Charles Todd - A matter of Justice

Hamish said, "Ma' granny wouldna' care to see this," in a tone of voice that reflected his own feelings. "Witchcraft, she'd ha' called it."

It was as if Quarles flew down, landing easily first on his toes, the taut rope almost invisible against the darkness of the ceiling, the wings moving gently, as if of their own volition. And the watchers could at last see the other side of the body. The back of Quarles's head was matted with dark blood, staining the pale red of his hair

Attempting to tie off the rope, the two constables accidentally lifted the body again, and it seemed to the onlookers to have life in it still.

There was a brief hesitation, as if no one was eager to step closer. Then O'Neil said tersely, "Get him out of that wretched thing."

Releasing Quarles from the brace that had held him in the air was difficult. With a living person it would have been different, but the dead weight was awkward. And after that, detaching him from the wings hooked into the cage and the cloth at his shoulders and meant to appear from below as if they belonged where they were fastened, growing out of the man's own back, took several people. Rigor mortis hadn't set in, that much was apparent, as O'Neil quietly pointed out as they worked.

When at last Quarles slumped to the flagstone floor of the barn and the harness and cage had been dragged away, the doctor beckoned for the lamps to be brought nearer and knelt to begin his examination.

As O'Neil ran his hands over the body, a frown between his eyes, Rutledge got his first good look at the victim.

Quarles had pale red hair, a freckled complexion, and surprisingly regular features, although one eyebrow had a quizzical twist to it. A vigorous body, with a barrel chest and long legs. Rutledge judged him to be five feet ten inches tall, and put his age at either the late thirties or early forties. Without the force of his personality, he seemed oddly vulnerable, but the strong jaw and chin spoke of a man who knew what he wanted from life.

O'Neil was saying, "Nothing broken, as far as I can judge. No signs of a wound, other than what we can see on the back of his head. And that was the cause of death, if I'm not mistaken." He moved his fingers through the blood-soaked hair and then wiped them on his handkerchief. "There are several blows here. Lacerations on the scalp in two areas. I'll know more later, but someone wanted to make sure the first blow had done the job. And judging from the blood you can see in his hair, it hadn't. The aim was better the second time, because poor Quarles was semiconscious and not resisting."

"But both were struck from behind?" Rutledge asked. He had been studying the dead man's hands. They were badly scarred.

The skin was still tight and shiny in places, though the worst of the injury had faded with time.

Hamish said, "Aye, we've seen burns before. But look you, they're no' on his face."

Dr. O'Neil was regarding Rutledge, his expression puzzled.

He realized that the doctor hadn't taken his point. He clarified his question. "That is to say, do the blows indicate whether Quarles had turned away from someone he was talking with? Or was it a surprise attack, something he didn't see coming?"

"That's your task to work out, not mine. All I can say is that he might have been turning away. The first laceration is a little behind and to the right of the second. Or at the last minute he could have heard someone coming up behind him and started to turn to confront whoever it was. I can't tell you what was used to kill him. Or where he was killed. Unless there's blood on the floor that I haven't seen in this light?"

"Horton," Padgett said over his shoulder, "take one of the lanterns and go over the flagstones as carefully as you can. Pay particular attention by the mechanism of that rig."

The man set off, his light bobbing as he searched.

O'Neil stood, brushing off the knees of his trousers. "It's my opinion that he hasn't been dead very long. Hours, rather than days. Any idea who could have done this?"

"None," Padgett replied shortly.

"How did he come by those burns on his hands?" Rutledge asked.

O'Neil said, "He's had them as long as I've known him. I asked once, professional interest, but he just said it was an accident. It was clear he didn't want to talk about it. Which reminds me, has anyone thought to let Mrs. Quarles know that her husband is dead?"

"We preferred to keep this quiet until Rutledge got here." Padgett pulled out his watch. "They'll be stirring at the Home Farm soon, if they aren't already. It won't take long for someone to see the vehicles outside and come to find out what's happening. I suppose I ought to go to the house directly."

"If you'll lend me one of your men, I'll see to the moving of the body while all's quiet. Anything else you need from me?"

"Nothing at present-"

He was interrupted by Horton calling from the other end of the barn. "So far, there's no blood to indicate if he was killed in here, sir. We might do better in daylight, but I'll wager it wasn't in the barn."

Padgett turned to Rutledge. "Do you want to go to the house with me?"

Breaking bad news was not Rutledge's favorite duty, but someone had to do it, and it was just as well to meet the family now. Sometimes the way the household reacted to a death could be telling. He nodded.

"All right, Horton, you help the doctor. Daniels, you and Jenkins can see to this apparatus. Put it where it belongs and shut the chest on it. I don't want to see it again. As it is, I'll be hard-pressed to attend the pageant this year. Then I want the two of you to stand watch at the barn door. I'll leave my motorcar for Jenkins. Turn about, every two hours-"

Rutledge said, "Wait, let me examine that cage."

It was indeed wicker, as he'd thought, reinforced by wires, and the wings, he discovered, were attached as a rule to a brace that locked across the wicker frame, holding the Christmas angel safely in place. It was all in all a clever device, and must create quite a spectacle. But there was nothing on the harness or the ropes or the pulleys that offered him any clue as to who had used it for a dead man.

"Thanks," he said, nodding to the two constables, and turning to Dr. O'Neil, he asked, "Do you think Quarles was still alive when he was put into this contraption?" "If he was attacked here, in the barn, I'd say he was dead before he was hoisted up into the rafters. The second blow rendered him unconscious, if he wasn't already, and he was dying. Beyond saving, in fact, even if his attacker had changed his mind. It must have taken several minutes to get him into that device. Very likely there was a cloth or coat around his wound, or you'd have seen where his head rested during the process. At a guess, that's why there's no blood to be found here. It's a deep wound, I could feel where fragments of bone have been driven into the brain. If he was brought here from somewhere else, he was dead before he got to the barn. And heavy as he is, he wouldn't have been easy to manage. But it could be done. I'd look for scuff marks-where he was dragged-outside. If we haven't obscured them with our own tramping about."

"Thank you, Doctor." Rutledge turned to follow Padgett, and O'Neil went with them as far as his own motorcar, to fetch a blanket.

Shielding his torch, Padgett studied the turf around the door. "He's right, too many feet have trod here. But there's no other way in; we had no choice."

Rutledge cast his light a little to one side, trying to find signs of torn grass. "How did the killer bring Quarles here? Motorcar? On his back?"

"If we knew that, we'd be ahead of the game, wouldn't we?" Padgett replied morosely. He climbed into the passenger seat while Rutledge was cranking the motor, and said to no one in particular, "I don't relish this. Mrs. Quarles is an unusual woman. As you'll see for yourself."