Charles Todd - A matter of Justice

"Was this other investor, a man named Evering-"

Penrith must have been prepared for the question, but it still nearly splintered his carefully preserved calm. "Evering was one of Harold's clients. He made the decision to include the man."

"Was Cumberline the reason you broke with Quarles?"

Penrith fiddled with the fob on his watch chain. "All right, yes. It was. I thought Cumberline was risky from the start. I thought Quar- les was taking a direction we'd never taken before with the firm. I thought his judgment was failing him. But he had his reasons for offering Cumberline, he said, and it would do us no harm. Financially, he was right, though it was a close-run thing. I felt that the good name of the firm-and more important, the good will of James, Quarles and Penrith-was tarnished."

"What was his reason, did he ever tell you?"

"Not in so many words. Most of these men had made their money in the war, cutting corners, shoddy goods, whatever turned a penny. He said the poor sods in the trenches didn't count for anything, if a shilling could be made from their suffering. And it was the same greed that made Cumberline so attractive to such men."

"Was Evering also profiting from the war?"

"I have no idea. You'd have to ask Quarles. And he's dead." Penrith took out his watch. "I really must go. I have matters to attend to in my office."

He held the door for Rutledge, and there was nothing for it but to thank Penrith and leave.

Rutledge drove to the Yard, and reported to Chief Superintendent Bowles, who appeared to be less than happy to hear there was a successful conclusion to the inquiry.

It was two hours later when Sergeant Gibson came to his office and said, "The Penrith in South Africa was born in Hampshire, his father lost his living there and went on to Sussex, where he didn't prosper. His son joined the army for lack of funds for a proper education, and served his time without distinction save for one heroic act-"

"-when the train was attacked. What else?"

"That's the lot. He never went back to Sussex. Instead he made his way in the City, and most recently set up his own investment firm after leaving James, Quarles and Penrith."

"And Quarles?"

"Almost the same story. Survived the attack, was badly injured, and didn't go back to his unit until they were ready to sail. He was from Yorkshire, but like Penrith, settled in London. Both men served their time, and that was that."

"All right, leave your report on my desk. A wild-goose chase."

"Why," Hamish wanted to know, "did Penrith deny they'd served atall or knew each ither before London?"

Rutledge reached for the report and went through it again, looking for what injuries had sent Quarles to hospital for such a long recovery.

He found it, a short notation in Gibson's scrawl: burned in attack, nearly lost hands.

Mrs. Quarles must have discovered this as well, if she hadn't already known about her husband's service in South Africa. Hardly sufficient reason to demand a separation. And even if Brunswick had learned of it, few people would care, even if he shouted it from the rooftops.

Hamish said, "It doesna' signify. Let it rest."

Rutledge turned to the paperwork on his desk, concentrating on the written pages before him. In his absence there were a number of cases where he would be expected to give testimony, and he marked his calendar accordingly. Then he read reports of ongoing inquiries where the sergeants in charge were collating evidence and passing it on for a superior to inspect. He made comments in the margins and set the files aside for collection. Three hours later, he'd come to the bottom of the stack, and the report that Sergeant Gibson had prepared about the military backgrounds of Quarles and Penrith.

The sergeant had summarized the material in his usual concise style, and his oral report had matched it. Rutledge tossed the folder back on his desk for collection and filing, and sat back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.

Hamish was restless, his voice loud in the small office, rattling the windows with its force. Rutledge warned, "They'll hear you in the passage," before he realized he was speaking aloud.

But Hamish was in no mood to be silent.

Rutledge reached for a folder again, realized it was Gibson's report, and tried to read it word for word in an effort to shut out Hamish's tirade. Gibson in his thoroughness had attached a copy of Penrith's military service record to support his notes.

It was nearly impossible to concentrate, and Rutledge shut his eyes against the thundering noise in his head. The last line on the page seemed to burn into his skull, and he flipped the folder closed, shutting his eyes and trying to concentrate.

It was several minutes before his brain registered anything more than pain.

He wasn't even certain he'd seen it, but he lifted the report a last time and tried to find it, first in the summation, and then in the military record itself.

And almost missed it again. Lieutenant Timothy Barton Evering.

The name of the officer in charge when the train was attacked.

Gibson, for all his thoroughness, had had no way of knowing that it mattered. Rutledge had been searching for different information, and it was only because the sergeant was not one to leave any fact undocumented that the name was even included.

Rutledge stood up, the sheet of paper still in his hand, and went to find Gibson. But the sergeant had gone out to interview a witness for one of the other inspectors.

Rutledge went back to his desk, took up the file, reached for his hat, and left the building.

He found Davis Penrith in his office. Brushing aside a reluctant clerk, Rutledge opened the door instead and strode in

Without waiting for Penrith to take in his abrupt appearance, Rut- ledge said, "I thought you told me you didn't know an Evering. That he was Quarles's client."

"I don't-"

"The officer in charge of the train ambushed out on the veldt was Timothy Barton Evering."

Penrith's mouth dropped open. It took him several seconds to recover. Then he fell back on anger. "What are you doing, searching through my past? I'm neither the murder victim nor a suspect in his death. You'll speak to my solicitor, Inspector, and explain yourself."

"Timothy Barton Evering."

"He's dead, man! There were no other survivors."

"Then who is Ronald Evering? His son?"

"I don't know any Ronald Evering. I told you, the investors in Cumberline were Quarles's clients, not mine. Now get out of my office and leave me alone!"

Rutledge turned on his heel and left. Back at the Yard, he left a message for Chief Superintendent Bowles that he would not be in the office for the next three days, went to his flat, and packed his valise.

It was a long drive all the way to Cornwall. Rutledge had sufficient time to wonder why it mattered so much to tie up a loose end that in no way affected the outcome of a case that was already concluded. All the same, action had improved his headache, and that in itself was something.

Penrith had given incomplete answers three times. Once about where his father had been curate, once about Quarles's background, and again about Evering. Whatever it was that Mrs. Quarles knew and Brunswick had been determined to ferret out, Davis Penrith must know as well.

There was a secret somewhere, and whether it had a bearing on this murder or not, it connected three people who on the surface of things had nothing in common.

Hamish said, "Do ye think the three acted together? If so, ye're a fool."

"Why has Penrith felt compelled to lie to me? If I'd gone to Hampshire looking for his past, I'd have found only a five-year-old boy. If I'd gone to Sussex, I'd have discovered that the grown man had served in the Army. And there was nothing in the legend of Harold Quarles about his military career, short as it was. He'd have used it if it had in any way served his purpose."