Mercury, gleaming in a shaft of sunlight from the fanlight above the door, balanced on his toes atop the newel post. Both men glanced at it, sharply reminded of the winged corpse in the tithe barn.
As he looked around, Padgett's face mirrored his thoughts: Ostentatious. But the foyer, while handsome enough, was by no means the finest the West Country had to offer. Did Padgett know that? Rutledge wondered, or would it matter if he did? He seemed to resent everything about Harold Quarles.
The housekeeper led them to a door down the passage and tapped lightly.
'Come.' The woman's voice inside the room was well bred and composed.
The housekeeper opened the door and said, 'Inspector Padgett, madam.'
The small sitting room was clearly a woman's morning room. A French gilt-trimmed white desk stood between the windows, and there was a pretty chintz on the settee and the two side chairs that stood before the hearth, the pattern showing a field of lupines on a cream background. The blue of the lupines had been picked up again in the draperies and the carpet.
Mrs. Quarles was standing with her back to the grate, her fingers pressing the collar of her cream silk dressing gown at her throat, her fair hair neatly pinned into place. She was a very attractive woman, perhaps in her middle thirties.
At her side was a tall man sitting in an invalid's wheeled chair, a rug over his knees. His dark hair was graying at the temples, and his face was distinguished, with dark eyes beneath heavy lids. He had an air of sophistication about him, despite his infirmity. Mrs. Quarles's other hand fell to rest on his shoulder as Padgett introduced Rutledge.
'From Scotland Yard?' she repeated in a clear, cool voice, examining Rutledge. 'Why are you here at this hour? Is something wrong? You haven't come about my son, have you?'
'There's been a death, Mrs. Quarles,' Padgett said, taking it upon himself to break the news. 'I'm afraid it's your husband-'
'Death?' Her eyebrows rose as if she couldn't quite understand the word. 'Are you sure?'
'Quite sure. We've just found his body-that is, a few hours ago-' Padgett stopped, tangled in his own explanation. It was clear that he felt ill at ease in her presence, and that it annoyed him.
'Are you telling me that my husband killed himself?' she demanded. 'I refuse to believe anything of the sort. Where did you find him, and what has happened to him? '
'We found him in the tithe barn-that is, I did, and summoned Mr. Rutledge here because of the unusual circumstances.'
She said testily, 'Please get to the point, Inspector.'
Padgett bristled. 'He was murdered, Mrs. Quarles.' The words were blunt, his voice cold.
Rutledge silently cursed the man. He was letting Mrs. Quarles set the direction of the interview.
Her hand, resting on the man's shoulder, gripped hard. Rutledge could see the slender knuckles whiten with the force.
'Murder?'
The man raised a hand to cover hers.
Rutledge thought, they are lovers… there was something in that touch that spoke of years of companionship and caring. But here? In Quarles's house?
Mrs. Quarles recovered herself and said, 'By whom, for God's sake? Are you quite sure it wasn't an accident of some sort? My husband was forever poking about the estate on his weekends here, and sometimes drove Tom Masters to distraction.'
'We don't have the answer to that at present. Shall I send Dr. O'Neil to you directly? Or the rector?' It was noticeable that Padgett failed to offer the formal words of condolence.
'To me? I shan't need Dr. O'Neil. Or the rector.' Her face showed shock, but no grief.
'We'll need to speak to the staff. And I should like to see Mr. Quarles's rooms if I may. I understand he'd come down from London for the weekend. Was he expected?'
The man in the chair answered for her. 'Generally he sends word ahead. But not always. It's his house, after all. This time he arrived in the late afternoon Friday, and spent most of yesterday with Tom Masters, who sees to the Home Farm. He came back around four, I should think, and told the staff that he intended to dine out. This was relayed to me when I came down before dinner.'
Padgett asked, 'Mrs. Quarles?' Sharply seeking confirmation.
'Yes, as far as I know, that's all true.'
'Were you on good terms with Mr. Quarles during this visit?'
'On good terms?'
'Did you quarrel? Have words?'
He watched the first crack in her facade of cool reserve as she snapped, 'We never quarrel. Why should we?'
'Most married couples do. Did you see him when he returned from his dinner engagement?'
'I was not waiting up for him, if that's what you're asking.'
Rutledge stepped in before Padgett could follow up on that. 'Did he dine alone?'
Mrs. Quarles turned to him, almost with relief. 'How should I know? We go our separate ways, Harold and I.'
'Then you would have no reason to worry if he didn't return at the end of the evening?'
'We live in different wings, Mr. Rutledge. By mutual agreement.'
'Is there anyone on the staff who saw to his needs while he was here in Somerset? Someone who might have noticed that he was out later than usual? '
For an instant he thought Mrs. Quarles had misinterpreted his question. Then she answered, 'He doesn't have a valet. My husband wasn't brought up with staff to look after him. He preferred not to be troubled now.'
Rutledge turned to the man in the wheeled chair. She hadn't introduced him, by choice.
The man said with something of a smile, 'I'm Mrs. Quarles's cousin. The name is Charles Archer. I live here.'
'Can you shed any light on Mr. Quarles's movements during the evening? Or did you hear something that worried you? A dog barking, the sound of raised voices, lights near the drive?'
'My rooms overlook the main gardens. I wouldn't be likely to hear anything from the direction of the drive.'
Mrs. Quarles added, 'If he was killed near the road, anyone could have seen him walking there and attacked him.'
'We don't know yet where your husband was killed. Did he have enemies, that you know of?' Padgett asked.
Mrs. Quarles's laughter rang out, silvery and amused. 'Why ask me?' she demanded. 'You yourself never liked him-nor he you, for that matter. And you must know that half the families in Cambury had fallen out with him in one fashion or the other. Stephenson, Jones, Brunswick-the list goes on.'
Rutledge said, 'Are you saying that these people felt strongly enough about your husband that they might have killed him?'
Mrs. Quarles shrugged expressively. 'Walk down a street and point to any door, and you're likely to find someone who detested Harold Quarles. As for taking that to the point of murder, you must ask them.'
'Why should they dislike him so intensely?'
'Because he's-he was-ruthless. He gave no thought to the feelings of others. He was very good at pretending he cared, when it suited his purpose, but the fact is-was-that he used people for his own ends. When people discovered his true nature, they were often furious at being taken in. By then it was too late, he'd got what he wanted and moved on. The wreckage left in his wake was nothing to him. When he couldn't simply walk away, he paid his way out of trouble. Most people have a price, you know, and he was very clever at finding it.'
'Then why are you so surprised that he was murdered?'
'I suppose I never expected anyone to act on their feelings. Not here-this is Somerset, people don't kill each other here!'
Padgett, seeing his opportunity, said, 'And you, Mrs. Quarles-do you number yourself among his enemies?'
She smiled at him, amused. 'I have-had-a very satisfactory arrangement with my husband,' she said. 'Why
