Charles Todd - A matter of Justice

"And what did Harold Quarles promise you?"

Stephenson's face twisted in grief. "He wouldn't even hear me out. He refused to help. I tried to tell him that they have all sorts of units. Quartermaster, signals, radio, enlistments-none of them having to do with actual fighting-and I told him Tommy could do those. He was cold, unyielding, and told me that he would not speak to the Army for me or anyone else. And so Tommy went to be trained as a soldier, and he was shipped to France, and on his first day at the Front, he waited until the trench had emptied and bent over his rife and pulled the trigger. The letter from his commanding officer called him a coward and said that he had disgraced the company. All I could think of was that he was dead, and that surely there had been some way for a man as powerful and well thought of as Harold Quarles to stop him from going abroad."

He was silent in his grief now, and that was all the more telling as he stared into a past he couldn't change. Rutledge rested a hand on his shoulder.

"I wanted to kill his commanding officer, then I realized those were only words, they didn't matter. It was Quarles who was to blame, and I wanted to make him suffer as I had done. I came here to haunt him, I wanted him to think about Tommy every time he passed the shop or saw me on the street, and remember his own child. I made a point to find out when he was returning to Cambury, and I put myself in his way as often as I could. And when I had wrought up my determination, I was going to kill him. But like my son, I couldn't find the courage to do anything. Like my son, I couldn't bring myself to kill, and yet I wanted it as I'd never wanted anything before or since, save to keep Tommy alive."

Stephenson saw himself as failing Tommy twice, Rutledge realized. In not saving him in the first place and then in not being able to avenge him in the second. And as long as Harold Quarles was alive, the opportunity to kill him still existed. Once Quarles was dead, it was too late for vengeance. And so the bookseller had punished himself by putting that rope around his neck. It wasn't so much a fear of the police that had driven him; it was the knowledge that when he was questioned, his shame would be exposed to the whole world. Tommy the coward, son of a coward.

But the story was out now.

As if Stephenson realized that, he lay back on his cot, his arm over his face, and his face to the wall.

Rutledge said, "Thank you for telling me. Whatever you feel about Harold Quarles, the fact remains that we must find out who killed him. It's a question ofjustice. As for his failure to help you and your failure to help your son, there are times when no one can help and a man's life has to take its course. Tommy wasn't the only one in that battle who was afraid. Most of us in the trenches were terrified. It would have been unnatural not to be."

Stephenson said, "He was the only one who didn't go over the top that morning. He was the only one who used his weapon against himself rather than the enemy. He let all the world see his fear and judge him for it. I think of that often, how awful his last hours-minutes- must have been, with no one to tell him he was loved and must live. I wasn't there, I wasn't there."

The final failure, in the father's eyes.

"Nor was God," Rutledge said, and sat with the grieving man for another quarter of an hour, until he was calmer.

Rutledge went back to the O'Hara cottage and tapped lightly on the door. He had the distinct feeling that every window overlooking where he stood was filled with people waiting to see how he was received.

Miss O'Hara answered his knock, her finger to her lips. "She's asleep. I can only hope her mother is resting as well. What are we to do? Have you spoken to her father?"

"Not yet." He followed her into the pretty room he had hardly had time to notice that morning. There were comfortable needlepoint cushions everywhere, a row of small framed photographs on the mantel, and surprisingly, a pair of revolvers mounted on a polished board. As he glanced at them, she said, "My father's."

There was defiance in the words, as if Rutledge might think she had no right to them.

Certainly they were incongruous in this very feminine setting, but he had no intention of rattling her pride.

She offered him tea, but he declined, adding, "You've been up most of the night, I think. Sit down. We'll have to work this out between us. The rest of the family, Gwyneth included, will be too emotional to choose what's best."

"What is best?" she countered.

Rutledge took a deep breath. "I don't believe Gwyneth could have killed the man. I don't think her mother, much as she hated what Quarles had done to her family, would have carried the murder to such extremes-"

"Yes," she interrupted with a little shiver. "I've heard the tale of the Christmas angel. It's barbaric. Mrs. Jones might well have killed him, but not that. I agree."

"Which leaves us with Gwyneth's father, and whether or not he knew about the letter from her grandmother."

"Does it really matter? The child's complained to him enough. He might have decided to bring her home the only way he could."

"Coincidence?" Rutledge shook his head. "I don't know. It will not be easy talking to him. But I don't think Mrs. Jones will be able to cope when he comes home this evening. It will spill out somehow- a child asking why Mummy cried all day, a neighbor wanting to know why she was here in your house at such an ungodly hour-and she will break down and tell him the truth."

"She's stronger than you realize. But his suspicions will be aroused."

There was a short silence. He said, "You told me you knew something about murder. And about being hunted."

"That I did. It's why I'm in England, the last place on earth I'd like to be. I was caught in the middle of the Easter Rebellion in 1917. I did what I had to do, to save myself and my family. And after that I had to leave. Do you want to take me up for that?" He could feel her anger and resentment.

"It's not my jurisdiction," he answered mildly. "If it has no bearing on Quarles's death, then I have no business interfering."

"Thank you for being so damned condescending," she flared, her voice rising a little before she could control it.

"Condescending?" He smiled, and it touched his eyes. "Hardly. It's you who is still sensitive. I'm merely putting your mind at ease."

She had the grace to laugh lightly. "You were in the trenches, I think. You know what war is like. Well, it was war in Dublin. And elsewhere. We were under siege, and we were afraid of what would happen if we lost. What sort of retribution there would be for us and, more urgently, our families. I went to the fighting to bring my father's body back, and I had to kill someone to do it. I don't regret it, he doesn't invade my dreams, and I'd do it again if I had to."

She would have been an easy target, with that flame red hair. It had been a brave thing to do to go after her father, and it could have ended horribly. Right or wrong, his cause or not, Rutledge could respect her courage.

Returning to what had brought him here, Rutledge said, "May I leave Gwyneth in your care for a little longer? I'll be gone for some time. Don't let her leave, for any reason."

"No, I've kept the door locked until l look to see who's knocking. I've said my prayers for that family. I hope God is listening."

As he rose to leave, Miss O'Hara said, "She won't go back to her grandmother's. I can tell you that. She was wretched, and the old woman used her unmercifully. The tyranny of the weak. And then she had the unmitigated gall to tell the poor lass that she was the devil's get whenever Gwyneth failed to please her."

"I don't think the family knew."

"They must have. But they closed their eyes because there was no other way to keep her out of the man's clutches. Quarles had much on his soul when he went to God, and the names of Gwyneth and her family are engraved on it."