quarters, a bedroom and a sitting room, a kitchen to one side. On the walls were framed lithographs, the only touch of color except for a red tablecloth in the kitchen.
There was no sign of a note.
So Stephenson wasn't intending to confess, but to leave doubts in all their minds, just as Padgett had accused him of doing.
Hamish said, 'But it doesna' prove he's guilty.'
Rutledge hurried back down the stairs and found Padgett trying to get Stephenson to drink some tea from the mercifully undamaged Thermos. The man clenched his jaw, his eyes closed, his abrupt return to life leaving him shaken.
Rutledge squatted beside Padgett and, when he looked up, shook his head.
Padgett nodded.
They waited for five minutes before questioning Stephenson.
Padgett said, 'What in God's name did you think you were doing? '
As the heavy flush faded from Stephenson's still-puffy face, Rut- ledge recognized him as the man he'd seen reading a book in the hotel dining room the morning he'd questioned Hunter about Quarles.
Stephenson said in a strained voice, 'I knew you'd be coming. When Bertie told me about Quarles being murdered, I knew it was only a matter of time. And when I saw you walking down the High Street, I couldn't face it any longer.'
A confession? Rutledge waited grimly.
'Face what?' Padgett demanded testily. 'Here, drink this tea. I can hardly hear you.'
He pushed the cup aside. 'I thought everyone knew. It's why I came back to Cambury. It's why I named the shop Nemesis.'
'Well, you're wrong.'
'I wanted to kill him, you see, but lacked the courage. I hoped that if I came back here, having to see him, unable to hide, one day I'd be able to do it.' He ran his hand through his thinning hair and went on bitterly, 'You can't imagine what it's like to want to kill someone. It eats away at you until there's nothing of you left. It's like a hunger that can't be satisfied, and in the end it destroys you too. The shame of it is like a knife in your brain.'
'What had he done to you, that you hated him?' Rutledge asked.
Stephenson moved restlessly, his face turned away. 'It's none of your business.'
'It is now. If you hadn't tried to hang yourself, we'd have done nothing more than question you. Now you're a suspect, and a suspect has no secrets,' Padgett said roughly. 'Not from the police.'
His words were met with a stubborn silence.
Finally Padgett said, 'Very well, I'll see you to Dr. O'Neil's surgery. Can you walk that far?'
'I don't intend to walk that far or anywhere else.'
'That's as may be, but you'll see the good doctor if I have to fetch a motorcar and drive you there myself.'
'Fetch one,' Rutledge replied. 'We don't want to give the gossips more than needful.'
With a grunt, Padgett went away to the police station.
Rutledge could see the man before him sink into himself, his face still red, coughing racking him. He refilled the cup with tea, and Ste- phenson swallowed it painfully, almost strangling on it.
They waited in silence, the bookseller looking inward at something he couldn't face, and Rutledge listening to Hamish in the back of his head.
When Padgett came back, Stephenson stood up shakily, a martyr ready to face the lions. 'Oh, very well, let's be done with it.'
'Are you going to try this again?' Rutledge asked, gesturing toward the rope.
'To what end?' Stephenson replied wearily. 'Fear drove me to desperate measures. You're here now. It serves no purpose to die.'
13
Padgett led Stephenson out the door and Rutledge shut it firmly behind them. The broken latch held, just, and Rutledge left the sign reading CLOSED.
There were a number of people on the street, and they turned to stare as Rutledge assisted Stephenson into the vehicle.
A young woman rushed up, asking, 'What's wrong? Where are you taking him? Mr. Stephenson, what's happened? You look so ill.'
Stephenson, unable to face her, mumbled to Rutledge, 'My part- time assistant, Miss Ogden.'
She was very frightened. Rutledge was suddenly reminded of Elise, for the women were about the same age. Yet the differences between the two were dramatic. Elise with her confidence, her willingness to take on a marriage that would challenge her, had the courage of her convictions if not the patience. Miss Ogden was gripping her handbag so tightly that her knuckles were white, and she was on the verge of tears, looking from one man to the other for guidance. She struck Rut- ledge as timid, willing to serve, perfectly happy to be buried among the dusty shelves of a bookstore, and helpless in a crisis, expecting others to take the first step and then reassure her.
'We're driving Mr. Stephenson to Dr. O'Neil's surgery,' he told her gently. 'He'll be fine in a day or two. There's nothing to worry about.'
'Could it be his heart?' she asked anxiously. 'My grandfather died of problems with his heart. Please, ought I to go with you? Or should I keep the shop open?'
Others were attracted by the fuss, clustering across the street from the motorcar, trying to hear what was being said. Halting as they came out of shops, several women put their hands to their mouths, their small children staring with round, uncertain eyes as they sensed the apprehension gripping the adults: two policemen appearing to take poor Mr. Stephenson into custody Rutledge could almost feel the rising tide of speculation rushing toward him, on the heels of word that Quarles was dead.
He answered Miss Ogden before Padgett could put a word in.
'Mr. Stephenson had an accident and should see Dr. O'Neil, but there's no danger of his dying. We were lucky to find him in time. Perhaps we ought to leave the shop closed for today and let him rest.' He knew how to make his voice carry so that onlookers heard him as well.
She turned to Stephenson for confirmation. He nodded wretchedly. With a long backward glance, she stood aside to let them leave.
Rutledge got into the rear seat with the bookseller, swearing to himself. Padgett drove off without acknowledging the people on the street, not interested in what they were thinking.
'Did you not consider that that woman would have been the one to find you, if we hadn't?' Rutledge demanded of Stephenson. 'It was an unconscionably selfish thing you did. Next time you want to kill yourself, choose a more private place.'
Stephenson said, 'I was wretched-I only wanted to die.' His voice had taken on a whine. 'You don't know what I felt, you can't judge me.'
But Rutledge did know what he felt. Disgusted with the man, he tapped Padgett on the shoulder. 'Let me out just there. If you have no objection, I'll call on Mrs. Newell as planned.' He tried to keep the revulsion he was feeling out of his voice.
'Go ahead. I'll be kept some time with this fool.' There was irritation in the inspector's voice as well as he pulled over to let Rutledge step down. He offered begrudging instructions on how to find the former cook from Hallowfields, and then was gone almost before Rut- ledge had swung the rear door shut.
Rutledge watched them out of sight on their way to O'Neil's surgery, then set out for Mrs. Newell's small cottage.
Hamish said, 'Ye've lost your temper twice now. It's yon blow to the head. Ye'll no' feel better until ye gie it a rest.'
Rutledge ignored him, though he knew it to be true.
