She's sleeping now, poor thing," Mrs. Masters told him. "Let her rest. It will be soon enough to take her there tomorrow."
"You may find yourself in trouble if you take her in," he warned. "I'll go ahead and tell Miss O'Hara that she's to have a guest."
Miss O'Hara frowned when he told her. "I'm not a boardinghouse. But if you insist, then I'll keep her safe."
"She won't be staying long. You'll be hearing from Mr. Hurley. A solicitor. He'll have instructions for her."
"Yes, well, that may be. You owe me another dinner, then."
Rutledge smiled. "I'll remember."
He didn't stop at the police station. He had nothing to say to Inspector Padgett. But on his way to speak to Miss O'Hara, he'd noticed the board outside St. Martin's Church.
Someone had covered the name of MICHAEL BRUNSWICK, ORGANIST.
In London, Rutledge went directly to the house of Davis Penrith.
He said to the man as he was shown into the study, "You have lied to me more times than I care to count. About your father. About Quarles. About Evering. I know about South Africa now. Almost the entire story."
"You can't possibly know."
"About Evering burning alive? About the wounded who were shot? About the fact that you never turned Quarles in to the authorities?"
"I had no proof!"
"Of course you did. You knew how many wounded there were, or you'd have never walked across the veldt alone to find help. You and Quarles would have left that train together to find help, because there was nothing the Boers wanted from it then. But he stayed behind. I want to know why."
"I tell you, I didn't know."
"What was it, cowardice? Did you and Quarles get cold feet when the Boers attacked, and hide under the carriages? Was that why you survived? They were dead shots, the Boers. How was it that neither you nor Quarles was wounded, and yet everyone else on that train died?"
"I don't remember. When the train was stopped, I was knocked down. I don't remember."
"How did Quarles burn his hands? If he was in that carriage with Evering, why were only his hands burned?"
"I wasn't there."
"But you knew when you walked away and left Quarles there-with no wounds, mind you-that Evering was alive. Wounded, perhaps, but alive. The Boers didn't burn men to death."
"It was the lantern in the last carriage. It was hit and broken. I don't know why it burned, but it did."
"You surely knew Ronald Evering was the brother of the man Quarles killed. Why did he come to you to invest his money?"
"I can't answer that. Coincidence-one in a thousand odds-"
"I think he must have learned something, and he came to you to find out the rest." It was a battering of questions, and Rutledge could tell that Penrith couldn't sustain it.
"He couldn't have known anything, no one did. We never told anyone we'd been in the army. Not even Mr. James."
"What were you trying to hide, if it wasn't cowardice?"
"We were hiding nothing. Nothing."
"Why did you write a letter to Ronald Evering, just in the last few days? It arrived on St. Anne's the same time I did, and I carried it to the house myself."
"I-he'd said something about wanting to invest with me again. I told him that the opportunities he spoke of had not turned out the way he'd hoped, and I thought he would be wise to look elsewhere."
"How odd, that after Cumberline, he would wish to trust you again with any sum of money."
"Yes, I thought the same-" Penrith broke off. "That's to say, I found it odd myself."
"You've lied to me about many things. Why did you lie to me about Scotland?"
It came out of nowhere, a shot in the dark from Rutledge that shook Penrith to the core. "I was in Scotland. I swear to you I was! There's the letter from my wife."
"But not that whole weekend. She says something about it being such a brief visit, and that you'd arrived just in time to dine with the Douglases. I think you reached Scotland on Sunday afternoon, not on Friday. And you're letting an innocent man hang in your place. You were in Cambury on that Saturday night. You quarreled with your former partner first on Minton Street, where you'd followed him from Hallowfields, and then you went ahead of him, knowing he was on foot. And you killed him, because you were afraid of him, and what he knew about your past. He was doing things that you didn't approve of, that you feared would ruin both of you. The Cumberline stocks, his outrageous behavior in Cambury, refusing to listen to you-" "It wasn't that way, you've got it wrong-"
"Why did you strike your partner down, and then carry his body to the tithe barn and hoist him to the ceiling in that angel's harness, where no one would think to look for him? Did you hope that this would give you time to reach Scotland before anyone could accuse you of killing him?"
"I never put him in that harness-you're lying-" "But that's how he was found. And someone did it. If it wasn't you, then who would do such an ugly thing?" "I never put him in anything-"
"An innocent man is going to hang," Rutledge said again. "And it will be on your conscience. Perhaps you weren't there when Quarles shot the wounded-or when he burned Evering alive. It may be that you've nothing on your conscience but protecting a friend. But this death is on your hands. When Brunswick hangs, it will be you who slides the hood over his head and the rope tight around his neck-"
"Stop it!" Penrith put his hands over his ears, trying to shut out Rutledge's unrelenting voice. "I am not guilty. I've never killed anyone. Harold Quarles was still alive when I left him-"
"You wouldn't have left Quarles alive. Not if he knew it was you who struck him. He was a bad enemy. A dangerous man. You had proof of that, whatever you want to deny about South Africa."
"I did. I wasn't afraid of him. I told him that I knew why he'd tried to make everyone think he'd slept with my wife-it was because I'd left the partnership. He always punishes anyone who gets in his way. And that was my punishment. I hit him when he turned away because he called me a liar. He said he'd never gone near my wife. I told him he was the one lying…"
Penrith stopped, appalled. He sank down in the nearest chair, his head in his hands.
"Oh, my God. What have I done?"
Rutledge thought at first that Penrith was horrified that he'd been tricked into confessing, then he realized that the man had stared into something only he could see, and discovered the truth.
"What is it?" Rutledge asked.
Penrith shook his head. "I can't believe- Look, I never put him in that harness. I was so angry, I couldn't have touched him. I left him there in his own blood, still breathing. It must have been someone from the house who put him in that barn, it wasn't me. I swear to you-it wasn't me!"
"You've lied one time too many," Rutledge said. "It doesn't serve you anymore."
"But it's the truth. He was alive, there on the grass by the gatehouse. I didn't murder Harold Quarles."
"If you didn't, then you must know how Michael Brunswick feels, waiting to be tried. He told me the truth, and I didn't believe him. I accepted your word that you were in Scotland, and you gave it, knowing it was a lie."
"No, you must listen to me-all right, I struck him twice. He was walking away, laughing, and I knocked him down to his knees to stop him, and then before I quite knew what I was doing, I hit him a second time because I was so angry with him. But I could hear him breathing-I hadn't killed him."
"Weren't you afraid that leaving him alive was dangerous, that he'd tell the police what you'd done?"
"No-he wouldn't dare. Besides, I thought-I hoped that if no one found him right away, he might not remember what had happened."
"You hoped he would die. Davis Penrith, I am arresting you on the charge of willfully murdering your former partner, Harold Quarles."
"You can't do this. I haven't killed anyone. I was tricked-"
Rutledge shook his head. "It's finished. Will you go with me now, or must I send for constables to bring you in?"
"You don't understand. I was misled-it was Ronald Evering who told me that Quarles had slept with my wife. And I believed him, because it was the sort of thing Quarles would do. He punished his wife by having affairs with every woman in Cambury he could seduce. Why not my wife, to punish me? Dear God, don't you see? It must all have been a lie…"