Charles Todd - A matter of Justice

Padgett led Stephenson out the door and Rutledge shut it firmly behind them. The broken latch held, just, and Rutledge left the sign reading CLOSED.

There were a number of people on the street, and they turned to stare as Rutledge assisted Stephenson into the vehicle.

A young woman rushed up, asking, "What's wrong? Where are you taking him? Mr. Stephenson, what's happened? You look so ill."

Stephenson, unable to face her, mumbled to Rutledge, "My part- time assistant, Miss Ogden."

She was very frightened. Rutledge was suddenly reminded of Elise, for the women were about the same age. Yet the differences between the two were dramatic. Elise with her confidence, her willingness to take on a marriage that would challenge her, had the courage of her convictions if not the patience. Miss Ogden was gripping her handbag so tightly that her knuckles were white, and she was on the verge of tears, looking from one man to the other for guidance. She struck Rut- ledge as timid, willing to serve, perfectly happy to be buried among the dusty shelves of a bookstore, and helpless in a crisis, expecting others to take the first step and then reassure her.

"We're driving Mr. Stephenson to Dr. O'Neil's surgery," he told her gently. "He'll be fine in a day or two. There's nothing to worry about."

"Could it be his heart?" she asked anxiously. "My grandfather died of problems with his heart. Please, ought I to go with you? Or should I keep the shop open?"

Others were attracted by the fuss, clustering across the street from the motorcar, trying to hear what was being said. Halting as they came out of shops, several women put their hands to their mouths, their small children staring with round, uncertain eyes as they sensed the apprehension gripping the adults: two policemen appearing to take poor Mr. Stephenson into custody Rutledge could almost feel the rising tide of speculation rushing toward him, on the heels of word that Quarles was dead.

He answered Miss Ogden before Padgett could put a word in.

"Mr. Stephenson had an accident and should see Dr. O'Neil, but there's no danger of his dying. We were lucky to find him in time. Perhaps we ought to leave the shop closed for today and let him rest." He knew how to make his voice carry so that onlookers heard him as well.

She turned to Stephenson for confirmation. He nodded wretchedly. With a long backward glance, she stood aside to let them leave.

Rutledge got into the rear seat with the bookseller, swearing to himself. Padgett drove off without acknowledging the people on the street, not interested in what they were thinking.

"Did you not consider that that woman would have been the one to find you, if we hadn't?" Rutledge demanded of Stephenson. "It was an unconscionably selfish thing you did. Next time you want to kill yourself, choose a more private place."

Stephenson said, "I was wretched-I only wanted to die." His voice had taken on a whine. "You don't know what I felt, you can't judge me."

But Rutledge did know what he felt. Disgusted with the man, he tapped Padgett on the shoulder. "Let me out just there. If you have no objection, I'll call on Mrs. Newell as planned." He tried to keep the revulsion he was feeling out of his voice.

"Go ahead. I'll be kept some time with this fool." There was irritation in the inspector's voice as well as he pulled over to let Rutledge step down. He offered begrudging instructions on how to find the former cook from Hallowfields, and then was gone almost before Rut- ledge had swung the rear door shut.

Rutledge watched them out of sight on their way to O'Neil's surgery, then set out for Mrs. Newell's small cottage.

Hamish said, "Ye've lost your temper twice now. It's yon blow to the head. Ye'll no' feel better until ye gie it a rest."

Rutledge ignored him, though he knew it to be true.

He was just passing the greengrocer's shop, its awning stretched over the morning's offerings: baskets of early vegetables and strawberries and asparagus. A motorcar drew up beside him, and Rutledge turned to see who was there. He found himself face-to-face with Charles Archer seated behind a chauffeur, one of the servants Rut- ledge had met in the Hallowfields kitchen.

Archer's invalid's chair was lashed to the boot in a special brace made for it.

"My apologies. I can't come down. Will you ride with me as far as the green? "

"Yes, of course." Rutledge got into the rear of the motorcar and nearly stopped short when he realized that there was no room for Hamish to sit. But that was foolishness. He shut the door and turned to Archer. The man shook his head. Silence fell until the motorcar pulled to the verge next to the green. There Archer said to the chauffeur, "Leave us for a few minutes, will you? A turn around the green should be sufficient."

When the man was out of earshot, Archer continued. "I've just come from Doctor O'Neil's surgery. I'm told you haven't-er- finished yet with Harold's remains. But I wanted to see the body for myself. He refused to let me, even though I was there to identify it."

"In due course."

"I haven't told Mrs. Quarles what I came to do. She will insist on carrying out that duty herself. But there's no need."

"If you'll forgive me for saying so, Mr. Archer, she doesn't seem to be distressed over her husband's death. I doubt you're sparing her, except in your own mind."

"She married the most eligible of men. It was seen as a good match in spite of his background. Only she discovered too late that the facade didn't match the man. I don't know what precipitated the break between them, but she has said she had very good reasons for turning her back on him."

"Then why not a divorce, to end the match once and for all?"

"I don't know. It isn't money. She has her own. I think it was in a way to prevent him from marrying anyone else. God knows why that mattered to her."

Hamish noted, "He's verra' plausible…"

"Perhaps to prevent another woman suffering as she has done?" Rutledge suggested.

"That's too altruistic. I love Maybelle, in spite of the fact that I'm her cousin. I'd have married her myself, if she hadn't met Quarles while I was away in Switzerland for some time. My mother was ill and the mountain air had been recommended for her. I stayed there six years, watching her die. When I came home, it was to an invitation to a wedding. And I couldn't talk her out of it. You saw Quarles dead, I imagine. You never knew him when he exerted that wretched ability to make people agree to whatever he wanted. It's what made him a successful investment banker."

Remembering what Heller had hinted, Rutledge said, "Did any of his advice go wrong? I mean very wrong, not just an investment that didn't work as it had been promised to do."

"He was damned astute. That was his trademark. Nothing went wrong that he hadn't balanced in one's portfolio to take up the risk, should the worst happen. People were very pleased. That was, until Cumberline."

"Cumberline?" He'd seen the box with a label bearing that name in Quarles's study.

"Yes, it was an adventure stock. A South Seas Bubble sort of thing, as it turned out. Do you remember Cecil Rhodes's great concept of a Cairo to Cape Town Railway driven through the heart of Africa? The same sort of thing, but here the railroad would run from Dar Es Salaam to the Congo River, with goods coming by ship from the southern Indian Ocean to the East African coast, carried by train overland to the Congo, and then put on ships again for the passage north. It was expected to save the journey through the Red Sea and the Mediterranean and was to bring out ivory and other goods from East Africa as well. Zanzibar spices, Kenyan coffee, wild animals for the zoos of the world, and anything that expanded scientific knowledge. Labor would be cheap, and using the river cut the costs of such a railway nearly in half. On paper, it was exotic, and many men who had made money in the war were in search of new enterprises. Especially with Tanganyika in our hands now."