Charles Todd - A matter of Justice

"Early days, that's all. I think we've done all we can here." Rutledge was ready to go on. But Padgett was staring now toward the house, which he couldn't see from here.

"If Charles Archer could walk, I'd wager it was him. She may have been content with the status quo, but if the man has any pride-well, it takes nerve to cuckold a man in his own house."

Padgett turned to walk back through the wood, and Rutledge, getting to his feet, heard Hamish say, "He's no' verra eager to help."

They went back to the tithe barn, where Rutledge's motorcar was standing. Padgett nodded to the constable guarding the tithe barn's door as Rutledge turned the crank.

They drove in silence, each man busy with his thoughts. As they reached Cambury, the High Street was empty, and many of the houses were still shuttered. Bells hadn't rung for the first service, and the doors of the church beyond the distant churchyard were closed.

Sunday morning. A long day stretched ahead of them.

Padgett was rubbing his face. "I'm dog tired, and you must be knackered. We'll sleep for a few hours then go back to Hallowfields. It's bound to be someone there. Stands to reason. They knew his movements."

Rutledge said nothing.

Padgett went on. "I sent Constable Daniels to bespeak a room for you at The Unicorn after he telephoned the Yard. It's just across the street there." They had reached the police station. As Rutledge stopped the motorcar in front, Padgett added, "Come in. We'll make a list of names, persons to consider. It won't take long."

With reluctance Rutledge followed him inside.

Padgett's office was tidy, folders on the shelves behind his desk and a typewriter on a table to one side.

Indicating the machine as he sat down and offered the only other chair to Rutledge, he said, "I've learned to use the damned thing. There's no money for a typist, but I find that most people can't read my handwriting. It's the only answer." He seemed to be in no hurry to make his list. Collecting several papers from his blotter, he shoved them into a folder and then turned back to Rutledge.

"Perhaps I should tell you a little about Cambury. It's a peaceful town, as a rule. We've had only two murders since the war. Market day is Wednesday, and there's always a farmer who has had a little too much to drink at The Glover's Arms. The younger men prefer The Black Pudding. They grew up wild, some of them, with no fathers to keep them in line. An idle lot, living off their mothers' pensions. But where's the work to keep them honest? A good many workmen congregate there too. It can be a volatile mix."

In an effort to bring Padgett back to the task at hand, Rutledge said, "Do you think either of these two murders has a bearing on Quarles's death?"

"On-? No, of course not. A young soldier killed his wife. We never got to the bottom of that, because he came here straightaway and confessed. Seems he was wild with jealousy over someone she'd been seeing while he was in France. Why he didn't kill the other man, God knows. And truth be told, I don't think he intended to kill her, but he knocked her down with his fist, and she struck her head on one of the firedogs. The other murder was family related as well-two brothers angry over the fact that the third brother inherited everything when the mother died. They shouldn't have been surprised. They'd walked out and left the boy to care for both parents while they were making their way in London. They didn't come home for the father's funeral and probably wouldn't have come for the mother's if there hadn't been property involved. There was a quarrel the night after her funeral, and it ended in the murder of the youngest. They claimed they'd already returned to London that morning, but there were witnesses to say otherwise."

"Who was left to inherit?"

"A cousin from Ireland. She's living in the house now, as a matter of fact. Her coming here set the cat amongst the pigeons, I can tell you. O'Hara is her name. Harold Quarles was taken with her. She told him what she thought of him, in the middle of the High Street." He grinned at the memory.

Rutledge was accustomed to dealing with the various temperaments of the local policemen he was sent to work with. Some were single- minded, others were suspicious of his motives as an outsider or protective of their patch. A few were hostile, and others were grateful for another set of eyes, though wary at the same time. Padgett seemed to feel no urgency about finding Quarles's murderer, and Rutledge wondered if he had already guessed who it might be and was busy throwing dust in the eyes of the man from London. And the next question was, why?

Hamish said, "Ye ken, he's dragging his feet after yon dressing down."

Rutledge had already forgotten that, but it wouldn't be surprising if Padgett was still smarting. There was arrogance behind the man's affability.

He asked, before Padgett could digress again, "Who might have had a reason to kill Quarles?" He took out his notebook to indicate that he was prepared to write down names.

"Consider half the population," Padgett replied with a broad gesture. "Mrs. Quarles said as much herself. I told you. I'm only one of many who will rejoice that he's dead."

"Hardly the proper attitude for a policeman?" Rutledge asked lightly.

"I'm honest. Take me or leave me."

"Quite." Rutledge added, "Did Quarles spend much time here in Cambury? Or was he most often in London?"

"He came down once a month or so. It depended on how busy he was in the City. Last year he came and stayed for nearly three months. That must have been an unpleasant surprise for the missus. She packed up and left for Essex, where Archer's sister lives."

"Speaking of Charles Archer, is it certain that he can't walk?" It was a possibility that shouldn't be overlooked.

"You must ask the doctor."

Rutledge wrote down O'Neil's name at the top of the page. "Let's begin with the household. What do you know about them? "

"Some of them come into Cambury on their day off. Generally they keep themselves to themselves. I daresay that's what's expected of them by the family. There's no butler, just the housekeeper, because they seldom entertain. If you're looking at the household, I'd put Mrs. Quarles at the top of that list."

"What about the townspeople?" When Padgett hesitated, Rut- ledge added, "The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. The rector. The doctor. The greengrocer."

"Quarles didn't get on with the rector. Rumor says he thought Heller was old-fashioned, out of step with the twentieth century. The living belongs to Hallowfields, and Quarles could replace him at will and bring in someone younger or more to his taste. The doctor he treated like a tradesman. The tradesmen he treated with outright contempt. Mr. Greer, owner of the glove firm, crossed swords with Quarles a time or two. According to Quarles, he was pushing up the cost of labor in Cambury, making it difficult for the local gentry to keep staff. The glove makers work at home, you see. It's not a bad thing for a woman with children or a man who can't do physical labor."

Rutledge had stopped taking notes. "The field is wide open, then. Still, it's hard to believe that this sort of bickering led to murder."

"There's Jones, the Welsh baker, if you want more than bickering. His daughter's head was turned by Quarles, and Jones had to send her away to his family in Cardiff. And Mrs. Newell was cook at Hallowfields until Quarles sacked her. Now, there's a woman who could have hauled Quarles into the rafters without any help. Arms like young oaks. Although in my view, she'd prefer a cleaver to a stone, for the murder weapon."

"Mrs. Quarles also mentioned the name Stephenson."

"Stephenson is a collector of rare books. He moved here from Oxford, when his health broke. He was born in Cambury. I never heard what lay between them. Money is my guess. He opened a small bookstore down the street, where his mother had had her millinery shop, and called it Nemesis."