Todd, Charles (24 page)

"I don't want to talk about it. I'm still shaken, hardly able to believe I'm still alive. I expected never to see this world again. I thought I was well out of it." His face was hidden, his voice rough with tears. "For God's sake, go away and leave me alone."

"In the end, you'll have to clear yourself by telling us the truth."

"I don't have to do anything of the sort. You can't threaten me with hanging. I know how the noose feels about my neck, and what it's like to plunge into the dark. The next time will be easier, and it won't be interrupted.
I really don't give a damn
."

"If you want to die so badly," Padgett reminded him, "you'd have to convince us first that you deserve to. What you're feeling now is self-pity, not evidence. Do you think you're the only man who's lost a son? I can find you a dozen such fathers without leaving the parish."

"He was my only child—my wife is dead. I never thought I'd be grateful for that, until the day the news came."

Rutledge shook his head, warning Padgett to leave it as he was about to reply. Reluctantly Padgett turned and walked away, shutting the door behind him. Rutledge said to Stephenson, "Consider your situation. If you want to claim this crime even though you didn't commit it, go ahead. That's not vengeance, it's martyrdom. And in the final moments before the trapdoor drops, you'll find martyrdom isn't a satisfactory substitute for what you'd promised your son to do."

Not waiting for a reply, Rutledge turned on his heel, leaving Dr. O'Neil alone with his patient.

As they walked down the passage, he could hear Stephenson's voice: "I loved him more than anything, anything."

Outside, Padgett said, "Why did he call that bookstore of his Nemesis, if he wasn't waiting for his chance to kill Quarles? Whatever lay between them, it must have been a fearsome hate on Stephenson's part."

They had just reached the High Street when the boot boy from The Unicorn caught up with them. "You're wanted, sir, if you're Inspector Rutledge. There's a telephone call for you at the hotel. I was told at the station you'd be with Inspector Padgett."

"And who would be calling the inspector?" Padgett asked, inquisitiveness alive in his face.

"London," Rutledge answered. "Who else?" He handed the flushed boot boy a coin, nodded to Padgett, and walked away toward The Unicorn.

Hunter was waiting for him at Reception, and escorted him to the telephone room. "They promised to call again in fifteen minutes." He took out his pocket watch. "That's half a minute from now."

On the heels of his words, they could hear the telephone bell, and Rutledge went to answer it.

It was Sergeant Gibson, who asked him in a formal tone to wait for Chief Superintendent Bowles to be summoned.

The tone of voice, as always with Gibson, reflected the mood of the Yard.

Bowles, when he took up the receiver, shouted, "You there, Rutledge?"

"Yes, sir, I'm here."

"What's this I hear about your questioning Mr. Penrith and speaking to Hurley and Sons?"

Mickelson was back in London and complaining.

"It was in the course of—"

"I don't give a fig for your excuses. I sent you to Cambury to find a murderer, and I've had no report of your progress. Davis Penrith has been on the horn to the Yard, expressing his concern, wanting to know if we've taken anyone into custody. Have we?"

"Not yet. I reported the death of his former partner to Penrith, and asked who among the victim's business connections might have a grievance against the man dead. I asked Hurley and Sons who benefited from the will. It's the usual procedure. You gave me no instructions not to follow up in London."

In the background Rutledge could hear Hamish derisively mocking his words.

"This was an important man, Rutledge. Do you understand me? Inspector Padgett was quite right to call in the Yard, and if you aren't capable of dealing with this inquiry, I'll send someone down who can."

"We're interviewing—"

"You're wasting time, Rutledge. I can have you out of there in twenty-four hours, if you don't give us results. Do you hear me?" The receiver banged into its cradle with a violence that could be heard across the room. Rutledge smiled. Mickelson must have been very put out indeed.

As he turned around to leave, Rutledge saw that Padgett had followed him to the hotel and was standing in the doorway. He must have heard a good part of the conversation. From the look on his face, most assuredly he'd heard the receiver put up with force.

He said blandly, "I was just coming to inquire. Do you want to tell Mrs. Quarles that she can bury her husband, or shall I?"

Rutledge wiped the smile from his lips. "Yes, go ahead. I think she'll be glad of the news."

"Yes, sooner in the ground, sooner forgotten. Shall I tell the rector that he'll be posting the banns for a marriage, as soon as the funeral guests are out of sight?"

"Sorry to disappoint you. I don't think she'll marry Archer. Now or ever."

"Care for a small wager?" Padgett asked as he turned away, not waiting for Rutledge's answer.

Hamish said, agreeing with Rutledge. "She willna' marry again. There's her son."

Rutledge went up to his room, surprised at how late in the afternoon it was. He felt fatigue sweeping over him, and knew it for what it was, an admission that Padgett and Chief Superintendent Bowles had got to him.

Hamish said, "You were in great haste to get to London before yon inspector returned from Dover. You canna' expect to escape unscathed."

I t was nearly four-thirty in the morning when someone knocked at the door of Rutledge's room.

He was sleeping lightly and heard the knock at once. "I'm coming."

The only reason he could think of for the summons was another murder, and he was running down a mental list as he pulled on his trousers and opened the door.

It wasn't Inspector Padgett or one of his constables. Standing on the threshold was Miss O'Hara, her hair tousled, and a shawl thrown over hastily donned clothes.

"You must come at once," she said. "I've got Gwyneth Jones at my house. She just came home, and her father's at the bakery, firing up the ovens, her sisters asleep in their beds."

He turned to find his shoes and his coat. "Is she all right?"

"Frightened to death, tired, hungry, and looking as if she's slept in her clothes. Mrs. Jones told me you knew her story. The question now is, what to do? Gwyneth's father is going to be furious, and her mother is on the point of having a fit."

