Charles Todd - A matter of Justice

All of them denied any knowledge of where Mr. Quarles had gone last evening. He had not called for the motorcar, nor had he taken it out himself. Aside from the message to the kitchen that he wouldn't be dining at home, no one had seen him after five o'clock.

Mrs. Blount, the cook, was a thin woman with graying hair. She added, "I was told not to expect Mr. Quarles for dinner, and that was that. It's not for me to question his comings and goings."

"Who gave you that message? Did you speak to Mr. Quarles yourself, or to someone else?"

"I believe it must have been Mrs. Quarles," Downing, the housekeeper, answered after no one else spoke up.

Lily, the youngest of the maids, softly cleared her throat. "I was coming to clear away the tea things when I heard him tell someone in the passage that he was dining out."

"Did you see who it was he was speaking to?"

"No, sir, I didn't."

"It was me he told." The woman standing behind the others spoke up.

"And you are…"

"My name is Betty, sir." There was strain in her face. Rutledge put her age at forty, her pale hair and pale eyebrows giving her a look of someone drained of life, enduring all the blows that came her way with patient acceptance, as if she knew all too well that she counted for little in the scheme of things. "I look after Mr. Quarles when he's to home." Her accent wasn't Somerset. Rutledge thought it might be East Anglian. A stranger among strangers.

"And no' likely to pry," Hamish put in. "Or gossip with the ithers."

"No one saw him leave?"

Downing said repressively, "We have our duties, Inspector, we don't hang about looking out the windows to see what our betters are up to."

"We was that busy in the kitchens," the cook added, as if excusing the staff. "There was no one in the front of the house just then. Mrs. Quarles had asked for a tray to be brought up, and Mr. Archer was taking his dinner alone in the dining room."

"Did any of you hear anything in the night? Dogs barking, a motorcar on the drive, shouting…"

They hadn't, shuffling a little as they denied any knowledge of what had happened.

Betty said, "Please, sir. I've been told Mr. Quarles is dead. Mrs. Quarles called us all together to say so. No one will tell me anything else."

"I'm afraid it's true," Rutledge answered her. "Someone killed him last night."

He could see the horror reflected in every face, and in Betty's eyes, a welling of tears that were quickly repressed.

"I can't give you any more information at present," he added to forestall questions.

"It would help if you could think of anyone who might wish your master harm." Padgett, speaking for the first time, kept his voice level, without emphasis.

"Mrs. Newell," the footman offered, to an accompanying ripple of nervous laughter. "She was cook here before Mrs. Blount. She was always quarrelling with him over the cost of food, and the proper way to prepare it. In the end he sacked her after a mighty row."

Padgett caught Rutledge's eye, I told you so, in his expression. Nothing of substance… A wild-goose chase.

Rutledge thanked the staff and nodded to Mrs. Downing to dismiss them, then as Betty was about to follow the others from the room, he spoke quietly to her and asked her to stay.

Mrs. Downing pursed her lips in annoyance, as if in her view he was wasting his time and the staff's. But she made no move to leave.

"How long have you been with Mr. Quarles?"

Betty hesitated. "He brought me here at the start of the war."

"And you keep his rooms for him?"

"Yes, sir. I do."

"Did you also keep the gatehouse cottage tidy?"

"When it was asked of me. I was to have that cottage when I retire."

"Do you know if he chose to use that cottage himself?"

"It wasn't my business to ask, was it? He paid me well for my silence."

"Will you tell me where he went to dine last evening? Even if he asked you to keep his confidence, the situation is different now. You see, we must trace his movements from the time he left the house until he returned." Rutledge watched her face as he asked the question.

"I don't know. I asked if he wanted me to lay out his evening clothes, and he said he wasn't changing for dinner, he wasn't in the mood."

"Did any of his business associates come to visit at Hallowfields?"

"He seldom had guests," Mrs. Downing answered for her. "He was often invited elsewhere, but if he entertained it was in London. I don't remember the last real dinner I've served. He doesn't even invite Rector to dine."

Something a squire did with regularity. It was interesting that Quarles hadn't cared to exercise this particular duty. Or perhaps he was embarrassed to ask the rector to sit at table with his wife's cousin?

Rutledge thanked Betty and let her go. Then he said to Mrs. Downing, "Do you know Betty's background? Who employed her before she came to Hallowfields?"

"She was hired in London. I didn't interview her myself. She's a hard worker, though she mainly keeps to herself. We've had no trouble with her."

"We'd like to look at Mr. Quarles's rooms now, if you please."

As she led the two policemen through the passage door into the foyer, she said, "I'm not sure his solicitor would approve of this. It doesn't seem right to me that you should go through his things. I can't think why Mrs. Quarles allowed it."

"Is the solicitor a local man?" Rutledge asked.

"He's in London. Mrs. Quarles can give you his direction."

Rutledge handed her the keys. Mrs. Downing unlocked the door and stepped aside, as if taking no part in this desecration of a dead man's privacy.

The first of the suite of rooms had been converted into a study, as they'd been told, with a door through to a sitting room, and beyond that, the master bedroom.

The suite was handsomely decorated, and Padgett looked around him with patent interest.

The desk, a large mahogany affair, held mainly writing paper, pens, stamps, a map of the estate, and a folder of household accounts and another of farm business, none of it of interest to the police, and nothing personal, nothing indicative of the man.

There were several paintings on the walls, mostly landscapes. Rut- ledge wondered if they were Quarles's taste or if they had come with the house when he purchased the estate. The furnishings of the room were mid-Victorian and well polished. Betty's work, at a guess. If she cared for his rooms and his possessions, and kept any of his secrets, it was small wonder she'd taken his death personally.

Between the windows-which faced the front of the house-were shelves on which stood gray boxes of business papers, each with a white card identifying the contents. Duplicates of the papers Quarles had kept in London, or were these documents he didn't wish to leave there? Confidential reports, perhaps, for his eyes only. Was that why no one else cleaned these rooms? Betty appeared to be honest, without curiosity, a plain woman grateful for her position and not likely to jeopardize it by risking her employer's wrath. It was even possible that she couldn't read.

The perfect safeguard.

Rutledge ran a finger along the line of cards. He recognized one or two of the names on the outside. Portfolios, then. One box bore the single word CUMBERLINE.

They moved on to the sitting room, where there was little of interest-chairs in front of the hearth, more Italian landscapes, a table for tea, and another against the wall. The only personal touch was a blue and white porcelain stand holding a collection of walking sticks with ornate handles of ivory or brass or carved wood. Lifting one of them, Rutledge admired the ivory elephant set into the handle, the trunk providing a delicate grip. The workmanship was quite good, as was the silver figure of a sleeping fox capping another stick.