Charles Todd - A matter of Justice

"Why do you hate your husband so much?" he asked. "Is this because of Charles Archer? Did you marry the wrong man? Or were you late in discovering the sort of man your husband was?"

"I was in love with Charles Archer, and he with me, before he took his mother to Switzerland for treatment of her tuberculosis. They'd told him she was dying, but she lived six more years. I never saw him during those six years. He never left her side. He cared for her, and he stayed with her to the end. While he was away, I met Harold Quarles, and he swept me off my feet. He was attentive, charming, caring, and he was there. There were flowers and gifts, invitations to dinner, invitations to the opera, invitations to go riding. He was just a clerk at the house where he was employed, but already he was making a reputation for himself-a reputation of another sort, as a man who could manage money and was astute in business dealings. And he asked me to believe in him and marry him, and he would see that I continued to live as well as I did then, if not better. I thought I was in love with him, and I knew I was lonely. I could hardly recall what Charles looked like-certainly not the man in the photograph he'd given me before leaving for Switzerland. I told myself he was never coming back, that the doctors had been wrong before, and that his mother would live forever, and I'd be a spinster by that time. And so I married, and the first years were wonderful. Harold kept every promise he'd made me, and I was happy-" She broke off. "Why in God's name am I telling you all this? It's none of your business!"

"What went wrong?" he asked gently. "What changed your feelings?"

"I will never tell you that. You can hang me if you like, but I will never tell you. I have a son, and I would rather face death than break his heart. "

"Have you told him that his father is dead?"

She turned away and walked to the window. "No. I haven't found the words. I'm leaving tomorrow to bring him home."

"How did you explain Charles Archer to your son?"

She wheeled to face him again. "I didn't have to. There's nothing to tell, except that he's an old friend and I have brought him here to heal."

"You were lovers before Charles Archer was wounded at Mons."

Her face flamed to the roots of her hair. "How dare you?"

"It's there in the way you put your hand on his shoulder for strength and for courage," he said, his voice gentle. "Is your child Harold's son or Charles's?"

"Get out!"

"I must ask that, you see, because it could explain why you killed your husband. He's old enough, your son, to hear rumors, to make guesses, to read into your look or your touch when you're with Archer more than you expect him to see."

"Get out!" she said again and reached for the bell pull, almost yanking at it.

"I'm sorry if I've upset you. But for your own protection, you need to tell me the truth. Your son has lost one parent-"

She strode to the door, opening it herself.

Rutledge said "I'm sorry" again, and left the room, passing her so close that he could smell the fear on her.

But not, he thought, as he went to find Mrs. Downing, fear for herself.

Betty was in the laundry room sorting sheets, her long face flushed with the work, her eyes red from crying.

She made a move when she first saw him coming through the door, like a startled child who didn't know where to turn and couldn't find its mother's skirts. And then she straightened, bracing herself, waiting for him to speak to her.

Rutledge said, "I'm here to ask a few more questions, that's all. Tell me about the cottage at the end of the Home Farm lane. Do you know who came there with Harold Quarles?"

"I never asked. It was none of my business," she said again.

"Were there women who stayed there-for an evening, for the night?"

"I don't know."

"You must. You kept the rooms clean, and the beds. There would be signs."

"I made an effort not to pry. I did my duty and saw only what I wanted to see." Pushing at her sleeves, she went back to work. Her arms, though thin, were strong, the bones large.

"He's dead, Betty."

"I know he is. And where am I to go now, without him to care for? What's ahead for me, how will I manage? I was safe here, and I was needed. Where will I find that again? "

He was startled by her vehemence.

"Mrs. Quarles will keep you on. Or give you a reference if you wish to leave." It was not his place to tell her that Quarles had taken care of her future.

"You don't understand. I'm tired, I can't go on doing the heavy work a maid of my age is given. Like these sheets. I never had to work this hard when Mr. Quarles was alive. There was only his rooms and the gatehouse. And he wasn't here all that much. Now I'm told to help out generally. Earn my keep. He'd promised me the gatehouse. But they won't let me have it. I know they won't. And I'm at my wits' end for knowing what I'm to do."

Indeed, she looked tired and ill.

"If Mr. Quarles promised to look after you, he will have done. And there is no one who can change what he decided to give you."

She laughed, a dry, hard sound that seemed to carry all her pain with it.

"I'll believe it when I see it."

"Do you fear this family so much?"

She looked surprised. "Fear them? No, of course not. It's just that I have come to trust Mr. Quarles, and he was young-I thought the years ahead would be safe, and I've never been truly safe before, not in my whole life. You don't know what that's like. And there's nothing left now."

He did understand. Whatever she'd suffered before coming to Hallowfields, she'd been given a taste of a different life. Now she believed that it was being stripped from her, and she couldn't find the strength to cope alone.

Quarles had used her to keep his secrets, and she still did. The bequest would serve to seal her lips for the remainder of her life. It was a large sum, unexpectedly large for a servant. But it would buy silence. That was what it had been designed to do.

There was nothing more Rutledge could learn from her. Not now, when her worries went beyond catching a murderer. But he asked one last question.

"You knew Mr. Quarles better than most of the staff. People tell me he's vicious, he's kind, he's callous, he's cruel, he's respected in London and hated in Cambury-"

"He came from a hard world. He'd had to make his way where he was treated like the working-class man he was, expected to touch his cap to his betters, step out of their way, and do what he was told. Until you've known that, you don't know what it's like. He knew what they thought about him, what was said behind his back. But he was blessed with a good mind, and he prospered, in spite of the past. And he was proud of that. To keep it, he told me he'd had to fight from the day he left Yorkshire, and he'd had to use whatever tools came to hand, not being born with them to start with. Not six months ago, he said to me, 'There's no one to save the likes of you and me, Betty. Except ourselves. You remember that, and you'll do fine.' "

But she hadn't gained strength from the man; she'd used his instead.

Rutledge thanked her and left her to the folding of the heavy sheets, her back bent to the labor, her eyes concentrating on keeping the folds sharp and smooth. Sprinkling lavender among the folds, her rough hands gentle, she looked into a stark future and found it frightening.

R

utledge went back to the gatehouse and walked through the wood to the tithe barn, nodding to the constable on duty as he opened the door and went inside.

It was different in the daylight. Empty, a smoky light spilling in from the door, the rafters ghostly shapes over his head. The barn was as long and as tall as he remembered, and he could almost see Harold Quarles above him, the outspread arms, the white-feathered wings.