"Have you told the girl that Quarles is dead?" Rutledge asked as they went toward the stairs.

She shook her head. "No, nor has her mother. Gwyneth explained to her mother that she was homesick, but she told me that she missed Cambury and wanted to work in the shop again, rather than dance to her grandmother's tune."

They opened and shut The Unicorn's door as quietly as possible, so as not to disturb the night clerk sleeping in his little cubicle.

"How did you know which room I was in?" he asked as they stepped out into the cool night air and walked briskly toward Church Street.

"How do you think? I looked in the book at Reception."

Rutledge found himself reflecting that if the story got around Cambury that he was seen escorting a disheveled Irishwoman out of the hotel and back to her house at this hour of the morning, gossip would be rampant. And Padgett would have much to say about it. The one bright point was that Gwyneth had been sent to Miss O'Hara's house while it was still dark. They could at least keep her arrival quiet for a while.

As if she'd read his mind, Miss O'Hara suppressed a laugh. "We'll have to avoid the man who brings round the milk. Bertie. He's the worst rumor monger in Cambury. If you wish to have your business discussed over the world's breakfast table, confide in him."

The first hint of dawn was touching the eastern sky, and the coolness of evening still lurked in the shadows. It would be light enough soon for anyone looking out a window to see them.

"Why did Mrs. Jones bring her to you?"

"If the other children had seen their sister, there'd be no keeping the news from their father. I was the only woman living alone she could think of."

"What do you know about the situation?"

"Enough to realize that if she'd fled Wales, and her father got wind of it, he'd kill Harold Quarles."

"How did the girl get home?"

"Begging lifts from anyone she thought she could trust. She had a little money with her, but not enough to pay for a train or omnibus." They had reached the O'Hara cottage and quickly slipped inside. Gwyneth Jones was sitting dejectedly in the kitchen, her hands wrapped around a mug of hot tea, her face as long as her tangled dark hair.

All the same, he could see that she was a lovely girl, with curling black hair and dark lashes, dark eyes, skin like silk. But whatever spirit she might have possessed was now sunk in gloom and fear.

She started to her feet like a cornered wild thing when she saw that Miss O'Hara had brought someone with her.

Rutledge said quickly, "You needn't be afraid. Your mother has told me about you. I'm a policeman—from London. Inspector Rutledge, and you can trust me. Miss O'Hara did the right thing, asking me to help you sort out your troubles."

"A policeman?" She frowned. "My mother says I can't come home—she wants to send me directly back to Wales, and she refuses to let me see my da. It's as if I've done some terrible thing, and no one wants me anymore."

She sounded like a terrified and bewildered child.

Miss O'Hara went to her and put a hand on her arm, urging her to sit down again. Instead, Gwyneth threw her arms around the older woman and began to cry wretchedly.

"Miss Jones. Gwyneth," Rutledge began. "Listen to me. There's been some trouble here in Cambury, that's why I'm here. Rather— um—serious trouble."

His hesitation as he searched for a less threatening word than
murder
was enough. The girl broke free of Miss O'Hara's embrace and turned to stare at him, her tear-streaked face appalled. "My father's dead.
That's why they won't let me go to him."

"No, its not your father—"

"Then it's Mr. Quarles who's dead, and you've got my father in custody for it."

"He's only one of several suspects, Gywneth. No one has been taken into custody—"

"I tried to tell him, Mr. Quarles isn't a monster, whatever the gossips say. But he believed them, just like she did." She pointed to Miss O'Hara, then added, "Mr. Quarles was nice to me, he told me that I could choose my own life. I don't have to follow my father in the bakery if I don't want to. I don't have to be the son my father never had—"

His eyes met Miss O'Hara's over the girl's head. "Gwyneth. Did Quarles offer to take you to London, and help you find this new life?"

"Of course he didn't. He told me I must learn to do something well, to make my living. To cook or to bake or to make hats, it didn't matter. He told me not to go into service. His sister did, and she was wretched to the end."

"Where does his sister live?" Rutledge asked, thinking that she could provide him with more information about Quarles than anyone else.

"She's dead. All his family is dead. They have been for years. He doesn't have anyone but his son."

"You're certain Mr. Quarles didn't try to convince you to run away from home? Or encourage you to leave your grandmother's and come back to Cambury?" Miss O'Hara asked.

"Of course not. My father thought he was flirting with me, but he wasn't. He said he hated to see such a pretty girl waste her life in Cambury, when she could live in Glastonbury or Bath and marry better than the young men I know here. And he's right, I don't like
any
of them well enough to marry them."

It was a different story from the one Jones himself had told Rutledge. But taking that with a grain of salt, Rutledge could see that Jones was jealous, wanted his favorite child to stay with him and inherit the bakery, not find work and happiness away from Cambury. He'd seen Quarles as the snake in his Eden, tempting his young daughter with tales that turned her head. And he'd read what he wanted to believe in the older man's attentions.

Who knew what was in Harold Quarles's mind—whether he wanted to help her or hoped to lead Gwyneth astray, perhaps take advantage of her when she was older and lonely and far from home.

She
was
extraordinarily pretty. But would she be any happier in a larger town? Would she find this young man of her dreams—or would she be trapped by someone who had other reasons for befriending her, and in the end, ruin her? Quarles hadn't troubled himself over Gwyneth's inexperience.

Rutledge could see and understand a father's anger. He could also see—if it were true—that Quarles might have discovered in Gwyneth more than Cambury had to offer and tried to show her that she could reach higher than her parents had, her mother with six children, her father content with his fourteen hours a day in his bakery.

It didn't matter. Quarles was dead, and Hugh Jones had a very good reason for killing this man who was interfering with his family.