Charles Todd - A matter of Justice

"Minton Street?"

"It's just past us, where you see the stationer's on the corner."

"Where does Minton Street lead?"

"There are mostly houses in that direction."

"No other place to dine, except in a private home?"

"That's right."

"And Mr. Quarles continued to walk past the hotel, as far as you know?"

Hunter said, "I had shut the door before he reached the hotel. I'm not on good terms with the man."

"Indeed?"

"He was drunk and disorderly in the dining room last spring. There was a scene, and I had to ask him to leave. It was embarrassing to me and to the hotel-and should have been to him as well. I haven't spoken to him since."

Padgett had said nothing about Hunter's encounter. He hadn't named the manager at all.

"Yes, I see that it would be uncomfortable. And so you have no way of knowing where Quarles went from Minton Street?"

"None." It was firmly spoken, his eyes holding Rutledge's.

"And he was alone? On foot?"

"Yes, on both counts."

"Do you know if there's anyone on Minton Street who might count Mr. Quarles among their acquaintance?"

"I would have no idea."

Rutledge thanked him and left Hunter sitting in his office, staring at the door.

At least, he thought, it put Quarles alone and on foot in town around half past ten. With perhaps another twenty or at most thirty minutes for his journey homeward. If that was where he was intending to go. Too bad Hunter hadn't seen which direction Quarles had taken.

Rutledge walked out of the hotel to the corner of Minton Street. Looking down it, he could see that the nearer houses were large and well kept, the sort of home that Quarles might have visited. It would be necessary to speak to each household, then, to find out. Or Padgett's men might be able to narrow that down.

There was a lane at the foot of Minton Street running parallel to the High Street, where cottages backed up to the fields beyond, a line of low hills in the distance. It wasn't likely that Quarles had dined in one of the cottages. Or was it? Had he chosen to walk into Cambury, to keep his destination private? Or was he to meet his chauffeur or retrieve the motorcar somewhere else?

Hamish said, "If it was the home of a woman?"

That too was possible.

Rutledge continued walking up the High Street, looking in the windows of closed shops as he passed. There were other small streets crossing the High-Church Street and Button Row, James Street and Sedge Lane.

Beyond Sedge Lane stood the workaday world of the smithy- turned-garage and other untidy businesses that clung to the outskirts of a village struggling to become a small town, supplying the inhabitants whilst keeping themselves out of sight. Just beyond these, where the main road became Cambury's main street, was the cluster of cottages Rutledge had noted in the dark last night.

He turned back the way he'd come, crossing the High Street where a large pub, whitewashed and thatched, stood at the next corner, offering tables in the front garden under small flowering trees. The overhead sign showed a large kettle with steam rising from it, made of wrought iron in a black iron frame. The Black Pudding. It had the air of an old coaching inn and was one of the few buildings in Cambury that wasn't directly on the road, only a narrow pavement for pedestrians separating most of the house walls from the street.

He carried on to The Unicorn and went up to his room. This time he didn't resist the temptation of his bed, and stretched out as he was, his mind restless, Hamish lurking on the threshold of wakefulness until the ringing of the church bells roused him.

When services had ended, Rutledge retraced his steps to Church Street. Cambury had sprung into life while he slept, people stopping to speak to friends or herding their children toward home. St. Martin's was set in a broad walled churchyard that abutted a house of the same stone as the church. The rectory, then. A sign board gave the rector's name as Samuel Heller. The stonework of the church facade was old but well maintained, and the tall, ornate tower rose into a blue, cloudless sky. Last night's mist might never have been. Crossing the grassy churchyard, Rutledge saw the gate set into the wall and went through, into the front garden of the rectory.

He could hear birds singing in the trees scattered among the weathered gravestones, and a magpie perched on a shrouded marble cross watched him with a black and unreadable eye. Where there was shade the grass was still wet under his feet. On a gentle breeze came the sound of a cow lowing in a field beyond the houses.

The rector was at his breakfast and came to answer Rutledge's knock with his serviette still tucked under his chin. He seemed surprised to find a stranger on his doorstep, but smiled warmly and invited Rutledge to step into the narrow hall. Holding out his hand, he said, "I don't believe you're one of my flock. I'm Samuel Heller, rector of St. Martin's. How may I help you?"

"The name is Rutledge," he said, taking the rector's hand. The man's grip was firm and warm. "I'm from London, from Scotland Yard, and I need a few minutes of your time to speak to you about one of your parishioners."

"Oh, dear. That sounds rather serious. I was just finishing my toast," he said, taking out the serviette and wiping his lips. "Could I interest you in a cup of tea? The kitchen is a pleasant room, and my housekeeper doesn't come in on a Sunday, to chase us out of it."

Rutledge followed him back to the kitchen, and it was indeed a pleasant room, giving onto a garden, a small orchard behind it, and several outbuildings that by the look of them, their wood a pale silver, had served the rectory for centuries. The kitchen door stood open to the yard, letting in the warmth and sunlight and a handful of flies.

"I don't usually entertain in the kitchen," the rector went on in apology. "But the vestry meeting is in a quarter of an hour, and I am running a little late today."

He did look tired. Gesturing to a chair across the table from where he had been sitting, he brought Rutledge a fresh cup, then pushed the teapot over the polished wood toward him. Rutledge helped himself. It was strong tea, black and bitter, as if it had steeped too long.

"Now then, you were saying…?"

It was hard to judge Heller-he was nearing middle age and thin, with an open face and calm gray eyes. Yet Padgett had included him in the list of Quarles's enemies.

"I believe Mr. Quarles at Hallowfields is one of your flock?"

There was a brief hesitation in the knife buttering Heller's toast, but his face showed nothing. "I include him in my flock, yes."

Which, as Hamish was pointing out, was not precisely a response to what Rutledge had asked him.

"How well do you know him?"

Heller put down his knife and looked at Rutledge. "Has he done something wrong, something that has drawn the attention of the police?"

He had answered a question with a question, almost as if he expected to learn that Quarles was on the point of being taken into custody and was reluctant to add to his troubles.

"Do you know him, Mr. Heller?" Rutledge asked bluntly.

"Sadly, not as well as I should like. I fear he's not what could charitably be called a member in good standing at St. Martin's. I expect I could count on one hand the number of times he's attended a service. Or that I have been invited to dine at Hallowfields." Heller smiled disarmingly. "But I'm stubborn to the bone, and I refuse to concede defeat. We asked Mr. Quarles to serve on the vestry, but he replied that it was not in anyone's best interest. I interpreted that to mean he's not often in Cambury and had no real knowledge of our problems here. But to give him his due, he takes a personal interest in Cambury, if not the church."

"In what way?"