Charles Todd - A matter of Justice

Rutledge went out the door and waited until he'd heard the click of the key locking it before turning toward the Jones's house.

Hamish was saying, "Ye ken, you were taken in."

"By what?"

"That one, the Irish lass. Ye absolved her of the killing withoot a single proof that what she said was true."

"It's not my jurisdiction," he said, a second time.

"Oh, aye? She's done you a guid turn and bought your silence."

"It doesn't matter right now. The girl does."

"She admits to a murder," Hamish admonished him. "What's to say that the second killing wasna' easier? And the lass has a temper. When he spoke on the street, she gave him short shrift. But who is to say what happened next between them?"

It was true.

"But it will have to wait," Rutledge said. "Hugh Jones must be sorted out first. Before he learns that Gwyneth is back in Cambury."

Hamish said, still not satisfied, "She holds on to a guid deal o' anger, that lass. She would ha' put him in the rig to be a lesson, even if only for her ain pleasure. Yon murderer felt the same anger. It's no' a thing most of the village could ha' done."

"I don't see Stephenson dragging Quarles to the tithe barn and manhandling him into that cage. But then it might explain his strong sense of guilt."

"Ye ken, ye havena' delved into yon dead man's past. Is it to put yon inspector's nose oot of joint that ye cling to this village? Just as ye went in sich a great hurry to London, to spike the guns of the ither inspector?"

"That's nonsense!" Rutledge snapped, and then realized he'd spoken aloud.

He wasn't aware that during his conversation with Hamish he'd been standing outside the Jones house. Going up to the door, he hoped it would be Mrs. Jones who answered, not one of the children. But she was quick, before he'd knocked, as if she'd been watching for him to come. She could see the O'Hara house from the south window of her parlor.

The little girl wasn't on her hip today, and she glanced over her shoulder as she opened the door, as if to be sure there was no one about.

"Do come in," she said softly, and as soon as they were shut into the little parlor, she went on. "How is she? I was that worried-she was in such a state when I opened the door. God alone knows she took an awful risk, all alone on those roads! I knew she was unhappy…"

Her voice trailed off.

"She's sleeping. It's what she needs. But she won't go back to Cardiff. You do see that, don't you? The next time she may not be as lucky."

"Well, she won't have to now, will she-" And she broke off, her hand to her mouth, as if to stop the words, but it was too late.

"With Quarles dead?"

"He was an awful man. I can't wish him alive again. And I want my girl home to stay. Her gran's getting on. She wasn't always such a terror. But what choice was there, I ask you! "

Her eyes were pleading with him to tell her that everything would be all right, that this nightmare would resolve itself without trouble for anyone she loved. But he couldn't, and after a moment, she looked away, sadness pulling her face down. "What are we to do about Gwyneth? She must come home. I want her here, not at a stranger's house."

"Mrs. Jones, I must ask you again. Can you be absolutely certain that no one in the house told your husband about the letter from Wales?"

"I don't see how anyone could have done. The post came when only the baby was here, and she wouldn't know. And I kept it safe in my apron pocket, where no one would look."

But he could read the uncertainty in her face now. The fear that she hadn't done enough.

"Would you have killed Harold Quarles to keep your daughter safe?" he asked bluntly. "I have to know."

She looked at him then. "If it was to be Gwynnie or him, I'd choose Gwynnie. But what about the rest of them, what are they to do without me, if I'm gone? Besides, I've heard what was done to him. Much as I wanted him away from Gwynnie, I couldn't have brought myself to touch him…"

On the whole, Rutledge thought that was true. She wasn't the sort of woman to take pleasure in her vengeance. It would be enough for the man to be dead, out of her daughter's troubled life.

"I must go now and tell your husband. Will you do nothing until I've seen him?"

"When he comes home tonight, what will he say? That's what frightens me. He'll know I kept secrets. As well, he'll be angry with me for keeping Gwynnie from him."

"I can't promise you he won't be angry."

"You think he's done this thing."

"I don't know, Mrs. Jones. And that's the truth."

"He could have pulled him up on that rig. He's done it before for the Christmas angel…"

He was shocked that she would admit it. At first he wondered if she was trying to shield herself, the mother, the protector of her children. And then he realized that she was thinking aloud, that she had forgotten he was there in the agonizing drain of her own worry.

He said good-bye, and she nodded absently, her mind so wrapped up in the question of whether the man she'd married and given six daughters to was capable of murder, that he wasn't sure she knew when he left.

The walk to the bakery was silent. Hamish had finished what he wanted to say. But Rutledge's thoughts were heavy. If he took Jones into custody, who would keep the bakery open? Not his wife. And not the girl, despite her training up to fill his shoes. What would become of this family?

It was the duty of a policeman to be objective. He'd told Padgett that. And yet sometimes it was impossible to ignore the different personal tragedies that murder brought in its wake. Few of those touched by violent death walked away unscathed.

Hamish said, startling him, "There's yon widower, as well."

"Brunswick. Yes, I know. If indeed he killed his wife, would that have satisfied his jealousy? Or did he bide his time and wait for the opportunity to stalk Quarles? Or-if he didn't kill his wife, if her death was a suicide-he might well kill Quarles and put him in that contraption, to have the final word. And Stephenson's case hinges on whether he scraped up the courage to act on behalf of his dead son."

They were just passing Nemesis, the bookshop. Rutledge wondered if it would ever reopen. The CLOSED notice was still in the window. But then people were surprisingly resilient sometimes. The shop might be all the man knew to do, and the only haven from torment. Books were a great comfort, because they didn't stand in judgment. He would feel safe among them.

The bakery was just ahead now, Jones bowing a well-dressed woman out, a white box in her hands and a smile on her face. Then he looked up the High Street and saw that Rutledge was coming his way. As the woman moved on, Jones stood there, and something in his posture told Rutledge that he knew-or guessed-what was coming. He straightened his apron, as if girding his loins for battle, and waited.

When Rutledge reached him, Jones said, "Come inside, then."

Rutledge followed him into the bakery. It was redolent with cinnamon and baked breads, swept clean, the shelves sparkling like diamonds in the sun coming in the windows. At present the shop was empty. It wasn't time for the tea trade to come.

"Will you have something?" Jones said, to put off the inevitable. "Are you a man with a sweet tooth? "

"Thank you, but it's important for us to talk before someone comes in."

Jones nodded to two wrought-iron chairs, painted white and the seats covered with a rosebud-patterned fabric. It was where women could wait until their orders were ready. Incongruously now it served as a place of interrogation.

As he sat down, Jones said, "I didn't kill the man. But you don't believe me." There was strength in his voice and certainty. "That's how it stands now."

"But there are new extenuating circumstances to answer to, Mr. Jones."