semiconscious and not resisting.'
'But both were struck from behind?' Rutledge asked. He had been studying the dead man's hands. They were badly scarred.
The skin was still tight and shiny in places, though the worst of the injury had faded with time.
Hamish said, 'Aye, we've seen burns before. But look you, they're no' on his face.'
Dr. O'Neil was regarding Rutledge, his expression puzzled.
He realized that the doctor hadn't taken his point. He clarified his question. 'That is to say, do the blows indicate whether Quarles had turned away from someone he was talking with? Or was it a surprise attack, something he didn't see coming?'
'That's your task to work out, not mine. All I can say is that he might have been turning away. The first laceration is a little behind and to the right of the second. Or at the last minute he could have heard someone coming up behind him and started to turn to confront whoever it was. I can't tell you what was used to kill him. Or where he was killed. Unless there's blood on the floor that I haven't seen in this light?'
'Horton,' Padgett said over his shoulder, 'take one of the lanterns and go over the flagstones as carefully as you can. Pay particular attention by the mechanism of that rig.'
The man set off, his light bobbing as he searched.
O'Neil stood, brushing off the knees of his trousers. 'It's my opinion that he hasn't been dead very long. Hours, rather than days. Any idea who could have done this?'
'None,' Padgett replied shortly.
'How did he come by those burns on his hands?' Rutledge asked.
O'Neil said, 'He's had them as long as I've known him. I asked once, professional interest, but he just said it was an accident. It was clear he didn't want to talk about it. Which reminds me, has anyone thought to let Mrs. Quarles know that her husband is dead?'
'We preferred to keep this quiet until Rutledge got here.' Padgett pulled out his watch. 'They'll be stirring at the Home Farm soon, if they aren't already. It won't take long for someone to see the vehicles outside and come to find out what's happening. I suppose I ought to go to the house directly.'
'If you'll lend me one of your men, I'll see to the moving of the body while all's quiet. Anything else you need from me?'
'Nothing at present-'
He was interrupted by Horton calling from the other end of the barn. 'So far, there's no blood to indicate if he was killed in here, sir. We might do better in daylight, but I'll wager it wasn't in the barn.'
Padgett turned to Rutledge. 'Do you want to go to the house with me?'
Breaking bad news was not Rutledge's favorite duty, but someone had to do it, and it was just as well to meet the family now. Sometimes the way the household reacted to a death could be telling. He nodded.
'All right, Horton, you help the doctor. Daniels, you and Jenkins can see to this apparatus. Put it where it belongs and shut the chest on it. I don't want to see it again. As it is, I'll be hard-pressed to attend the pageant this year. Then I want the two of you to stand watch at the barn door. I'll leave my motorcar for Jenkins. Turn about, every two hours-'
Rutledge said, 'Wait, let me examine that cage.'
It was indeed wicker, as he'd thought, reinforced by wires, and the wings, he discovered, were attached as a rule to a brace that locked across the wicker frame, holding the Christmas angel safely in place. It was all in all a clever device, and must create quite a spectacle. But there was nothing on the harness or the ropes or the pulleys that offered him any clue as to who had used it for a dead man.
'Thanks,' he said, nodding to the two constables, and turning to Dr. O'Neil, he asked, 'Do you think Quarles was still alive when he was put into this contraption?' 'If he was attacked here, in the barn, I'd say he was dead before he was hoisted up into the rafters. The second blow rendered him unconscious, if he wasn't already, and he was dying. Beyond saving, in fact, even if his attacker had changed his mind. It must have taken several minutes to get him into that device. Very likely there was a cloth or coat around his wound, or you'd have seen where his head rested during the process. At a guess, that's why there's no blood to be found here. It's a deep wound, I could feel where fragments of bone have been driven into the brain. If he was brought here from somewhere else, he was dead before he got to the barn. And heavy as he is, he wouldn't have been easy to manage. But it could be done. I'd look for scuff marks-where he was dragged-outside. If we haven't obscured them with our own tramping about.'
'Thank you, Doctor.' Rutledge turned to follow Padgett, and O'Neil went with them as far as his own motorcar, to fetch a blanket.
Shielding his torch, Padgett studied the turf around the door. 'He's right, too many feet have trod here. But there's no other way in; we had no choice.'
Rutledge cast his light a little to one side, trying to find signs of torn grass. 'How did the killer bring Quarles here? Motorcar? On his back?'
'If we knew that, we'd be ahead of the game, wouldn't we?' Padgett replied morosely. He climbed into the passenger seat while Rutledge was cranking the motor, and said to no one in particular, 'I don't relish this. Mrs. Quarles is an unusual woman. As you'll see for yourself.'
'In what way?'
'You'll see.'
Rutledge turned the motorcar and went back through the trees. The mist had vanished, as if it had never been there. Where the track to the tithe barn met the farm lane, Padgett said, 'We'll go through the main gates. Set me down as you get there, and I'll open them.'
The drive ran through parkland, specimen trees and shrubs providing vistas as it curved toward the house. When it came out of the trees and into smooth lawns toward the southeast, it went on to loop a bed of roses in front of the door. In the light breeze of early morning, their scent was heavy and sweet, and dew sparkled like diamonds among the leaves.
The house was tall, perfectly set among gardens, its dormer windows on the eastern approach already touched with the first rays of bright gold as the sun rose. A very handsome property, Rutledge thought as he pulled up, the sort of house that spoke of old money and breeding.
For a long moment Padgett sat there, looking at nothing.
'Well,' he said finally, 'we must do our duty, and break their tran- quility into shards.'
'I don't see any dogs. Surely if they were loose, they'd be here to greet us,' Rutledge commented as they mounted the shallow steps and Padgett lifted the brass knocker. 'At the very least the one you might have heard.'
Padgett, listening to the sound of the bell ring through the house, said, 'I doubt the dog was hers. We'll ask at the Home Farm.'
For several minutes no one came to the door. Then it swung open, and a housekeeper stood there, glaring at them before she recognized Padgett.
'Inspector,' she said in wary acknowledgment. 'What brings you calling so early?'
'I'd like to speak to Mrs. Quarles, if I may. If she isn't awake-'
'I doubt anyone's asleep after such a summons at this hour.'
'It's rather urgent,' Padgett replied, goaded.
'I'll ask if she'll receive you now.'
Rutledge said, 'I understand Mrs. Quarles has several small dogs.'
The housekeeper stared at him, as if he'd lost his mind. 'If it's the little dogs you've come about, they're asleep in Mrs. Quarles's bedroom, where they belong.'
She shut the door in their faces, and Padgett repeated sourly, ''I'll ask if she'll receive you.' As if I'm a bloody tradesman come to settle my accounts.'
'It's a matter of form,' Rutledge said
'Yes, well, we'll see who's unwanted, soon enough.'
When the housekeeper came to the door again, this time she swung it wide, to allow them to enter. 'Mrs. Quarles will see you. If you'll follow me.'
They walked into a spacious foyer. The black and white marble of the floor had been set in a chessboard pattern, and the walls were a pale green trimmed in white. A flight of stairs curved upward, and a small winged
