Charles Todd - A matter of Justice

"I'm an honest man, a good policeman." Padgett's voice was tight, his face still flushed with his fury.

"No doubt both of these are true. Do they put you above suspicion? You may not be guilty-but you must be cleared, any question of doubt put aside so that you don't cast a shadow over the inquiry."

"Are you going to take me off the case? I don't see how we can work together now."

"I'm not removing you. But you must give me your word you didn't kill Quarles."

"What good is my word, if I'm a murderer? Do you think I'd stop at perjuring myself to escape the hangman?"

"Your word as a policeman."

It was the right thing to say. Padgett's ruffled feathers relaxed, and he swore, "As God is my witness, then. I give you my word as a policeman."

Hamish said to Rutledge, "Aye, all well and good, but he didna' swear to stop interfering." hey went on to Dr. O'Neil's surgery, to interview Stephenson.

"I was looking for the truth, not trust," Rutledge answered him grimly. The doctor greeted them, and if he saw any stiffness in their manner, he said nothing about it. Taking them to the narrow examination room where he'd put the bookseller, he added, "He's recovering well enough. Physically, if not emotionally. But that's not unexpected, given the circumstances. Be brief, if you want to question him."

"Before we go in," Rutledge said, "can you tell me if Michael Brunswick's wife was diagnosed with a tumor? Or was she pregnant at the time of her death?"

O'Neil sighed. "Brunswick has convinced himself that I lied to him. I didn't. If he killed Quarles, he'll be coming for me next. He's one of those men who can picture his wife in another man's arms if she so much as smiles at a poor devil in the post office or the greengrocer's. The fact is, I believed it to be ovarian from the start, because she'd had no symptoms until the tumor was well advanced. And I told her as much, warning her to prepare herself. I did prescribe tests, to confirm my diagnosis. Her mother had died of the same condition. Sadly, she knew what to expect. And if by some miracle of surgery she survived the cancer, there would be no children."

"How did you do the tests?" From what Rutledge had seen of the small surgery, he was certain Dr. O'Neil didn't have the facilities for them here.

"I sent her to Bath, to a specialist there. Quarles lent her his motorcar and his chauffeur. She was in her last week of employment at Hallowfields the day she came to me, and when she told Quarles she was glad she was nearly finished, because it appeared that she was ill, he arranged to send her. It was a kind gesture. But Mrs. Brunswick made me promise to say nothing to her husband about that-she said he would disapprove."

Rutledge thought, It could have been that Brunswick found out But that wasn't the murder he'd come to Cambury to solve.

"Why the interest in Mrs. Brunswick?" O'Neil asked, clearly busy putting two and two together.

"It could offer a reason for her husband to kill Quarles," Padgett answered, following Rutledge's thinking. "Early days, no stone unturned, and all that."

"I've finished with Quarles, by the bye. And he did eat dinner the night he was killed."

"Then let his wife bury him," Padgett said. "The sooner the better."

O'Neil looked at Rutledge for confirmation, and he nodded.

The doctor opened the door to Stephenson's room. The man looked up, sighed wearily, and visibly braced himself for what was to come.

Rutledge said, "I'm happy to see you feeling a little better."

"There's better and better," Stephenson said without spirit.

"Why kill yourself, if you've done nothing wrong?" Rutledge asked. "It's a waste of life."

"My reasons seemed to be sound enough at the time-"

He broke off and turned his face toward the wall, tears welling in his eyes.

"Do we clap you in gaol as soon as Dr. O'Neil here gives us leave?" Padgett demanded irritably. "You as much as confessed that you wanted to kill Harold Quarles. Did you or didn't you? You can't have it both ways."

"But he can," Rutledge put in quietly. "If he paid someone to do what he couldn't face himself."

"That would be betrayal. I wouldn't stoop to that. By rights," he went on, "an eye for an eye, I should have killed his son. I couldn't do that, either."

"If you didn't kill Quarles, why were you so certain we were about to take you into custody for this murder? Certain enough to kill yourself before we could." He added in a level voice, no hint of curiosity or prying, merely trying to clarify, "Just what did Quarles have to do with your son?"

"I don't want to talk about it. I'm still shaken, hardly able to believe I'm still alive. I expected never to see this world again. I thought I was well out of it." His face was hidden, his voice rough with tears. "For God's sake, go away and leave me alone."

"In the end, you'll have to clear yourself by telling us the truth."

"I don't have to do anything of the sort. You can't threaten me with hanging. I know how the noose feels about my neck, and what it's like to plunge into the dark. The next time will be easier, and it won't be interrupted. I really don't give a damn."

"If you want to die so badly," Padgett reminded him, "you'd have to convince us first that you deserve to. What you're feeling now is self-pity, not evidence. Do you think you're the only man who's lost a son? I can find you a dozen such fathers without leaving the parish."

"He was my only child-my wife is dead. I never thought I'd be grateful for that, until the day the news came."

Rutledge shook his head, warning Padgett to leave it as he was about to reply. Reluctantly Padgett turned and walked away, shutting the door behind him. Rutledge said to Stephenson, "Consider your situation. If you want to claim this crime even though you didn't commit it, go ahead. That's not vengeance, it's martyrdom. And in the final moments before the trapdoor drops, you'll find martyrdom isn't a satisfactory substitute for what you'd promised your son to do."

Not waiting for a reply, Rutledge turned on his heel, leaving Dr. O'Neil alone with his patient.

As they walked down the passage, he could hear Stephenson's voice: "I loved him more than anything, anything."

Outside, Padgett said, "Why did he call that bookstore of his Nemesis, if he wasn't waiting for his chance to kill Quarles? Whatever lay between them, it must have been a fearsome hate on Stephenson's part."

They had just reached the High Street when the boot boy from The Unicorn caught up with them. "You're wanted, sir, if you're Inspector Rutledge. There's a telephone call for you at the hotel. I was told at the station you'd be with Inspector Padgett."

"And who would be calling the inspector?" Padgett asked, inquisi- tiveness alive in his face.

"London," Rutledge answered. "Who else?" He handed the flushed boot boy a coin, nodded to Padgett, and walked away toward The Unicorn.

Hunter was waiting for him at Reception, and escorted him to the telephone room. "They promised to call again in fifteen minutes." He took out his pocket watch. "That's half a minute from now."

On the heels of his words, they could hear the telephone bell, and Rutledge went to answer it.

It was Sergeant Gibson, who asked him in a formal tone to wait for Chief Superintendent Bowles to be summoned.

The tone of voice, as always with Gibson, reflected the mood of the Yard.

Bowles, when he took up the receiver, shouted, "You there, Rutledge?"

"Yes, sir, I'm here."

"What's this I hear about your questioning Mr. Penrith and speaking to Hurley and Sons?"

Mickelson was back in London and complaining.

"It was in the course of-"

"I don't give a fig for your excuses. I sent you to Cambury to find a murderer, and I've had no report of your progress. Davis Penrith has been on the horn to the Yard, expressing his concern, wanting to know if we've taken anyone into custody. Have we?"