Charles Todd - A matter of Justice

The mist hadn't come down then. And Brunswick, needing someone or something on which to expend his anger and frustration, might have watched Quarles walk up the High Street alone. He could have cut across the green without being noticed, followed at a distance, and let the trees shield him on the straight stretch of road that marched with the wall of the estate.

"Why did the dead man no' go through the gates and up the drive?"

"Because it must be shorter to come in by the farm gate and cut across the parkland."

Rutledge went to fetch the motorcar and drove out to Hallowfields, leaving it by the main gate. Then he paced the distances from there to the house, and again from the Home Farm lane to the house. Because of the twists and turns of the drive, allowing for vistas and specimen trees set out to be admired, it was nearly three hundred yards longer. If he was tired, it would have made sense for Harold Quarles to choose the shorter distance.

Brunswick might have called to him, or challenged him. And if Quarles had turned away in rejection of what he wanted to say, that act could have precipitated the murder.

"Listen to me…"

"I'm tired, I want my bed. You have nothing to say to me that I have any interest in hearing…"

Those white stones stood out-Brunswick needn't have thought to bring a weapon-and in a split second, without a word, Quarles would have been knocked down. It was the second blow that mattered. Had Brunswick intended it as the death stroke? Rutledge could see him still caught up in that fierce need to hurt as he'd been hurt, stepping back too late, shocked by the suddenness of death.

It would have been easy to convince himself that Quarles had brought on the attack by his callous indifference. To feel no responsibility for what he'd just done.

And then the slow realization that the man had got off too lightly, a quick death compared to Hazel Brunswick's drowning, must have triggered his next actions.

The facts fit together neatly.

Then why, Rutledge wondered, was he feeling dissatisfied, standing there on the lawns of Hallowfields, looking for holes in his own case?

He walked on to the house and this time knocked at the door, asking for Mrs. Quarles when Downing opened it.

"She's with her son. Come back another day."

"If she could spare me a few minutes, I'd be grateful." His words were polite, but his voice was uncompromising.

She went away, and in a few minutes conveyed him with clear disapproval to the formal drawing room. Mrs. Quarles came in after him, dressed in deep mourning. She was very pale, as if the ordeal of breaking the news to her son had taken its toll.

Against the backdrop of the drawing room, pale blue and silver, she was almost a formidable figure, and he thought she must have intended to impress him after his impudence in demanding to see her.

"What is it you want to know, Mr. Rutledge? Whether I've turned into a grieving widow? "

"There are some questions about your husband's past-"

"That could have waited. I bid you good day."

He stood his ground. "I think you're probably the only person who knew your husband well. With the possible exception of Mr. Penrith."

"I have no idea what Mr. Penrith thinks or knows about my late husband. I have never asked him. Nor will I."

"There are some discrepancies that I'd like to clear up. We've learned that Mr. Quarles removed the remains of his family from the village where they lived and died to another churchyard. But no one who lived in the old village has any recollection of him as a child."

"You have been busy, haven't you? I can't speak for anyone who does or doesn't recall his childhood. He did move his family, but that was after our son was born. Or so I was told. He never took me north with him, it was a painful chapter in his life, and I was content to leave it closed."

"We would also like more information about his enlistment in the Army. Did he see action during the Boer War, or was he posted elsewhere in the empire?"

Her face changed, from irritation to a stillness that was unnatural. "Was he in that war? He never spoke of it to me." Her voice was crisp, dismissive, and her eyes were cold.

"Was that when he met Davis Penrith?"

"I have no idea. It was my impression they met at the firm where they were employed."

"Can you tell me anything about the burns on your husband's hands? They were quite severe and possibly inflicted by someone else. If so, they may have a bearing on his murder."

She moved swiftly, reaching for the bell. "Good day, Mr. Rutledge."

Behind him, Downing opened the door, and Mrs. Quarles nodded to her.

Rutledge turned to the housekeeper. "I don't believe we've finished our conversation. Thank you, Mrs. Downing."

The housekeeper looked to her mistress for guidance. But Mrs. Quarles walked past Rutledge without a word or a glance and left him standing there.

He could hear her heels clicking over the marble of the foyer and then the sound of footsteps as she climbed the stairs.

Mrs. Downing was still waiting. He let her show him to the door.

From somewhere in the house, he could hear a boy's voice, calling to someone, and lighter footsteps approaching.

But the door was shut so swiftly behind him that he didn't see Marcus Quarles after all.

Walking back to where he'd left the motorcar along the road, Rutledge pondered his conversation with Mrs. Quarles.

Most of his questions had been based on a little knowledge and good deal of guesswork. Nevertheless, the dead man's widow had been disturbed by them.

Oddly enough he was beginning to see a pattern in Harold Quar- les's actions.

The man had removed his family from their original grave site and reburied them in a place where they weren't known. Only the headstones in the churchyard identified them, and no one in this other village would have any memory of them or the boy who wasn't-yet-laid to rest among them.

And there was the story to explain his burns, lending an air of heroism to the other tales he'd spun. Of course there had to be an explanation. The scars were obvious to anyone who met him or shook hands over a business agreement. But Rutledge thought that Mrs. Quarles had a very good idea how he'd come by them, whatever the rest of the world believed.

As for the army, Quarles's service had been quietly put behind him. Either because he hadn't particularly distinguished himself or his service record was dismal. And Davis Penrith had done the same thing.

With any luck, London would have those records for him in another day. And a telephone call to Yorkshire would confirm the removal of the graves.

Harold Quarles had created the face he showed his business associates with great care. What was behind the mask? Brunswick was right, something must be there.

Hamish said, "Ye ken, he's the victim."

"That's true," Rutledge answered, turning the motorcar back toward Cambury. "But where there are secrets, murder sometimes follows. Or blackmail. Was that what Brunswick had been moving toward? Take the bookseller, Stephenson. Quarles wouldn't tell him why he refused to contact the Army on the son's behalf. It must have seemed unbelievably cruel to a desperate father. And Stephenson brooded over it to the point that he wanted to kill the man. Who else is out there nursing a grudge and waiting for the chance to do something about it?"

"A straw in a haystack," Hamish said.

"Yes, well, the Yard is often very good at finding straws."

But Hamish laughed without humor. "It doesna' signify. If the murderer here isna' the baker nor the bookseller, ye're left with the man who plays the church organ."

He hammered on for the next hour as Rutledge sat by the long windows overlooking the High Street and wrote a report covering everything he'd learned so far.