Charles Todd - A matter of Justice

"All right. Let's be done with it. You won't be satisfied until you know. There were two occasions when the bastard swore he was going to speak to the Chief Constable and have me dismissed. And he could do it. Rich and powerful as he was, he could do it. The Chief Constable doesn't like to be disturbed. That's why I called London myself, instead of going to him. Anything for peace, that's his belief."

"What happened with Quarles?"

"One such occasion was when Hunter was having trouble with him at the hotel. It was while Quarles was rusticating here. I stepped in and Quarles told me flat out that he would see the Chief Constable the next day. He did, and I was dragged on the carpet for upsetting an important man. Told to mind my manners and get along with my betters, and stop this nonsense."

"That must have stung."

"You have no idea," Padgett said trenchantly.

"And the other occasion?"

"It was shortly after Quarles moved into Hallowfields. I had to remind him that the two dogs he had at that time-not the spaniels, but two large brutes-couldn't be allowed to run free and attack the sheep of nearby farms. He told me they'd done no such thing. I replied that I had eyewitnesses and would pursue the matter. He told me he'd have the Chief Constable teach me my manners. And I was called to account. I referred the Chief Constable to the farmers who'd complained. And when he spoke to them, Quarles had paid them off without my knowledge. They denied losing a single sheep. But the dogs were penned at night after that, and I was left to look the fool."

"Where are they now? The dogs?"

"They were old, they died some time ago. They weren't eating the sheep, just chasing them and killing them, for sport. I never found out what price he'd paid the farmers, but they blandly lied on his behalf and left me hanging out to dry. Lazy he may be, but the Chief Constable has a long memory, you'll find. And that's why I couldn't have you going to him. It would be the last straw. I'd lose everything."

It could, Hamish told Rutledge, explain the bark of the dog outside the tithe barn that attracted Padgett to investigate: a well-honed lie that had about it the sweet taste of vengeance.

"You heard a dog the night Quarles was murdered."

"So I did. You can't disprove it."

"Nor do you seem to be able to prove it."

Padgett said, "I've told you. Now the matter is closed. Do you hear me?"

"You still haven't grasped the fact that by your own admission you're a suspect. Don't you see? Whether you like it or not, whether I wish to pursue it or not, you had a very good reason to kill that man. Don't expect favors from me. I will treat you as fairly as I do everyone else."

"Is that why you've held information back from me? Do you really think I've killed Harold Quarles?" There was something in his eyes, a measuring look, that made Rutledge want to step back, away from Padgett.

"It doesn't matter what I feel. I'll want to find your statement ready for me tomorrow morning. About finding the body. Whether I use it or not, I must ask for it. And whether you want to give it or not, personally and professionally, you have no choice."

"Damn you." Padgett turned and went back into the police station, slamming the door behind him.

Rutledge let out a long breath.

But the question now was, how had Brunswick learned of Quarles's two attempts to have Padgett sacked? Had he been present, that night in the hotel dining room? And had someone-his wife?-told him about the earlier event? There must even have been talk in the village at the time, forgotten though it might be now.

Hamish said, "Ye must ask yon clerk why he didna' tell ye that the inspector was present when there was trouble."

That was easily dealt with. Rutledge crossed the street to the hotel and went in search of Hunter.

The manager was working in his office behind Reception. He rose when Rutledge came through the door, wariness in every line.

Rutledge greeted him and got to the point. "You didn't tell me, when you described the problem you had with Harold Quarles here in the hotel dining room, that you had called the police in."

"Inspector Padgett was here that night, a diner. He and his wife were celebrating her birthday. He came to my assistance when Quarles turned nasty, and intervened."

"Did you know that Quarles had spoken of this to the Chief Constable, in an effort to have Padgett dismissed from his post in the police?"

Hunter's eyes slid away. "Yes. I heard later. It was talked about. I didn't wish to bring it up. It wasn't my place. If you want to know more, you should speak to Inspector Padgett."

"If you've misled me about this, how do I know that you've told me the truth about Quarles arguing with someone-Quarles turning the corner out of Minton Street, and the fact that you have no idea where he went from there."

Hunter said, "I told you the truth. My truth. I thought it was best that Inspector Padgett explain his role and the consequences of his actions."

"Because this information could involve him in the murder?"

Smiling wryly, Hunter said, "That's not my problem. It's yours. It seems he's told you. Or someone has. Either you've leapt to conclusions about the Chief Constable being approached, or you know what transpired there. I don't. I kept my position and Mr. Padgett kept his. That was what mattered."

"Who else was here that night? Do you remember?"

"The dining room was quite busy that evening. I can't recall everyone who was here. Mr. Brunswick. Mr. Greer. The rector, dining with a curate he knew from another living. Others. It was a matter of face, you see. Mr. Quarles was intent on saving his, and Inspector Padgett was trying to calm a volatile situation. Quarles insisted that I be sacked from the hotel, but fortunately for me, the owner had no intention of being bullied. Hardly, you'd think, a reason to kill a man."

"In your case, possibly not. But this was relevant to my inquiries. What else have you neglected to tell me?"

"Nothing. To the very best of my knowledge, I've spoken only the truth."

"A truth with holes in it."

"There are no other holes. I swear to you."

Hamish said, "Ye ken, he didna' need to kill the man. Only lie for someone else."

Padgett?

Was that who had quarreled with the victim on Minton Street after he'd left the Greer house? And had Hunter shut his eyes-or his ears, in this case, and told the police he hadn't recognized the voice of the other person?

Murder was a strange business, as Rutledge had learned from years of meticulous detective work and well-honed intuition. The smallest clue could change a case from the most straightforward appearance of truth to a tangled web of lies. Or vice versa. There could be no small mistakes, no withholding of evidence to spare someone-or to condemn someone.

Had Hunter lied for Padgett?

On the whole, Rutledge thought not. There appeared to be no real connection between the two men. No depth of commitment that would make one protect the other. After all, neither had lost their positions, in spite of Quarles. Padgett had been shamed by his superior and in front of his fellow villagers. And so had Hunter. But in a vastly different sense.

Padgett depended on his standing in Cambury for his authority and influence as a policeman.

Rutledge said, "If there are any more omissions you'll like to mend, you know where to find me." And he walked out of the office, leaving Hunter chewing his lip.

From the hotel, Rutledge went to Miss O'Hara's house. Gwyneth was still sleeping, and he told Miss O'Hara about the interview at the bakery.

"Mrs. Jones is afraid he killed Quarles-he's used that apparatus- and he's afraid she has, though he knows she wouldn't have thought of hanging him in the beams of the tithe barn," he ended.