Charles Todd - A matter of Justice

She looked up, squinting against the sun. "Inspector," she said in greeting when she recognized Padgett.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Newell. I see you've nearly finished that one."

"Aye, it's for Rector. For his marketing."

"You do fine work," Rutledge said, looking at the rounds of tightly woven willow.

Behind her in the entry he could see another basket ready for work, this one square, the top edge defined and the tall strands of willow that would be the sides almost sweeping the room's low ceiling. The sleeves of Mrs. Newell's dress, rolled up past the elbows, exposed strong arms, and her large hands, handling the whippy willow as if it were fine embroidery thread, never faltered even when she looked away from them.

"Where do you get your materials?"

"I pay old Neville to bring me bundles when he and his son go to fetch the reeds for their thatching over by Sedgemoor. These he brought me a fortnight ago are some of the best I've seen. My mother made baskets. Lovely ones that the ladies liked for bringing cut flowers in from the gardens. It's how I earn my bread these days. And who might you be, sir? The man from London come to find out who killed poor Mr. Quarles?"

Bertie and his milk run had been busy.

"Yes, my name is Rutledge. I'm an inspector at Scotland Yard."

She studied him, still squinting, and then nodded. "I've never seen anyone from Scotland Yard before. But then Mr. Quarles was an important man in London. And he let the staff know it, every chance he got."

A ginger cat came to the door, rubbing against the frame, eyeing them suspiciously. After a moment, he turned back inside and disappeared.

"Can you think of anyone who might have wished to see Mr. Quar- les dead?" Rutledge went on.

She laughed, a grim laugh with no humor in it. "He could charm the birds out of the trees," she said, "if he was of a mind to. But he had a mean streak in him, and he rubbed a good many people the wrong way when he didn't care about them. Sometimes of a purpose. If you wasn't important enough, or rich enough, or powerful enough, you felt the rough side of his tongue."

"Rubbed them the wrong way enough to make them want to kill him?"

"You'll have to ask them, won't you?"

Padgett took up the questioning. "You worked at Hallowfields for a good many years. Was there anyone among the staff or at the Home Farm who had a grievance against Mr. Quarles?"

She glanced up from her work, staring at him shrewdly. "What you want to know is, could I have killed him? Back then when he let me go, yes, I could have taken my cleaver to him for the things he said about me and about my cooking. The tongue on that man would turn a bishop gray. I'm a good cook, Mr. Rutledge, and didn't deserve to be sacked without a reference. Where was I to find new employment? It was a cruel thing to do, for no reason more than his temper. And I've paid for it. For weeks I thought about what I'd like to do to him, from hanging him from the meat hook to drowning him in the washing-up tub. But I never touched him. I didn't relish hanging for the likes of Harold Quarles."

"Perhaps someone else in the household believed it was worth the risk. How did they get on with the man?"

"I can't see Mrs. Downing touching him neither, however provoked she is. She's all bluster when it comes to trouble. Besides, she's Mrs. Quarles's creature."

"Would she kill for her mistress?"

Mrs. Newell shook her head. "She could hardly bear to see me kill a chicken."

"What about Mr. Masters at the Home Farm?"

"They had words from time to time, no doubt of it, and I've heard Mr. Masters curse Mr. Quarles something fierce, when he thought no one was in hearing. There's many a house like Hallowfields that would like to hire him away from Mr. Quarles. But he stays, in spite of the wrangling."

"Why?"

"Because nine days out of the ten, he's on his own, with no one looking over his shoulder. And he can do as he pleases."

"Mrs. Quarles herself?" Padgett asked next.

"I doubt she would dirty her hands with him."

"I understand there was no love lost between the two of them," Rutledge put in.

"But it wasn't murderous, if you follow me. It was a cold hate, that. Not a hot one. I'd put my money," she said, warming to the theme, "on Mr. Jones, the baker. Quarles was after his daughter. Such a pretty girl, raven dark hair and green eyes, and only sixteen when Quarles spotted her on the street. He gave her no peace and offered her the moon, I'll be bound, for one night. Her pa sent her to Wales, out of reach. And not before times, I heard, because Mr. Quarles offered to take the girl to London and set her up in style. I think she'd have run off with him then, if her pa hadn't got wind of it."

This was a richly embroidered version of the story, very different from what Mr. Jones or Mrs. Jones had claimed. Mrs. Newell's fingers were twisting the willow strands viciously as she spoke, and Rutledge could see how strongly she still felt, whatever she was willing to admit to.

"He was probably old enough to be her father," Rutledge pointed out.

"Ah, but lust doesn't count itself in years. And what young pretty thing in a town like Cambury wouldn't see stars when she pictured herself in a fine London house with a large allowance all her own."

"How did Mr. Jones discover what was happening?"

"It was Miss O'Hara who put him wise. She overheard something in the post office that concerned her, and despite not caring for making herself the center of attention again, she went to the baker. It seems Mr. Quarles had asked the girl for a decision by week's end."

Hamish was asking if she'd told the unvarnished truth or seen her chance to get her own back on Quarles, even after he was dead. Or because he was.

"A near run thing," Rutledge agreed with Mrs. Newell. "But if Mr. Jones was angry enough to kill Quarles, why not there and then?"

"We're none of us eager to hang, Mr. Rutledge. There's some say that vengeance is a dish better taken cold." She spoke with quiet dignity.

"Yes, I see your point."

"Anyone else who might have quarreled with the dead man? Been cheated by him? Believed he'd seduced a wife?" Padgett asked.

"That's for you to discover, isn't it? I told you what I thought. Gossip is always rampant with the likes of Harold Quarles. But gossip doesn't always end in murder."

"Nor is gossip always true," Rutledge said. "What do you know about Mr. Brunswick, the organist at St. Martin's?"

Her eyes narrowed. "What of him?"

"His name came up in another context."

"Oh, yes? Then let that other context of yours tell you what you want to know. I've nothing to say against Mr. Brunswick."

They spoke to her for another five minutes, but to no avail. And Rutledge found it frustrating that she was so reluctant to talk. She knew both the household at Hallowfields and her neighbors in Cam- bury. But cooks were an independent lot, master of their domains, often arbiters of staff matters, and even though she had been shown the door and was now reduced to making baskets, Mrs. Newell kept her opinions to herself. It had been ingrained in her to keep the secrets of a household. Whatever her feelings toward Quarles, old habits die hard.

As they walked away, Rutledge said dryly, "As a rule, people rush to deny they are capable of murder. Here, everyone-including yourself-admits to having a reason to commit murder."

"Refreshing, isn't it?" Padgett commented with relish. "If we find the murderer, half the village will be up in arms to protect him. Or her."

"Very likely. But I'm beginning to think that you've encouraged one another in this pastime of disparaging Quarles to the point that someone finally decided to do something about it. Or to put it another way, found himself or herself faced with a tempting opportunity that seemed foolproof, and took advantage of it."