Charles Todd - A matter of Justice

"In what way?"

"You'll see."

Rutledge turned the motorcar and went back through the trees. The mist had vanished, as if it had never been there. Where the track to the tithe barn met the farm lane, Padgett said, "We'll go through the main gates. Set me down as you get there, and I'll open them."

The drive ran through parkland, specimen trees and shrubs providing vistas as it curved toward the house. When it came out of the trees and into smooth lawns toward the southeast, it went on to loop a bed of roses in front of the door. In the light breeze of early morning, their scent was heavy and sweet, and dew sparkled like diamonds among the leaves.

The house was tall, perfectly set among gardens, its dormer windows on the eastern approach already touched with the first rays of bright gold as the sun rose. A very handsome property, Rutledge thought as he pulled up, the sort of house that spoke of old money and breeding.

For a long moment Padgett sat there, looking at nothing.

"Well," he said finally, "we must do our duty, and break their tran- quility into shards."

"I don't see any dogs. Surely if they were loose, they'd be here to greet us," Rutledge commented as they mounted the shallow steps and Padgett lifted the brass knocker. "At the very least the one you might have heard."

Padgett, listening to the sound of the bell ring through the house, said, "I doubt the dog was hers. We'll ask at the Home Farm."

For several minutes no one came to the door. Then it swung open, and a housekeeper stood there, glaring at them before she recognized Padgett.

"Inspector," she said in wary acknowledgment. "What brings you calling so early?"

"I'd like to speak to Mrs. Quarles, if I may. If she isn't awake-"

"I doubt anyone's asleep after such a summons at this hour."

"It's rather urgent," Padgett replied, goaded.

"I'll ask if she'll receive you now."

Rutledge said, "I understand Mrs. Quarles has several small dogs."

The housekeeper stared at him, as if he'd lost his mind. "If it's the little dogs you've come about, they're asleep in Mrs. Quarles's bedroom, where they belong."

She shut the door in their faces, and Padgett repeated sourly, "'I'll ask if she'll receive you.' As if I'm a bloody tradesman come to settle my accounts."

"It's a matter of form," Rutledge said

"Yes, well, we'll see who's unwanted, soon enough."

When the housekeeper came to the door again, this time she swung it wide, to allow them to enter. "Mrs. Quarles will see you. If you'll follow me."

They walked into a spacious foyer. The black and white marble of the floor had been set in a chessboard pattern, and the walls were a pale green trimmed in white. A flight of stairs curved upward, and a small winged Mercury, gleaming in a shaft of sunlight from the fanlight above the door, balanced on his toes atop the newel post. Both men glanced at it, sharply reminded of the winged corpse in the tithe barn.

As he looked around, Padgett's face mirrored his thoughts: Ostentatious. But the foyer, while handsome enough, was by no means the finest the West Country had to offer. Did Padgett know that? Rutledge wondered, or would it matter if he did? He seemed to resent everything about Harold Quarles.

The housekeeper led them to a door down the passage and tapped lightly.

"Come." The woman's voice inside the room was well bred and composed.

The housekeeper opened the door and said, "Inspector Padgett, madam."

The small sitting room was clearly a woman's morning room. A French gilt-trimmed white desk stood between the windows, and there was a pretty chintz on the settee and the two side chairs that stood before the hearth, the pattern showing a field of lupines on a cream background. The blue of the lupines had been picked up again in the draperies and the carpet.

Mrs. Quarles was standing with her back to the grate, her fingers pressing the collar of her cream silk dressing gown at her throat, her fair hair neatly pinned into place. She was a very attractive woman, perhaps in her middle thirties.

At her side was a tall man sitting in an invalid's wheeled chair, a rug over his knees. His dark hair was graying at the temples, and his face was distinguished, with dark eyes beneath heavy lids. He had an air of sophistication about him, despite his infirmity. Mrs. Quarles's other hand fell to rest on his shoulder as Padgett introduced Rutledge.

"From Scotland Yard?" she repeated in a clear, cool voice, examining Rutledge. "Why are you here at this hour? Is something wrong? You haven't come about my son, have you?"

"There's been a death, Mrs. Quarles," Padgett said, taking it upon himself to break the news. "I'm afraid it's your husband-"

"Death?" Her eyebrows rose as if she couldn't quite understand the word. "Are you sure?"

"Quite sure. We've just found his body-that is, a few hours ago-" Padgett stopped, tangled in his own explanation. It was clear that he felt ill at ease in her presence, and that it annoyed him.

"Are you telling me that my husband killed himself?" she demanded. "I refuse to believe anything of the sort. Where did you find him, and what has happened to him? "

"We found him in the tithe barn-that is, I did, and summoned Mr. Rutledge here because of the unusual circumstances."

She said testily, "Please get to the point, Inspector."

Padgett bristled. "He was murdered, Mrs. Quarles." The words were blunt, his voice cold.

Rutledge silently cursed the man. He was letting Mrs. Quarles set the direction of the interview.

Her hand, resting on the man's shoulder, gripped hard. Rutledge could see the slender knuckles whiten with the force.

"Murder?"

The man raised a hand to cover hers.

Rutledge thought, they are lovers… there was something in that touch that spoke of years of companionship and caring. But here? In Quarles's house?

Mrs. Quarles recovered herself and said, "By whom, for God's sake? Are you quite sure it wasn't an accident of some sort? My husband was forever poking about the estate on his weekends here, and sometimes drove Tom Masters to distraction."

"We don't have the answer to that at present. Shall I send Dr. O'Neil to you directly? Or the rector?" It was noticeable that Padgett failed to offer the formal words of condolence.

"To me? I shan't need Dr. O'Neil. Or the rector." Her face showed shock, but no grief.

"We'll need to speak to the staff. And I should like to see Mr. Quarles's rooms if I may. I understand he'd come down from London for the weekend. Was he expected?"

The man in the chair answered for her. "Generally he sends word ahead. But not always. It's his house, after all. This time he arrived in the late afternoon Friday, and spent most of yesterday with Tom Masters, who sees to the Home Farm. He came back around four, I should think, and told the staff that he intended to dine out. This was relayed to me when I came down before dinner."

Padgett asked, "Mrs. Quarles?" Sharply seeking confirmation.

"Yes, as far as I know, that's all true."

"Were you on good terms with Mr. Quarles during this visit?"

"On good terms?"

"Did you quarrel? Have words?"

He watched the first crack in her facade of cool reserve as she snapped, "We never quarrel. Why should we?"

"Most married couples do. Did you see him when he returned from his dinner engagement?"

"I was not waiting up for him, if that's what you're asking."

Rutledge stepped in before Padgett could follow up on that. "Did he dine alone?"

Mrs. Quarles turned to him, almost with relief. "How should I know? We go our separate ways, Harold and I."

"Then you would have no reason to worry if he didn't return at the end of the evening?"

"We live in different wings, Mr. Rutledge. By mutual agreement."