Charles Todd - A matter of Justice

"She's dead. All his family is dead. They have been for years. He doesn't have anyone but his son."

"You're certain Mr. Quarles didn't try to convince you to run away from home? Or encourage you to leave your grandmother's and come back to Cambury?" Miss O'Hara asked.

"Of course not. My father thought he was flirting with me, but he wasn't. He said he hated to see such a pretty girl waste her life in Cam- bury, when she could live in Glastonbury or Bath and marry better than the young men I know here. And he's right, I don't like any of them well enough to marry them."

It was a different story from the one Jones himself had told Rut- ledge. But taking that with a grain of salt, Rutledge could see that Jones was jealous, wanted his favorite child to stay with him and inherit the bakery, not find work and happiness away from Cambury. He'd seen Quarles as the snake in his Eden, tempting his young daughter with tales that turned her head. And he'd read what he wanted to believe in the older man's attentions.

Who knew what was in Harold Quarles's mind-whether he wanted to help her or hoped to lead Gwyneth astray, perhaps take advantage of her when she was older and lonely and far from home.

She was extraordinarily pretty. But would she be any happier in a larger town? Would she find this young man of her dreams-or would she be trapped by someone who had other reasons for befriending her, and in the end, ruin her? Quarles hadn't troubled himself over Gwyneth's inexperience.

Rutledge could see and understand a father's anger. He could also see-if it were true-that Quarles might have discovered in Gwyneth more than Cambury had to offer and tried to show her that she could reach higher than her parents had, her mother with six children, her father content with his fourteen hours a day in his bakery.

It didn't matter. Quarles was dead, and Hugh Jones had a very good reason for killing this man who was interfering with his family.

Rutledge said, "Did your father know you were running away?"

She looked down, as if ashamed. "I've written to him since March, begging to come home. I told him I was wretched and couldn't bear to be there, away from everyone. He knew I was unhappy. Still, he said I must stay for now. And so I didn't tell him I had decided to run away- he'd have come to Wales and stopped me, if he'd had to lock me in my bedroom. And so I slipped away without a word."

"Didn't you think your grandmother would be frantic with worry? "

"No. She doesn't like me. She says God didn't intend for a woman to be as pretty as I am, and it's a burden for her to keep an eye on me, and the devil works through a pretty face, and-" She burst into tears again.

Even if Jones had no idea his daughter was going to run away, he knew she was unhappy, and he must have missed her greatly himself. Tormented by the need to keep her away from Quarles, he could well have decided to take matters into his own hands and rid them both of the man who had caused the family so much grief.

Either way, the baker had much to answer for.

"Did you write to Mr. Quarles, to say you were leaving Wales?"

She looked up, shocked. "Oh, no, if I did that, Da would never let me come home again!"

Rutledge said to Miss O'Hara, "I think you should put her to bed straightaway, and keep her out of sight until I've had time to sort this out." And to Gwyneth, he said, "You must stay here for a day or perhaps two, and keep out of sight. Do you understand?"

"I want to go home to my mother and my sisters."

"I'm afraid you'll have to pay that price for leaving your grandmother's house without permission. Miss O'Hara has been put to a good deal of trouble taking you in like this, but she's done it for your mother's sake, and for your father's as well. If you don't listen to her, and gossips connect your unexpected return with Mr. Quarles's death, there could be long-lasting suspicion about your father's guilt even after we've found the killer. The bakery could suffer as well. You owe your parents this consideration."

"I understand," she answered petulantly. But she was young and, in the end, might not be ruled.

He waited until Miss O'Hara had taken the girl upstairs and put her to bed, then thanked her for her help.

She looked tired, and strained. "I know something about being hunted," she said. "That's why I took Gwyneth in. Her mother was at her wits' end. I think Mrs. Jones must be a little afraid of her husband."

"Perhaps not afraid, precisely. But she's feeling guilty about her role in hiding Gwyneth's return. Did the girl tell you more about how she managed to get this far on her own? She took an enormous chance."

Miss O'Hara smiled. "She dirtied her face and teeth, to make herself seem less attractive. Now you must go, before the neighbors begin to talk. I can hear Bertie in the next street." In fact the clink of milk bottles and Bertie's whistle were ominously close.

He smiled in return. "Thank you. Tell Mrs. Jones that patience will serve her better, and silence."

"Do you believe that this child's father killed Quarles?"

"God knows. For Gwyneth's sake, and her mother's, I pray he didn't."

Bertie had other gossip to carry with the milk that morning. Someone had told him the way in which the body had been found, and the shocking news turned the town on its ear.

It met Rutledge over his breakfast.

Rutledge said, irritated, "Who let slip this information?"

Hamish answered, "I wouldna' put it past yon inspector, in retaliation."

That was not only possible, but likely. It served two purposes. It annoyed Rutledge, and it made it more difficult for him to do his job properly. Often what the police held back was a key to tripping up a killer.

Padgett would be satisfied with both outcomes. Whether he himself was guilty of murder or not, he was in no haste to prove that someone on his patch had done such a thing. By the same token, if it could have been laid at Mrs. Quarles's door, Padgett would have been pleased enough.

Glancing out the window as he drank his tea, Rutledge saw the Quarles motorcar passing down the High Street.

Mrs. Quarles on her way to fetch her son from Rugby?

He pitied the boy. The whole ugly story of the murder was common knowledge now, and there would be no way to protect him. It would have come out in the course of the trial, and the newspapers were bound to make much of the circumstances. But that was months away, not now while the boy's grief was raw.

Padgett came to find him before he'd finished his tea.

Rutledge swallowed his ire with the last of his toast and waited.

"We're not slack in our duty in Cambury," Padgett said, sitting down. "My men have been busy. It appears one Harold Quarles dined with Mr. Greer on Saturday evening. But not until seven o'clock."

"I'm surprised that he didn't come to us with that information himself."

"You're free to ask him. That brings us to another problem. Where was Quarles between the time he left Hallowfields and his arrival on Minton Street? It doesn't take that long to walk in from the estate, now, does it?"

Half an hour at most, in a leisurely stroll. Which would mean he could have reached the High Street as early as six o'clock.

Where was Quarles for nearly an hour? At the estate still? Sitting in the gatehouse cottage, waiting for someone? Or had he come into Cambury?

"He met someone on the way," Rutledge answered Padgett. "It's the only explanation that makes sense."

"He was expecting to meet someone on the way. Or he'd have left later than he did."

"Point taken. Why did he dine with Greer? I thought they disliked each other."

"They do."

Rutledge pushed his chair back. "I'll want to pay a visit to Mr. Greer."

"I thought you might." Padgett, grinning, followed him out of the hotel.