Charles Todd - A matter of Justice

The Welshman was wary now, as if half afraid his wife had confessed. Or that Rutledge had discovered something Jones believed hidden too deep to be found.

"Your daughter ran away from her grandmother's house-"

"When?" His voice was taut with fear.

"Several days ago."

Jones surged from his chair and started for the door. "Close up behind me, I'm on my way to Wales. This business of Quarles can wait. There's my daughter to be thought of."

"Wait-we know where she is."

Jones stopped in his tracks. "What do you mean, you know?"

"She's been found. She's safe."

But the man was not satisfied. "I'll see her for myself. If that man talked her into anything rash, I'll go to the doctor's surgery and cut out his liver, dead or not, see if I don't!"

There was such rough menace in his voice that Rutledge could believe he would do just that.

"Sit down, man, and let me finish," he said curtly.

Jones stood where he was by the door, grim and determined.

"I said, sit down, Jones, or you'll learn nothing more." It was the voice of a man accustomed to being obeyed on a battlefield. Jones didn't move for an instant longer, then grudgingly came to sit down, his body so tense Rutledge could see the cords standing out in his neck.

"She's safe. And she's had no dealings with Quarles. She's said as much, and I believe her. Homesickness made her run away, and a grandmother who berated her for being pretty."

He growled, like an animal, deep in his throat. "She wrote she was unhappy, but I didn't want to believe her. I didn't want to see what the old woman was capable of. I wanted her safe, that's all."

"Let go of your hate and think about your daughter. And what this means in terms of your own guilt."

"My guilt?" There was something in his eyes that Rutledge couldn't read. But he could see that Jones's mind was moving swiftly and in a direction that was unexpected. Yet he said nothing, and sat where he was.

"If you knew Gwyneth had run away, it would make the case for your killing Quarles strong enough to bring in a verdict against you. At least at the inquest. If you found out she'd left Wales and decided to make certain this time that your daughter could remain in Somerset, the next logical step would be confronting Quarles. There would certainly be words between you, and if in his usual callous way he turned his back on you, it would surprise no one if you lost what was left of your temper and killed him. It's an explanation I'm bound to tell the inquest. But is it right-or wrong? I must make a decision, Jones, and you will have to give me the unvarnished truth in order to make it."

Jones looked him in the eye. "How did you learn all this about my daughter running away? Who knew, to tell you?"

"At the moment-"

"It was my wife, wasn't it? It has to be. Did Gwynnie write her a letter? "

Rutledge could answer that. "No."

"Gwynnie's mother's been crying. I could see it when I came home at night. Redness that she said was from soap in her eyes or the baby's fist striking her while she was nursing. But it was a letter, wasn't it? From Gran, then, if not from Gwynnie."

He had come to the truth in his own fashion. A man with a mind that was as sharp as the knives with which he cut the dough on his board, he had let himself be blinded by his love for his daughter. But now he was thinking clearly and about to protect his wife.

Rutledge cut him short. "Your wife couldn't have put Quarles in that apparatus-"

"Oh, yes, I heard about that. But I could have come along behind her and done it, couldn't I? To throw suspicion away from her. That's how it'll be seen. Well, I won't have it. I killed the accursed Harold Quarles, and I ran him up into the rafters like a rat on a string. And if you let me see my daughter one last time, I'll go with you to the station and sign my statement. I give you my word."

"And what," Rutledge demanded, irritated, "will become of the bakery and your family? Had you forgotten?"

Jones blinked, as if he'd been slapped in the face. "I've trained my girl, she can run it for us."

"Damn it, man, she's still half a child. How is she going to manage? And at her age, what will this do to her, slaving the hours you do, even if your custom stays with you. Coming home at night tired and dispirited, with nothing to look forward to but another morning baking bread for people who stare at her and remember you were hanged."

Jones took a deep breath.

It was extraordinary, Rutledge thought, to watch two people trying to protect each other, out of sheer fright. And neither had the courage to ask the other for the truth.

"No, don't tell me again that you're guilty. Go home and speak to your wife, man, and between the two of you, try to make sense. We don't need martyrs, we want to find a killer."

Jones said staunchly, "I told you, I killed Harold Quarles."

"And not a quarter of an hour ago, you were prepared to tell me you hadn't. Talk to your wife. Afterward I'll take you to Gwyneth. Your daughter shouldn't be there until you've come to grips with yourselves. In the interim, stay here and think about what you're asking of your wife and your daughter. Cambury has a long memory, Hugh Jones, and you'll find if you confess to murder, even the murder of someone as unpopular as Harold Quarles, there will be people who turn against you. It's how people are."

He got up to leave. There was no fear of flight in this case, he thought, Jones wouldn't leave his family to face their nightmare alone.

Jones called to him as Rutledge was reaching for the door. "She couldn't have done it. It's not in her nature to kill."

But Rutledge thought he was trying to convince himself, not the man from London, as he spoke the words. Sometimes doubt was the deadliest of fears. It grew from nothing more than a niggling concern until it overwhelmed trust and shone a new light on small inconsistencies, white lies, honest mistakes, and human frailty. And as it distorted perspective, it could also distort the truth. Words taken out of context loomed terrifyingly large, and in the end, doubt could convince a loving husband or wife that their partner was capable of the unthinkable.

Both Hugh Jones and his wife were in the throes of doubting, and they would never quite be the same again.

Outside on the High Street, Rutledge swore. It hadn't gone well, this business with the baker. But it had been doomed from the start, because the girl had run away. Would Jones persist in his assertion that he'd killed Quarles? Or would his wife persuade him to let the police do their work unhindered.

And in the meantime, what was he, Rutledge, to do if one of that family was a murderer?

Padgett was just coming out of the station.

"You look like a man who wished he hadn't seen a ghost," the inspector said in greeting.

Rutledge was in no humor for the man's badgering. "I want to know what it is you held against Harold Quarles. And I want to hear it now. If not in the station, we can walk on the green."

"I told you-"

"I know what you told me, and I'm damned well running out of patience. What did Quarles do? Threaten to have you dismissed? It's the only reason I can think of, other than insulting your wife, for your refusal to give me the truth."

"It's none of-"

"-my business. But it is. This is your last chance. Talk to me, or I'll know the reason why."

Padgett walked away, as if turning his back on Rutledge. Then he whirled around, his face twisted with fury. "I gave you my word I hadn't killed him."

"Other people in Cambury are having to watch their most private affairs being aired in public. Why should you be different? Whether you killed him or not, I want to know what lay between the two of you. I want to make my own judgment call. I can tell you, if I'm recalled to London, you'll fare less well with the man who will take my place. At least you know you can rely on my discretion."