Charles Todd - A matter of Justice

Hamish said, "Ye ken, he didna' bring up the name himsel'."

Which was surprising. Would Padgett have mentioned Stephenson at all?

Still, Rutledge was beginning to form a mental picture of Harold Quarles. It appeared that he hadn't made an effort to fit into his surroundings. His own wife disliked him, come to that. Was he a contrary Londoner who irritated everyone he came in contact with, or did he feel that Somerset was too provincial to warrant courtesy? Yet Constable Daniels had claimed that Quarles wanted to be squire.

It could also be a sign of rough beginnings, this ability to rub everyone raw.

"What is Quarles's background? Did he come from money?"

"Lord, no. He worked his way up from scratch. His father went down the Yorkshire mines, but the boy was given a decent education through some charity or other, and rose quickly in the financial world. He'd tell you that himself, proud of his roots and making no bones about his beginnings. From what I gather, it was his honesty on that score that made him popular in London business circles. A diamond in the rough, as they say. If he hadn't managed that, they'd have turned their back on him. You know the nobs, they sometimes like brutal honesty. Makes them feel superior."

"But he must have also had the ability to make money for his clients, or they wouldn't have kept him very long. Rough diamond or not."

"I expect that's true." Padgett stood up with an air of duty done. "I'm asleep on my feet. I'm going home. You'll want at least an hour or two of sleep yourself."

Rutledge put away his notebook. "I'll be back here by twelve o'clock."

"Make that one."

They walked out together, and Padgett turned the other way, with a wave of the hand.

Rutledge could see The Unicorn from where he stood. It was a small hotel graced by a pedimented door and narrow balconies at the windows of the floors above. A drive led to the yard behind. He turned in there and went through the quiet side passage that opened into Reception.

At the large mahogany desk set in one corner, a young man was busy with a sheaf of papers, tallying the figures in the last columns. He put his work aside as he heard Rutledge's footsteps approaching and greeted him with a smile.

"Are you the guest Constable Daniels told us to expect?"

"I am."

The clerk turned the book around for his signature. "We're pleased to have you here, Inspector. The constable mentioned that there'd been a spot of trouble up at Hallowfields."

"Yes," Rutledge answered, signing his name and pocketing the key. The clerk was on the point of asking more questions, but Rutledge cut him short with a pleasant thank-you and turned away, picking up his valise as he crossed to the stairway.

The hotel had probably been a family home at some time, possibly a town house or a dowager house. The curving stairs to one side of Reception were elegant, with beautifully carved balustrades. Giving radiant light from above was an oval skylight set with a stained glass medallion of a unicorn, his head in the lap of a young woman in a blue gown, her long fair hair falling down her back in cascading tendrils. As romantic as any pre-Raphaelite painting, it must have given the house and subsequently the hotel its name.

His room was down the passage on the first floor and overlooked the High Street. Long windows opened into a pair of those narrow balconies Rutledge had noticed from the police station, the sun already warm on the railings. He was pleased to see that he'd been given such large accommodations, with those two double windows, their starched white curtains ruffled by the early morning breeze. He needn't fight claustrophobia as well as Padgett.

Hamish said, "Given to the puir policeman no doot to curry favor with them at Hallowfields?"

"Absolutely," Rutledge returned with a smile. "Which suggests the hotel is where he came to dine last night."

Hamish chuckled. "Aye, ye'll be sharing the scullery maid's quarters when the word is out he's deid and ye're no' likely to drop a good word in his ear about The Unicorn."

It was true-policemen on the premises more often than not were kept out of sight as far as possible, to prevent disturbing hotel guests. Which signified that word of the murder had not preceded Rutledge to the hotel, only the news that Quarles had business with him.

He sighed as he considered the comfortable bed, then set his valise inside the armoire and went down to ask about breakfast.

The dining room was nearly empty.

There was an elderly couple in a corner eating in silence, as if missing their morning newspapers here in the wilds of Somerset. There was a distinct air of having said all that needed to be said to each other over the years and a determination not to be the first to break into speech, even to ask for the salt.

And a balding man of perhaps forty-five sat alone by the window, his head in a book.

Rutledge ate his meal and then asked to speak to The Unicorn's manager. The elderly woman waiting tables inquired bluntly, "Was there anything wrong with your breakfast? If so, you'd do better speaking to the cook than to Mr. Hunter."

"It's to do with last evening."

She raised her brows at that, and without another word disappeared through the door into the lounge.

It was twenty minutes before the manager arrived, freshly shaven and dressed for morning services.

Rutledge introduced himself, and said, "It's a confidential matter."

"About one of our guests?" Hunter was a quiet man with weak eyes, peering at Rutledge as if he couldn't see him clearly. There were scars around them, and Rutledge guessed he'd been gassed in the war. "I hope there's nothing amiss."

"Do you keep a list of those who dine here each evening?"

Hunter said, "Not as such. We have a list of those we're expecting, and which table they prefer. And of course a copy of the accounts paid by each party. The cook keeps a record of orders."

"Were you here last evening?"

"Yes, I was. Saturday evenings are generally busy." He glanced at the elderly couple. "Er-perhaps we should continue this conversation in my office."

Rutledge followed him there. Hunter kept his quarters Spartan. There were accounts on a cabinet beside his desk, ledgers on the shelves behind it, and a half dozen letters on his blotter. Nothing personal decorated the desk's top, the cabinet, or the shelves. The only incongruous piece was the glass figure of a donkey, about three inches high, standing on the square table by the door.

Hunter sat down and reached for a large magnifying glass that he kept in his drawer. With it poised in one hand, he asked, "Who is it you are enquiring about? "

"Harold Quarles."

Hunter put down the glass. "Ah. I can tell you he didn't dine with us last evening." He frowned. "Were you told otherwise?"

"We aren't sure where he took his dinner. The hotel was the most logical place to begin. "

"Yes, certainly. Er, perhaps his wife or staff might be more useful than I?"

"They have no idea where he went when he left the house. Except to dine somewhere close by."

"And you haven't seen Mr. Quarles to ask him?"

"He's not at home at present."

Rutledge got a straight look. "What exactly is it you're asking me, Mr. Rutledge?"

Rutledge smiled. "It's no matter. If he wasn't here, he wasn't here." He rose. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Hunter."

"I saw Mr. Quarles last evening. But not here. Not at the hotel."

Rutledge stopped. "At what time?"

"It was close on to ten-thirty. Most of our dinner guests had left, and I stepped outside to take a breath of fresh air. I was looking up the High Street-in the opposite direction from Hallowfields, you see- and I heard raised voices. That's not usual in Cambury, but it was a Saturday night, and sometimes the men who frequent The Black Pudding go home in rowdy spirits. I stood there for a moment, in the event there was trouble, but nothing happened. No one else spoke, there was nothing more to disturb the night. As I was about to go inside, I heard footsteps coming briskly from Minton Street, and I saw Harold Quarles turning the corner into the High."