Charles Todd - A matter of Justice

The next morning, as Rutledge was packing his valise, he was summoned to the telephone.

It was Sergeant Gibson. "I've had a bit of luck, sir. Remember the constable you spoke with on Saturday, when you left me a message?"

"Yes, I do." The lion's head and a small boy charging his mates a few farthings to look at it.

"That was Constable Wainwright, sir. Over the weekend he spoke to his father about fighting the Boers. His father saw a good deal of action. And he remembers Private Penrith. Described him as a fair, slender chap, a quiet one keeping to himself for the most part. Said he was reminded of the young Prince of Wales, sir. This was in Cape Town, just before Corporal Wainwright was to sail home. Penrith was quite the hero, according to Wainwright. He walked miles back to a depot for help, after the Boers ambushed the train he was taking north. There was talk of a medal, but Penrith himself quashed that idea. He says he was too late, all the men were dead by the time rescue reached them. He blamed himself."

"He was the sole survivor?"

"According to Wainwright's account, yes, sir. He was knocked about when the train came to a screeching halt, and dazed. But his rifle had been fired, though he couldn't remember much about the action."

"Hardly a record to be ashamed of."

"No, sir. Shall I go on looking at Mr. Penrith's military career?"

"No. Yes. When did he leave the army? And where else did he serve? Did Corporal Wainwright mention one Harold Quarles?"

"I don't believe he did, sir."

"Include him in your search. And, Gibson, I want to be sure who and what this Davis Penrith is. One source has told me his father lived in Hampshire, another that his father lived in Sussex. I want that cleared up."

"Yes, sir. I believe one Davis Penrith came in this morning to make his statement about a journey to Scotland. Is this the same man, sir?"

"It is."

"Wouldn't it be simpler to send a constable around to ask him these questions?"

Rutledge said, "He's already answered one of them. But not to my satisfaction."

Sergeant Gibson said neutrally, "Indeed, sir."

Rutledge broke the connection, absently rubbing his jaw with his fingers.

So Penrith was apparently all he claimed to be. No one, however, had so far explained the confusion between Hampshire and Sussex. But it might be nothing more mysterious than being born in one county and growing up in the other.

For the moment he put Penrith out of his mind and went in search of Hugh Jones.

The bakery was still closed on this Monday morning, but it was ready for use as soon as fresh supplies arrived. Jones said, as Rutledge came through the door, "I managed to bake bread this morning for my regular customers. Only twenty loaves, but a start. It was all the flour I had."

"I think I've found the person who did this damage. An elderly maid at Hallowfields. She'd served Quarles, seen only his best side, apparently, and she was told that you had killed him. Hence the vandalism."

Jones sighed. "He still makes trouble for me, even in death. I'm grateful Mrs. Quarles took him away from here to bury him. Else I'd fear to walk through the churchyard of a night."

"Inspector Padgett is satisfied that we've found Quarles's killer. He'll be taken into custody sometime this morning."

"Who is it?"

"You'll hear soon enough. The evidence points strongly to Michael Brunswick."

"Another family Quarles destroyed. Ah well. I'm sorry for him. He's a man haunted by disappointment. But I never saw him as a murderer."

"Inspector Padgett believed Brunswick could have killed his wife."

"There was a lot of talk at the time. No one paid much attention to it. Thank you for telling me about what happened here."

Rutledge left the baker and walked on to the police station. Padgett had just returned from his meeting with the Chief Constable.

"He agrees, there's enough evidence to make an arrest. We'll see what the lawyers can make of it now. I expect you're wanted back in London. I'll deal with Brunswick. He's at the church, playing the organ. I spoke to Rector on my way in, and he told me. He wants to be present. I think he's afraid Brunswick will do something foolish. I don't see it that way."

Rutledge went there himself and stood in the open door at the side of St. Martin's, listening to the music for a time. Brunswick was practicing an oratorio, struggling with it, going over and over the more complicated sections until he got it right and locked into his memory. It was a long and frustrating session. When he'd finished, he launched into a hymn he knew well, and the difference in the two pieces was telling. Brunswick had ability but not the soaring skill that great musicians strove for.

Hearing voices approaching, Rutledge went back to the hotel to fetch his valise. Coming down the stairs again, he stopped by Reception.

Hunter was there to bid him farewell and a safe journey.

Half an hour after he'd driven out of Cambury, the telephone in the small parlor beyond the stairs began to ring.

The staff was busy with the noonday meal, and no one heard it.

It was an uneventful drive to the city. Rutledge arrived late and went directly to his flat.

The next morning, he called on Davis Penrith at his home.

"We've found your former partner's murderer. He was taken into custody yesterday and charged. The inquest will find enough evidence to bind him over for trial."

Penrith's face was still. "Who is he?"

"The organist at St. Martin's. He believed his late wife had an affair with Quarles. She killed herself."

Penrith searched for something to say. "I'm sorry to hear it."

"There's one small matter to clear up with you."

Penrith smiled wryly. "I told you my father was curate in Hampshire. Only for five years, before moving on to Sussex. My mother was alive then, it was a happy time. The living in Sussex was cramped and wretched. I tend not to think of it if I don't have to. I hope it didn't cause you any trouble."

"None at all," Rutledge answered blandly.

"Well, then, thank you for telling me about this man Brunswick. I'm glad the matter is cleared up, for the sake of Mrs. Quarles and Marcus."

Penrith prepared to show Rutledge out, walking to the study door.

"Actually, that wasn't the matter I wished to bring up."

Surprised, Penrith stopped, his hand on the knob.

"I can't think of anything else that needs to be clarified. I made my statement. You'll find it at the Yard."

"Thank you. No, what I wanted to clarify are several names I have here on my list. Mr. Butler is dead, I believe. Mr. Willard and Mr. Hester, Mr. Morgan and Mr. Simpleton, and Mr. MacDonald were investors in the Cumberline fiasco."

Wary, Penrith said, "Where did you find those names?"

"They were in a box marked CUMBERLINE in Harold Quarles's study."

He could see the anger and frustration in Penrith's face. "Indeed. And what else of interest did you find in his study?"

"Very little. We've managed to look at these seven men and determine that they had no reason to attack and kill Mr. Quarles."

"No, of course they wouldn't. They are men of some reputation, they value their privacy, and they aren't likely to wait almost two years for a paltry revenge."

"If you consider murder paltry."

"That's not what I meant. I'm sure they would have preferred taking the matter to court, ruining us, and making Harold Quarles and myself laughingstocks. They are ruthless businessmen. It's the way they settle matters such as Cumberline. But they saw that in taking our firm to court, their own business practices might come under scrutiny. I can tell you that these men lost no more than they could afford to lose. They knew from the start that it was a risky investment, but they also had Cecil Rhodes in their sights, and their greed won over their common sense."