Charles Todd - A matter of Justice

"Not yet," Rutledge said. "Early days."

Padgett grunted. "Come with me, then. We'll clear Stephenson off our list."

Rutledge went on with him, but when they reached the bookshop, the sign on the door read CLOSED.

"He never closes," Padgett said, putting up his hand to shade his eyes as he peered into the dark shop. "Celebrating Quarles's demise, you think? " The sun hadn't reached the windows, and the shelves for Stephenson's stock prevented what light there was from traveling too far into the interior. "No sign of him. That's odd. There's a girl who comes in when he's off searching for estate sales."

Hamish said something in the back of Rutledge's mind.

Padgett was on the point of turning away when a movement caught his eye. "Oh-there he is." Tapping on the glass, he put his face up against it to attract the man's attention. Then he said abruptly, "Good God-Rutledge-"

The tone of his voice was enough. Rutledge wheeled and pressed his face to the glass as well before shoving Padgett aside and kicking open the door. As it flew back, the flimsy lock shattering, Padgett was ahead of him, bursting into the shop.

Beyond the desk, in a small alcove where Stephenson kept a Thermos for his tea and a stock of wrapping paper, the man was hanging from a rope attached to a hook in the ceiling where he had once run a cord to bring the lamp nearer. The lamp was dangling beside him now, and it was the swaying of the glass shade that Padgett had glimpsed through the window glass as the bookseller jumped.

The odor of spilled lamp oil filled the small space.

For a mercy, Stephenson had not broken his neck in his fall, but his face was suffused with blood and his hands were flailing, as if to stop them from rescuing him. The chair he'd used had tipped over almost directly under him, just out of reach.

Rutledge turned it up, shoved a stack of books on it, and had it under Stephenson's feet in a matter of seconds, catching first one and then the other and forcing them down to relieve the pressure on his neck. His hands went on thrashing about, in an effort to jerk away.

Padgett had clambered up the shelves in the alcove, pushing aside the rolls of wrapping paper and tipping over the Thermos in his haste to reach the dangling man. Rutledge spied a knife used to cut the wrapping paper just as it spun to the floor, and releasing one of Stephenson's ankles, he reached up to hand it to Padgett. Stephenson tried to kick him in the face with his free foot, but Rutledge caught it again, just as a toe grazed the lump on his forehead. He clamped the foot down hard, his grip reflecting his anger.

The rope was heavy, heavy enough to do the work of killing a man, but Rutledge had Stephenson's wriggling feet securely pinned while Padgett cursed and sawed at the rope from his precarious perch.

The strands of hemp parted so suddenly that all three men fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs, the books from the chair clattering around them. Rutledge fought his way out of the knot of hands and feet, stretching across to lift the rope from Stephenson's neck.

A ring of red, scraped flesh showed above his collar as Stephenson clawed at it and gasped for breath, the air whistling in his throat before he could actually breathe again.

"Damn you!" he whispered when he could muster enough breath to speak. And after much effort, gulping in air, struggling to say something, he managed to demand, "Why didn't you let me finish it-and save the cost of the hangman?"

"Because, you fool, we want some answers first," Padgett shouted at him in furious relief. "You can't go doing the hangman's work and leave me to wonder if you were the killer or if someone else is still out there."

Rutledge turned to the desk, looking to see if there was a note, but he found nothing. His head was thundering again, and Hamish was busy in his mind.

"Where does he live?" Rutledge asked Padgett as they got to their feet.

"Above the shop."

Leaving Padgett to minister to the distraught man, Rutledge found the stairs and went up to the first floor. It was mostly used for stock, with a clutter of empty boxes, wrapping paper, a ladder, and other odds and ends that had no other home. After one swift glance Rut- ledge went on to the second floor. There he found modest living quarters, a bedroom and a sitting room, a kitchen to one side. On the walls were framed lithographs, the only touch of color except for a red tablecloth in the kitchen.

There was no sign of a note.

So Stephenson wasn't intending to confess, but to leave doubts in all their minds, just as Padgett had accused him of doing.

Hamish said, "But it doesna' prove he's guilty."

Rutledge hurried back down the stairs and found Padgett trying to get Stephenson to drink some tea from the mercifully undamaged Thermos. The man clenched his jaw, his eyes closed, his abrupt return to life leaving him shaken.

Rutledge squatted beside Padgett and, when he looked up, shook his head.

Padgett nodded.

They waited for five minutes before questioning Stephenson.

Padgett said, "What in God's name did you think you were doing? "

As the heavy flush faded from Stephenson's still-puffy face, Rut- ledge recognized him as the man he'd seen reading a book in the hotel dining room the morning he'd questioned Hunter about Quarles.

Stephenson said in a strained voice, "I knew you'd be coming. When Bertie told me about Quarles being murdered, I knew it was only a matter of time. And when I saw you walking down the High Street, I couldn't face it any longer."

A confession? Rutledge waited grimly.

"Face what?" Padgett demanded testily. "Here, drink this tea. I can hardly hear you."

He pushed the cup aside. "I thought everyone knew. It's why I came back to Cambury. It's why I named the shop Nemesis."

"Well, you're wrong."

"I wanted to kill him, you see, but lacked the courage. I hoped that if I came back here, having to see him, unable to hide, one day I'd be able to do it." He ran his hand through his thinning hair and went on bitterly, "You can't imagine what it's like to want to kill someone. It eats away at you until there's nothing of you left. It's like a hunger that can't be satisfied, and in the end it destroys you too. The shame of it is like a knife in your brain."

"What had he done to you, that you hated him?" Rutledge asked.

Stephenson moved restlessly, his face turned away. "It's none of your business."

"It is now. If you hadn't tried to hang yourself, we'd have done nothing more than question you. Now you're a suspect, and a suspect has no secrets," Padgett said roughly. "Not from the police."

His words were met with a stubborn silence.

Finally Padgett said, "Very well, I'll see you to Dr. O'Neil's surgery. Can you walk that far?"

"I don't intend to walk that far or anywhere else."

"That's as may be, but you'll see the good doctor if I have to fetch a motorcar and drive you there myself."

"Fetch one," Rutledge replied. "We don't want to give the gossips more than needful."

With a grunt, Padgett went away to the police station.

Rutledge could see the man before him sink into himself, his face still red, coughing racking him. He refilled the cup with tea, and Ste- phenson swallowed it painfully, almost strangling on it.

They waited in silence, the bookseller looking inward at something he couldn't face, and Rutledge listening to Hamish in the back of his head.

When Padgett came back, Stephenson stood up shakily, a martyr ready to face the lions. "Oh, very well, let's be done with it."

"Are you going to try this again?" Rutledge asked, gesturing toward the rope.

"To what end?" Stephenson replied wearily. "Fear drove me to desperate measures. You're here now. It serves no purpose to die."