the man underneath the successful facade. Was the estate itself all he needed to define himself? A measure of prestige, a visible statement that a man who had come from nothing had achieved everything? Old money, giving panache to the New. For some men it would be the crowning achievement of a lifetime.
Hamish said, 'He was no' a countryman.'
It appeared to be true, and that would explain why the house was treated as a symbol, not a home.
They locked the door behind them. Mrs. Downing waited for the keys to be passed to her. But Rutledge pocketed them, and her mouth thinned into a disapproving line.
On their way down the main staircase, they found themselves face- to-face with Mrs. Quarles, who was crossing the foyer. She looked up at them and said, 'I see you've returned.'
'Yes,' Rutledge answered for both men. 'Thank you for making your staff available to us. And if I may ask you one more question?'
She stopped, waiting.
Rutledge said, 'Tomorrow-Monday-it will be necessary to notify your husband's solicitor and his business associates that he's dead.'
'His solicitor is in the City. The firm of Hurley and Sons. As for his business associates, Davis Penrith was his partner until a year or so ago. He will be able to tell you who to contact.' She hesitated and then asked, 'Did Harold suffer?'
'You must ask Dr. O'Neil. But my impression was that he didn't.'
'Thank you.' She went on her way without another word. And he couldn't tell whether she was pleased or sorry.
From the house they went to the Home Farm, tucked in a fold of land and out of sight of Hallowfields.
It was a large, thatched stone house, and along the ridge of the roof, the thatcher had left his signature-the humorous vignette of a long- tailed cat chasing a mouse toward the chimney, while a second mouse peered out of what looked to be a hole in the thatch just behind the cat's heels. They had been created out of the same reeds that formed the roof and were remarkably clever.
Tom Masters opened the door to the two policemen, saying, 'It's true, then? The scullery maid from Hallowfields told our cook not more than half an hour ago that Mr. Quarles was dead. I went up to the house, but no one answered the door. What's happened? I'm still in shock.'
He was a square man, skin reddened by the sun, his dark hair streaked with gray. Rutledge could see the worry in his eyes.
'May we come in, Mr. Masters?' Padgett asked after explaining Rutledge's presence.
'Yes, yes, to be sure.' He stood aside to let them enter and took them to a pretty parlor that overlooked the pond. 'Sit down, please,' he said, gesturing to the chairs across from the leather one that was clearly his. The worn seat and back had over the years taken his shape, and a pipe stand was to hand.
'Do you keep dogs, Mr. Masters?' Rutledge asked.
'We have two. They're out with my youngest son at the moment. What does this have to do with Mr. Quarles? Tell me what's going on.'
'Last night, I was driving past Hallowfields and heard a dog barking,' Padgett explained. 'It was sharp, alarmed. When I stopped to investigate I found Mr. Quarles's body.'
Masters frowned. 'My dogs weren't roaming about last night. I know that for a fact. One sleeps with my son, and the other is in my bedroom at night. If they were out, I'd have known when I went up to bed.' The frown deepened. 'Are you suggesting that Harold Quarles simply dropped dead? No, I refuse to believe it. I'd have said he's fitter than I am.'
'He was murdered.' Rutledge watched as several expressions flitted across Masters's face.
'Murder? Dear God. I find that just as difficult to believe. Mrs. Quarles-how is she taking the news?'
'She's bearing up,' Padgett said. 'Did you see Mr. Quarles yesterday?'
'Yes, several times. The last time was just as my wife was bringing our tea. I saw him walking toward the house. I didn't speak to him then, but earlier we'd discussed several repairs that are needed about the estate. He seemed in the usual spirits at the time.' Masters shook his head. 'This is unimaginable. I'm having trouble grasping it.'
'Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Mr. Quarles?' Padgett asked.
A wary expression crept into Tom Masters's eyes. 'I can think of a dozen people who couldn't bear him. That's not to say they could possibly kill him. To what end?' He hesitated. 'Are you quite sure this was murder?'
'Quite,' Rutledge responded. 'How many people are in your household, Mr. Masters?'
'Er, my wife, two sons, and a daughter-the eldest is twelve-and four servants-a cook and two maids and a man of all work. He's married to the cook.'
'Do they sleep in the house?'
'Yes.'
'Can you hear anything from the direction of the cottage? Or the tithe barn? A dog in distress? A motorcar coming down the farm lane? A loud quarrel? ' Rutledge asked.
'Probably not. Unless I was outside and the wind was in the right quarter.' Alarm spread across Masters's face. 'Are you saying we might have heard-come to his aid in time? My God, that's a terrible thought!'
'I doubt if you'd have been in time, whatever you heard.'
They talked for another five minutes, but Masters appeared to have no information that could help the police in their inquiries. All the same, Rutledge had a strong feeling that the man wasn't being completely honest, that behind the pleasant face and forthcoming manner, there was a niggling worry.
Rutledge asked the farm manager again if he could name anyone who'd had a falling-out with Harold Quarles, and again he denied that he could.
'I shouldn't wish to make trouble for anyone. There's a difference between having words with a man and killing him in cold blood.' He glanced toward Padgett. 'I'm a farmer, not a policeman. The inspector, here, can give you better guidance on that score. I'd only be repeating gossip.'
They left soon after that. Padgett said as they returned to the motorcar, 'You could see he was hiding something. I might as well tell you what it is. His wife had a disagreement with Quarles. Over a horse, of all things. But she got the better of him, and that was that. All the same, with two policemen staring you in the face, it's hard not to think the worst. The wonder was Quarles didn't sack Masters. But then he's one of the best farm managers in the West Country. It would have been cutting off one's nose to spite one's face.'
'Strange,' Rutledge said, 'how many people who readily tell us how much Quarles was disliked, stop short at making a guess about who could have killed the man. It's almost like a conspiracy of silence: you did what I'd have enjoyed doing, and now I'll thank you by not giving you away.'
Padgett laughed. 'You had only to know the man to hate him. But I've heard he was highly thought of in London. Imagine that-the nobs taking to him like one of their own. Here there were two problems with Harold Quarles. One was his pursuit of women, the other his belief that most people could be used.'
'Or else,' Hamish said quietly from the rear seat, 'he didna' wish to be treated as one of the villagers.'
Which came back to Quarles's simple roots.
It was late afternoon when they reached Cambury. Padgett stretched his shoulders and said, 'Precious little came of interviewing anyone at Hallowfields. I expect you'll want to leave for London tonight and try your luck there.'
'What do you know about the church organist? Brunswick.'
'How did you come across him?' Padgett turned to stare at him. 'Is there something you aren't telling me?'
'I saw him going into the church just before I came to meet you.'
'Ah. He was practicing, I expect. He seems to prefer that to going home. Not that I blame him. His wife is dead. A suicide. She just went out and drowned herself, without a word to anyone.'
'Why did Mrs. Quarles list him among those who hated her husband?'
'Yes, well, probably to throw you off the scent.'
Rutledge stopped the motorcar in front of the police station, but Padgett made no move to step out. 'You'd better hear the rest of it,' he said after a moment.
'His wife worked for Mr. Quarles for three months, while he was rusticating here in Somerset. He needed
