hair and green eyes, and only sixteen when Quarles spotted her on the street. He gave her no peace and offered her the moon, I'll be bound, for one night. Her pa sent her to Wales, out of reach. And not before times, I heard, because Mr. Quarles offered to take the girl to London and set her up in style. I think she'd have run off with him then, if her pa hadn't got wind of it.'
This was a richly embroidered version of the story, very different from what Mr. Jones or Mrs. Jones had claimed. Mrs. Newell's fingers were twisting the willow strands viciously as she spoke, and Rutledge could see how strongly she still felt, whatever she was willing to admit to.
'He was probably old enough to be her father,' Rutledge pointed out.
'Ah, but lust doesn't count itself in years. And what young pretty thing in a town like Cambury wouldn't see stars when she pictured herself in a fine London house with a large allowance all her own.'
'How did Mr. Jones discover what was happening?'
'It was Miss O'Hara who put him wise. She overheard something in the post office that concerned her, and despite not caring for making herself the center of attention again, she went to the baker. It seems Mr. Quarles had asked the girl for a decision by week's end.'
Hamish was asking if she'd told the unvarnished truth or seen her chance to get her own back on Quarles, even after he was dead. Or because he was.
'A near run thing,' Rutledge agreed with Mrs. Newell. 'But if Mr. Jones was angry enough to kill Quarles, why not there and then?'
'We're none of us eager to hang, Mr. Rutledge. There's some say that vengeance is a dish better taken cold.' She spoke with quiet dignity.
'Yes, I see your point.'
'Anyone else who might have quarreled with the dead man? Been cheated by him? Believed he'd seduced a wife?' Padgett asked.
'That's for you to discover, isn't it? I told you what I thought. Gossip is always rampant with the likes of Harold Quarles. But gossip doesn't always end in murder.'
'Nor is gossip always true,' Rutledge said. 'What do you know about Mr. Brunswick, the organist at St. Martin's?'
Her eyes narrowed. 'What of him?'
'His name came up in another context.'
'Oh, yes? Then let that other context of yours tell you what you want to know. I've nothing to say against Mr. Brunswick.'
They spoke to her for another five minutes, but to no avail. And Rutledge found it frustrating that she was so reluctant to talk. She knew both the household at Hallowfields and her neighbors in Cam- bury. But cooks were an independent lot, master of their domains, often arbiters of staff matters, and even though she had been shown the door and was now reduced to making baskets, Mrs. Newell kept her opinions to herself. It had been ingrained in her to keep the secrets of a household. Whatever her feelings toward Quarles, old habits die hard.
As they walked away, Rutledge said dryly, 'As a rule, people rush to deny they are capable of murder. Here, everyone-including yourself-admits to having a reason to commit murder.'
'Refreshing, isn't it?' Padgett commented with relish. 'If we find the murderer, half the village will be up in arms to protect him. Or her.'
'Very likely. But I'm beginning to think that you've encouraged one another in this pastime of disparaging Quarles to the point that someone finally decided to do something about it. Or to put it another way, found himself or herself faced with a tempting opportunity that seemed foolproof, and took advantage of it.'
'For the public good?' But Padgett's humor was forced this time. After a moment, he went on, 'You've spoken to Jones and his wife. Anything there to support Mrs. Newell's suggestion?'
'I don't know. He swears he was prepared to kill Quarles, and then remembered that he was the sole breadwinner of a large family. So far he has the strongest motive, if Quarles had meddled with his daughter. But both of Gwyneth's parents deny that anything happened. To protect Gwyneth? Or is it true? What I'd really like to know is what triggered the actual killing. Why have old grievances all at once erupted into murder? How does one measure hate, I wonder?'
As they turned into the High Street again, a woman was coming toward them walking her little dog on a lead, and Rutledge remembered what had happened the night before, when he'd seen a dog in the middle of the road, and the farmer claimed he'd seen nothing of the sort but had drifted to sleep just before he reached the bend.
He said to Padgett, 'You've told me you heard a dog barking, and went to investigate. But so far, we haven't found a dog that was running loose that night. Are you certain it was a dog, and not a fox?'
Padgett, caught off guard, said, 'I told you it was a dog. There's the end of it.' He was short, unwilling to consider another possibility.
Hamish said, 'I'll gie ye a hundred pounds he's lying.'
But Rutledge wasn't ready to confront Padgett. He let the subject go.
It was late, the sun low in the western sky, his head was thundering, and he'd had no luncheon. 'Let's call it a day,' he said as they approached The Unicorn.
'Suit yourself,' Padgett said, as if Rutledge was failing in his duty. 'I wonder you didn't call on a few of Quarles's clients while you were in London. To get the feel of the man in his own den.'
'At a guess, many of them don't live in London. When we've found evidence pointing in that direction, we'll go back and have a look. Have you discovered where Quarles went to dine on Saturday?'
'I decided to put my men to asking if strangers were seen about the village on Saturday. So far no one's noticed anyone they didn't know by sight,' he admitted grudgingly. 'That simply means whoever was here wisely stayed out of sight. I wonder if he-she-was waiting in the gatehouse cottage for Quarles to return. Whoever it was couldn't be seen from the house or the farm, but he could watch the road.'
'Not if Quarles returned by the main gate to Hallowfields.'
'But he didn't come back by the main gate.'
'Why would he use the Home Farm lane?'
Padgett was smiling. 'Perhaps he heard the dog I heard.'
They were sparring, taking each other's measure, pointing out each other's flaws, neither giving an inch, because they had more or less rubbed each other the wrong way from the start.
Rutledge recognized it for what it was, but he didn't think Padgett did.
Hamish said, 'Aye, but watch your back.'
Rutledge bade him a good evening and went up the steps into the hotel. Padgett, still standing in the street, watched him go with an unreadable expression on his face.
14
It was a long night. Rutledge's head was still aching, and he was unable to sleep, tired as he was. Hamish, awake and in a surly mood, haunted his mind until at one point Rutledge got up and sat by the window for a time, trying to shut out that persistent, familiar voice.
Still, Hamish gave him no peace. First the war, then the drive to London, then back to the war again, before shifting the theme to Meredith Channing.
That brought Rutledge up out of numbed silence.
'I canna' think why she seeks you out.'
Rutledge said, 'You don't know what you're talking about.'
'Oh, aye? She kens ye're no' comfortable when she's there, but she doesna' avoid ye.'
'I don't think she knew I'd be at the wedding. I didn't expect to see her there.'
'Yon bride stayed with her when she went to London. Ye're a fool if ye believe she didna' tell the lass that Maitland chose ye for his groom's man.'
'All right. What was she to do, beg out of the wedding?'
Hamish chuckled. 'Would ye ha' begged off, if Maitland had told ye she was coming?'
There was no answer to that. He would have had to explain why, and he couldn't. And it would have aroused
