Charles Todd - A matter of Justice

"Yes, I can understand."

"Were you in the Great War, Mr. Rutledge? If you were, you can appreciate that many details of what happens in a battle are not reported. My brother's commanding officer wrote a very fine letter to my father, and it said very little beyond the fact that Timothy died bravely and didn't suffer. That he was an honor to his regiment, showed great promise as an officer, and would have had a fine career in the army if he'd lived. How many such letters does an officer write? He could say the same thing to a dozen grieving families, and who would be the wiser? "

"It is meant well. Sometimes the details are-distressing."

"Yes, I'm sure that must be true. For my mother's sake, I was grateful. She died not knowing whether he suffered or not. Which is what really mattered, in the end." Evering gestured to the chairs that stood between them. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Rutledge? I'll ring for tea. It will be some time before the boat returns."

"Thank you." Rutledge took the chair indicated and waited until Evering had given the order for tea to the woman who'd answered the door.

"One of the reasons I'm following up on the South African campaign is that something that happened in Harold Quarles's service out there-he served nowhere else, you see-disturbed his wife to such a degree that there was a serious breach with her husband. It lasted until his death."

Evering considered Rutledge for a moment and then said, "I don't know what to say. I've never met Mrs. Quarles or spoken to her. Does she think this-whatever it was-had to do with my brother?"

"I have no way of knowing what it is. I'm here to learn as much as I can about the only serious action Quarles saw during the war."

"It's a mystery to me. But if she tells you anything that I ought to know, please send me word. I'd be grateful."

The tea came, and they drank it in silence. Rutledge's mind was occupied, and Evering seemed to have little conversation, as if living alone in this empty, silent house had shaped his spirit.

But as he set his teacup down, Rutledge asked, "And so, as the only surviving son, you inherited this house?"

"My father's family was one of the earliest settlers here. Generations ago. We are as close to 'native' here as anyone can be. You either love or hate it. My brother joined the army because he wanted adventure and excitement, both in short supply here on St. Anne's. My mother called it a need to be a man, and persuaded herself that in due course he'd come home, marry, and settle here for the rest of his life. As the elder son, that's what was expected of him. Instead he died in a place none of us had ever heard of and couldn't find on a map. Look, there's the mail boat. No passengers to hold it up today. You should be there when it comes in, Mr. Rutledge."

"I almost forgot." Rutledge reached into his pocket and brought out the packet of mail. "I was to give you this." He glanced at the return address on the top envelop but said nothing.

Evering thanked him and sent for the maid to bring Rutledge's coat and hat. "I'm afraid it will be a wet crossing. Those clouds on the horizon spell rain. Thank you for coming, Mr. Rutledge. I'm sorry I couldn't be more helpful."

But Rutledge, as he went out into the wind, smelling now of rain, thought that on the whole Ronald Evering had not been sorry at all.

By the time the boat reached the mainland, they were caught in a downpour, and in spite of his useless umbrella, Rutledge managed to start his motorcar without drowning.

Cutting across Cornwall in the direction of Dunster, Rutledge spent the night there with the Maitlands, newly returned from their wedding trip and delighted to see him. They would have kept him longer, but he was up before dawn the next morning, and by first light was well on the road again, heading for Cambury.

He drove straight through the village when he reached the High Street, and out to Hallowfields.

Mrs. Quarles was in mourning, he was told, and not seeing anyone.

"Tell her I know about Evering," he said, and in three minutes, he was face-to-face with Harold Quarles's widow in the formal drawing room. She was not happy to see him, and the two small dogs at her feet growled as he entered.

"I thought we were fortunate in not having to deal with Scotland Yard any longer," she told him shortly. "And here you are again." She didn't ask him to sit down.

"I'm afraid that I'm rather tenacious when it comes to making certain that the man I hang is indeed the killer I was looking for."

"You have doubts about Brunswick? But I was told he confessed."

"For reasons of his own-which may or may not be the right reasons. It's Evering I'm interested in, and how he died."

"Who told you about Evering? Was it Penrith? If you tell me it was, I won't believe you."

"Penrith would as soon keep the matter quiet. He's lied to me enough to make me suspicious, and that wasn't very clever of him."

"Then you'll hear nothing from me."

"Mrs. Quarles, I'm very close to stumbling on the truth. If you know Evering's name, then you know what it is I'm after. And I warn you, it's very likely that Michael Brunswick knows more than I do, and that he'll use what he knows at his trial, to disgrace your husband publicly."

"There's no way Brunswick could know anything. I wouldn't have learned the truth myself if Harold hadn't been so drunk one night that he talked in his sleep. It was as if he were having a waking nightmare. I've never seen anything before or since to match it. The next morning I confronted him with it, and at first he told me I was imagining things. And then he swore he'd see me dead if I said anything to anyone. I knew then that it was true. And I left him, because I couldn't stand to be in the same room with him or feel those hands-"

She broke off.

"You might as well tell me, Mrs. Quarles. I won't walk away until I know the whole truth about your husband. If it has nothing to do with his murder, I will never speak of it. You can trust my word on that."

She stared at him. "What use to me is your word?"

"It's better that I find out than someone else trying to pry into the past."

Walking past him to the door, Maybelle Quarles opened it quickly, as if expecting to find Mrs. Downing there with her ear pressed to the panel. But the passage was empty. She closed it again and went to the window, looking out. When she spoke, she had pitched her voice low, so that it barely reached his ears.

"You are a persistent man, Mr. Rutledge. Very well. I will tell you what you want to know. Not because of the persistence, but because by your digging, it's possible that other people will get wind of the truth, and we will never have peace in this family again."

Turning back to him, she said baldly, "My husband burned Lieutenant Evering alive, after shooting the wounded on that train."

"Gentle God," Rutledge said softly. "In heaven's name, why?"

"I don't know. I wish I did, it would make my own nightmares easier to bear."

"Does Penrith know? Surely-"

"He must know. The soldiers who reached the train misread what they saw, and Penrith made no move to correct them. They must have thought Harold was burned trying to save the lieutenant. They believed the Boers had come into the train and killed the wounded. My husband was delirious, he couldn't tell them what had happened after Penrith went for help."

"It could well be true."

"In that nightmare, he relived listening to Evering die. He relived shooting the wounded. He lay there, writhing on the bed, and begged God to help him after he'd burned his hands to make it appear he'd done his best. He'd kept that secret so long that it was tormenting him, and that night, he confessed to God or the devil, I don't know which, and I sat there, afraid to call for help, listening to it all"