Charles Todd - A matter of Justice

"Yes, I'd thought about that. But where did Brunswick go when he reached Cambury? Home? To The Glover's Arms?"

"He told me he was in bed and asleep."

"Hard to prove. Hard to disprove."

"The early service this morning isn't for another three-quarters of an hour. I should be able to catch Brunswick before he goes to the church."

Rutledge walked briskly toward Brunwick's house, and when he knocked, the man opened the door with a sheaf of music in his hand. He regarded Rutledge with distaste and didn't invite him inside. "What is it now?"

"We've just learned that you were seen on the road near Honeyfold Farm last Saturday evening at nine-thirty. You said nothing about it when we asked your whereabouts the night that Quarles was killed."

"Why should I have? It had nothing to do with his murder."

"Where had you been?"

"To Glastonbury."

"Can anyone confirm that?"

"I went to dine with a friend who stopped there on his way back to London. He was tired, the dinner didn't last very long, and I came home." There was an edge to his voice now. "If you must know, I'd had more to drink than was good for me, and I had spent a wretched two hours listening to this man crowing over his triumphs. He's a musician; we'd studied together. I wished I'd never gone there. I wasn't in the best of spirits when I left him."

Which explained the comment that he'd looked like a thundercloud when he passed Tommy Little and the girl he was courting.

"When you reached Cambury, what did you do?"

"I undressed, when to bed, and tried to sleep. Harold Quarles was the last person on my mind then."

Rutledge thanked him and left.

"It's no' much," Hamish said.

"I didn't expect it to be. He would have been too early to see Quar- les leaving Minton Street and turning toward Hallowfields. They must have missed each other by a quarter of an hour at the very least."

"If he didna' lie."

"There's always that, of course. But Little seems to feel very confident of his times." Rutledge stopped and turned to look over his shoulder. Brunswick was hurrying toward St. Martin's, his black robe streaming behind him. Rutledge watched him go.

Would a man in Brunswick's state of mind go meekly to bed in the hope of sleeping, after being humiliated by a more successful friend? Especially if he'd had a little too much to drink? Of course there was the long ride to Cambury to cool his temper and wear him down. But Tommy Little had seen the man's face, and it appeared he was still smarting from the visit.

Looking up at the Perpendicular tower of St. Martin's, Rutledge realized that the rectory overlooked the church on its far side. He went back to The Unicorn and bided his time until the morning services were over.

When he reached the rectory an hour after noon, Rutledge found Heller dozing in a wicker chair in his garden, a floppy hat over his face. He woke up as he heard someone approaching, and sat up, pulling down his vest and smoothing his hair.

"Is this an official call?" he asked, trying for a little humor, but the words were heavy with worry.

Rutledge joined him in the shade, squatting to pick up a twig and twist it through his fingers.

"It's about Michael Brunswick," he said after a moment, not looking up at the rector. "I believe it's customary for him to practice your selections for the Sunday services on Saturday morning. Do you recall if he did that on the Saturday that Quarles died? He was meeting a friend in Glastonbury. There might not have been time for him to play beforehand."

Heller was caught without an answer. He sat there, studying Rut- ledge, then said, "He did indeed come into practice that morning. A little earlier than usual, as I recall. I was there and heard him. We talked about the anthem I'd chosen. It's a favorite of mine."

"And so there was no need for him to play the organ that evening, after his return? "

Heller sighed. "No need. But of course he did. The windows were open, I could hear him from my study. He wasn't playing my selections. It was tortured music. Unhappy music. I did wonder if it was his own composition. And it ended in a horrid clash of notes, followed by silence." He looked back at the rectory, as if he could find answers there in the stone and glass and mortar. "He's a wretched man. He wants more than life has chosen to give him. He plays perfectly well for us during services. We are fortunate to have him. Why should he feel that he needs to reach for more? If God had intended for him to be a great organist, he wouldn't have brought him to us at Cambury, would he have? There is much to be said for contentment. And in contentment there is service."

Rutledge stood up, without answering the rector.

Heller said, "You mustn't misunderstand. Michael Brunswick's music isn't going to drive him to kill. It's eating at him, he's the only victim."

Rutledge said, "Perhaps his music is the last straw in a life full of disappointments. What time did he finish playing?"

"I don't know. Perhaps it was twenty past ten. If you remember there was a mist coming in. Hardly noticeable at that time, but an hour later, it was thick enough that strands of it were already wrapping around the trees in my garden. I was worried about Michael, and looked to see if his house was dark. It was, and so I went to bed myself."

"If there had been lights on?"

"I'd have found an excuse to go and speak to him. To offer comfort if he needed it. Or if not, to assure myself that he was all right." He took a deep breath and examined his gardening hat to avoid looking at Rutledge. "You mustn't misconstrue what I've told you. It would be wrong."

"It would be wrong to let someone else take the blame for Quarles's death. Mr. Jones has already suffered for his daughter's sake."

"Yes, I heard what had happened at the bakery. Mr. Padgett believes it was boys acting out of spite, but I think someone is grieving for Quarles. A woman, perhaps, who cared for him and believes the gossip about Mr. Jones. You warned me once, Mr. Rutledge. You told me someone might come to me frightened by what they'd done and I must be careful how I dealt with them. In return I warn you now. Rumor has always maintained that Harold Quarles had a mistress in Cambury. I don't know if it's true or not, but if it is, she's not one of the women he flirts with in public, she's someone he visited quietly, I suspect, when no one was looking. If she exists, I say, she's had no way to grieve openly while everyone in sight is gloating over Quarles's death. Alone, lonely, she must be desolate, and it will turn her mind in time. Just beware."

It was an odd speech for a man of the cloth to make to a policeman.

"Surely you can guess-"

"No. I've never wanted to know whose wife or sister or daughter she may be. I can do nothing for her until she comes to me. This is just a friendly warning."

"Thank you, Rector. I'll bear it in mind." But he thought that Heller was intending to turn his attention away from Michael Brunswick by using village gossip to his own ends. He was a naive man in many ways. And he might consider a small white lie in God's cause no great problem for his conscience.

"Ye ken," Hamish said, "he doesna' want to lose his organist. It's why he defends him sae fiercely."

He turned to walk away, but Heller stopped him. "I told you that I refused to judge, lest I be judged. It's good advice, even for a policeman."

But the fact remained, Rutledge told Hamish in the silence of his mind, that there was proof now that Michael Brunswick could have crossed paths with Harold Quarles.

To test it, he stood on the street just above Michael Brunswick's door and looked toward the High Street. The angle was right, as he'd thought it might be. Coming home from St. Martin's, Brunswick would have had a clear view of Minton Street and the corner that Quarles would have turned on his way back to Hallowfields.