Charles Todd - A matter of Justice

"For the public good?" But Padgett's humor was forced this time. After a moment, he went on, "You've spoken to Jones and his wife. Anything there to support Mrs. Newell's suggestion?"

"I don't know. He swears he was prepared to kill Quarles, and then remembered that he was the sole breadwinner of a large family. So far he has the strongest motive, if Quarles had meddled with his daughter. But both of Gwyneth's parents deny that anything happened. To protect Gwyneth? Or is it true? What I'd really like to know is what triggered the actual killing. Why have old grievances all at once erupted into murder? How does one measure hate, I wonder?"

As they turned into the High Street again, a woman was coming toward them walking her little dog on a lead, and Rutledge remembered what had happened the night before, when he'd seen a dog in the middle of the road, and the farmer claimed he'd seen nothing of the sort but had drifted to sleep just before he reached the bend.

He said to Padgett, "You've told me you heard a dog barking, and went to investigate. But so far, we haven't found a dog that was running loose that night. Are you certain it was a dog, and not a fox?"

Padgett, caught off guard, said, "I told you it was a dog. There's the end of it." He was short, unwilling to consider another possibility.

Hamish said, "I'll gie ye a hundred pounds he's lying."

But Rutledge wasn't ready to confront Padgett. He let the subject go.

It was late, the sun low in the western sky, his head was thundering, and he'd had no luncheon. "Let's call it a day," he said as they approached The Unicorn.

"Suit yourself," Padgett said, as if Rutledge was failing in his duty. "I wonder you didn't call on a few of Quarles's clients while you were in London. To get the feel of the man in his own den."

"At a guess, many of them don't live in London. When we've found evidence pointing in that direction, we'll go back and have a look. Have you discovered where Quarles went to dine on Saturday?"

"I decided to put my men to asking if strangers were seen about the village on Saturday. So far no one's noticed anyone they didn't know by sight," he admitted grudgingly. "That simply means whoever was here wisely stayed out of sight. I wonder if he-she-was waiting in the gatehouse cottage for Quarles to return. Whoever it was couldn't be seen from the house or the farm, but he could watch the road."

"Not if Quarles returned by the main gate to Hallowfields."

"But he didn't come back by the main gate."

"Why would he use the Home Farm lane?"

Padgett was smiling. "Perhaps he heard the dog I heard."

They were sparring, taking each other's measure, pointing out each other's flaws, neither giving an inch, because they had more or less rubbed each other the wrong way from the start.

Rutledge recognized it for what it was, but he didn't think Padgett did.

Hamish said, "Aye, but watch your back."

Rutledge bade him a good evening and went up the steps into the hotel. Padgett, still standing in the street, watched him go with an unreadable expression on his face.

It was a long night. Rutledge's head was still aching, and he was unable to sleep, tired as he was. Hamish, awake and in a surly mood, haunted his mind until at one point Rutledge got up and sat by the window for a time, trying to shut out that persistent, familiar voice.

Still, Hamish gave him no peace. First the war, then the drive to London, then back to the war again, before shifting the theme to Meredith Channing.

That brought Rutledge up out of numbed silence.

"I canna' think why she seeks you out."

Rutledge said, "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, aye? She kens ye're no' comfortable when she's there, but she doesna' avoid ye."

"I don't think she knew I'd be at the wedding. I didn't expect to see her there."

"Yon bride stayed with her when she went to London. Ye're a fool if ye believe she didna' tell the lass that Maitland chose ye for his groom's man."

"All right. What was she to do, beg out of the wedding?"

Hamish chuckled. "Would ye ha' begged off, if Maitland had told ye she was coming?"

There was no answer to that. He would have had to explain why, and he couldn't. And it would have aroused Edgar's suspicions.

"Why did ye no' ask someone about her, since everyone knew her? "

He'd been too busy struggling with his fear of what she'd see in his mind. Whatever she said about her ability to read thoughts, mocking it as a parlor game to entertain friends, he knew too well that she could read his. He could feel it.

"Or ye didna' want to know."

And Edgar Maitland had tried to stir Rutledge's interest in that direction. It had been the perfect opportunity to ask her history. Instead he'd brushed off the suggestion that they were suited to each other, unsettled and embarrassed.

"She's no' sae bonny as the Irish lass."

Rutledge swore. How did Hamish expect him to answer that? And then realized that he needn't answer at all.

He tried to shut the voice out of his mind, but it was nearly impossible to ignore it. Finally, as the church clock struck four, he drifted into sleep, and Hamish of necessity was silent.

Morning found the lump on his forehead a variety of shades of blue and purple. But the dizziness and the throbbing had gone. He shaved, dressed, and went down to breakfast, discovering to his surprise that it was close to nine o'clock.

As he ate he tried to piece together the parts of the puzzle facing him: who could have killed Harold Quarles?

Someone in London? Or someone here in Cambury? Hamish, bad-tempered this morning, reminded him that he hadn't gone to see the organist, Brunswick.

He finished his breakfast and went to remedy that shortcoming. Padgett was in the police station but declined accompanying him.

"There was a housebreaking last night, and I must deal with it. I know the culprits, and this is the first serious trouble they've been in. If I don't stop them now, they'll find themselves in prison. And who'll run the farm then? Their mother's at her wits' end. They're good lads, but there's no hand at the helm, so to speak. Their father's drunk, day in and day out."

Hamish said, "It could wait. He doesna' wish to come wi' ye."

It was probably true.

Rutledge left the police station and soon found himself at the small stone house close by the church where Padgett had told him that Michael Brunswick lived.

Brunswick himself answered Rutledge's knock. They stared at each other in silence. Something in his face told Rutledge he'd been waiting for it for some time.

Rutledge introduced himself and showed his identification, but Brunswick brushed it aside.

"I know who you are." He stepped back to allow Rutledge to enter.

There was a piano taking pride of place by the window of the sitting room, and books of music were scattered about. Untidy the room was, but it had been well dusted and cleaned, as if keeping up standards. Rutledge remembered that this man's wife had died, a suicide.

"Then you know what I'm here to ask. Where were you Saturday night?"

"At home, asleep. I don't go out of an evening since my wife's death."

"I've been told that you're among the people I should speak to in regard to what happened to Harold Quarles." It was not a direct accusation, but close enough, Rutledge hoped, to elicit a response. It wasn't what he'd expected.

"He's dead. That's all that matters to me."

"Then I'm forced to include you among my list of suspects. I think you knew that the first time I saw you. What I'd like to know is why? When only a handful of people were aware of why I was here." Rutledge considered him-a tall man, fair hair, circles under the eyes that spoke of sleepless nights. His fingers were long and flexible, trained to play an instrument. And he was strong enough to move a body if he had to.