it-will it run now?'
'There's nothing wrong with your motorcar that a team can't cure. But I didn't want to leave you until I knew you were all right. There's no one to send back to the house. I saw your headlamps when I went to do the milking. You're not the first to come to grief in the dark on that bend in the road.'
Rutledge managed to sit up, his eyes shut against the pain. 'There's no bend-a dog darted in front of me, I swerved to miss him.'
'A dog? There's no dog, just that bend. You must have fallen asleep and dreamt it.'
It was a dog barking that had brought Padgett to the tithe barn…
'Yes, I expect I did.' He put up a hand and felt the blood drying on his forehead and cheek, crusting on his chin. It was a good thing, he thought wryly, that he'd brought that fresh shirt with him.
He heaved himself to his feet, gripping the farmer's outstretched hand for support until he could trust his legs to hold him upright.
'I'm all right. By the time you get your team here, I'll be able to drive.'
'Drive? You need a doctor above all else.'
'No, I'm all right,' he repeated, though he could hear Hamish telling him that he was far from right. 'Please fetch your team. What time is it? Do you know?'
'Past milking time. The cows are already in the barn, waiting.'
'Then the sooner you pull me out of here, the sooner they can be milked.'
The farmer took a deep breath. 'If that's what you're set on, I'll go. I don't have time to stand here and argue.'
He tramped off, a square man with heavy shoulders and muddy boots. As the lantern bobbed with each step, Rutledge felt another surge of nausea and turned away.
Without the lantern, he couldn't see the motorcar very well, but as he walked around it, it seemed to be in good condition. The tires were whole, and the engine turned over when he tried it, though it coughed first.
Hamish said, 'Ye fell asleep.'
'I thought it was your task to keep me awake. We could have been killed.'
'It was no' likely, though ye ken your head hit yon windscreen with an almighty crack.'
Rutledge put his hand up again to the lump. It seemed to be growing, not receding, though his chest, while it still ached, seemed to feel a little better. He could breathe without the stabbing pain he'd felt earlier. His ribs would have to wait.
'It was pride that made you drive all night. To reach London before yon inspector.'
He and Mickelson had had several run-ins, though the chief cause of Mickelson's dislike of Rutledge had to do with an inquiry in Westmorland last December.
'Aye, ye'll no' admit it,' Hamish said, when Rutledge didn't reply.
The farmer was back with his horses, and the huge draft animals pulled the motorcar back to the road with ease, the bunched muscles of their haunches rippling in the light of the farmer's lantern.
'Come to the house and rest a bit,' the man urged when the motorcar was on solid ground once more. 'A cup of tea will see you right.'
Rutledge held up the empty Thermos. 'I've tea here. But thanks.' He offered to pay the man, but the farmer shook his head. 'Do the same for someone else in need, and we're square,' he said, turning to lead his team back to the barn.
Watching the draft animals move off in the darkness, the lantern shining on the white cuffs of shaggy hair hanging over their hooves, Rutledge was beginning to regret his decision. But he could see false dawn in the east, and he would need to change his clothes and wash his face before finding Penrith.
The drive into London was difficult. His head was thundering, and his chest complained as he moved the wheel or reached for the brakes. But he was in his flat as the sun swept over the horizon. He looked in his mirror with surprise. A purpling lump above his eye and bloody streaks down to his collar-small wonder the farmer was worried about his driving on.
A quick bath was in order, and a change of clothes. He managed both after a fashion, looking down at the bruised half circle on his chest where he'd struck the wheel. His ribs were still tender, and he suspected he'd sustained a mild concussion.
Nausea stood between him and breakfast, and in the end, after two cups of tea, he set out to find Quarles's former partner. There was a clerkjust opening the door at the countinghouse in Leadenhall Street, and Rutledge asked for Penrith.
'Mr. Penrith is no longer with this firm,' the clerk said severely, eyeing the bruise on Rutledge's forehead.
Rutledge presented his identification.
The clerk responded with a nod. 'You'll find him just down the street, and to your left, the third door.'
'Are any of your senior officials here at this hour?'
'No, sir, I'm afraid not. They'll be going directly to a meeting at nine-thirty at the Bank of England.'
Rutledge followed instructions but discovered that Mr. Penrith had not so far arrived at his firm at the usual hour this morning. 'We expect him at ten o'clock,' the clerk told Rutledge after a long look at his identification.
It took some convincing to pry Penrith's direction out of the man.
Armed with that, Rutledge drove on to a tall, gracious house in Belgravia. Black shutters and black railings matched the black door, and two potted evergreens stood guard on either side of the shallow steps.
The pert maid who opened the door informed him that she would ask if Mr. Penrith was at home.
Five minutes later, Rutledge was being shown into a drawing room that would have had Padgett spluttering with indignation. Cream and pale green, it was as French as money could make it.
Penrith joined him shortly, standing in the doorway as if prepared to flee. Or so it appeared for a split second. When he stepped into the room, his expression was one of stoicism. He didn't invite Rutledge to sit down.
'What brings the police here? Is it the firm? My family?'
Rutledge replied, 'Mr. Penrith, I'm afraid I must inform you that your former partner, Harold Quarles, is dead.'
The shock on Penrith's face appeared to be genuine. 'Dead? Where? How?'
Rutledge's head felt as if there were salvos of French eighty-eights going off simultaneously on either side of him. 'In Somerset, at his estate.'
After a moment, Penrith sat down and put his hands over his face, effectively hiding it, and said through the shield of his fingers, 'Of what cause? Surely not suicide? I refuse to believe he would kill himself.'
Mrs. Quarles had said the same thing.
'Why are you so certain, sir?'
Penrith lowered his hands. 'For one thing, Harold Quarles is- was-the hardest man I've ever met. For another, he was afraid of nothing. I can't even begin to imagine anything that would make him want to die.'
'I'm afraid he was murdered.'
He thought Penrith was going to fall off his chair.
'Murdered? By whom?'
'I have no answer to that. Not yet. I've come to London to find it.'
'It can't be someone in the City. I can't think of anyone who would-I mean to say, even his professional competitors respected him.' He stopped and cleared his throat. 'He was generally well liked in London. Both his business acumen and his ability to deal with people took him into the very best circles. You can ask anyone you choose.'
'I understand Quarles was from-er-different circumstances, in his youth.'
'I know very little about his past. He was frank about being poor in his youth, and people admired that. Accepted it, because of his ability to fit in, like a chameleon. That's to say his table manners were impeccable, he knew how to dress well, and his conversation was that of a gentleman, though his accent wasn't. People could enjoy his company without any sense of lowering their own standards. They could introduce their wives and daughters to him without fear that he would embarrass them with his attentions.'
His praise had an edge to it, as if Penrith was envious.
'Have you known him long?'
'He and I joined the firm about the same time, and we prospered there. In fact ended as partners. Still, I
