Edgar's suspicions.
'Why did ye no' ask someone about her, since everyone knew her? '
He'd been too busy struggling with his fear of what she'd see in his mind. Whatever she said about her ability to read thoughts, mocking it as a parlor game to entertain friends, he knew too well that she could read his. He could feel it.
'Or ye didna' want to know.'
And Edgar Maitland had tried to stir Rutledge's interest in that direction. It had been the perfect opportunity to ask her history. Instead he'd brushed off the suggestion that they were suited to each other, unsettled and embarrassed.
'She's no' sae bonny as the Irish lass.'
Rutledge swore. How did Hamish expect him to answer that? And then realized that he needn't answer at all.
He tried to shut the voice out of his mind, but it was nearly impossible to ignore it. Finally, as the church clock struck four, he drifted into sleep, and Hamish of necessity was silent.
Morning found the lump on his forehead a variety of shades of blue and purple. But the dizziness and the throbbing had gone. He shaved, dressed, and went down to breakfast, discovering to his surprise that it was close to nine o'clock.
As he ate he tried to piece together the parts of the puzzle facing him: who could have killed Harold Quarles?
Someone in London? Or someone here in Cambury? Hamish, bad-tempered this morning, reminded him that he hadn't gone to see the organist, Brunswick.
He finished his breakfast and went to remedy that shortcoming. Padgett was in the police station but declined accompanying him.
'There was a housebreaking last night, and I must deal with it. I know the culprits, and this is the first serious trouble they've been in. If I don't stop them now, they'll find themselves in prison. And who'll run the farm then? Their mother's at her wits' end. They're good lads, but there's no hand at the helm, so to speak. Their father's drunk, day in and day out.'
Hamish said, 'It could wait. He doesna' wish to come wi' ye.'
It was probably true.
Rutledge left the police station and soon found himself at the small stone house close by the church where Padgett had told him that Michael Brunswick lived.
Brunswick himself answered Rutledge's knock. They stared at each other in silence. Something in his face told Rutledge he'd been waiting for it for some time.
Rutledge introduced himself and showed his identification, but Brunswick brushed it aside.
'I know who you are.' He stepped back to allow Rutledge to enter.
There was a piano taking pride of place by the window of the sitting room, and books of music were scattered about. Untidy the room was, but it had been well dusted and cleaned, as if keeping up standards. Rutledge remembered that this man's wife had died, a suicide.
'Then you know what I'm here to ask. Where were you Saturday night?'
'At home, asleep. I don't go out of an evening since my wife's death.'
'I've been told that you're among the people I should speak to in regard to what happened to Harold Quarles.' It was not a direct accusation, but close enough, Rutledge hoped, to elicit a response. It wasn't what he'd expected.
'He's dead. That's all that matters to me.'
'Then I'm forced to include you among my list of suspects. I think you knew that the first time I saw you. What I'd like to know is why? When only a handful of people were aware of why I was here.' Rutledge considered him-a tall man, fair hair, circles under the eyes that spoke of sleepless nights. His fingers were long and flexible, trained to play an instrument. And he was strong enough to move a body if he had to.
Brunswick said, 'Include me if you like. It makes no difference to me.'
'Why should you be glad a man's been murdered? Most people are repelled by the thought of that.'
'You know as well as I do that Harold Quarles was a man who made his own fate. He didn't give a damn about anyone as far as I know, and in the end that invites what happened to him Saturday night. You can't walk around oblivious to the pain you cause, and expect no one to retaliate. There's always a line that one crosses at his own risk. Beyond it, ordinary rules don't apply.'
'Whatever most people might feel, whatever they dream about doing in the dark of night when they can't sleep, in the daylight there are obstacles. They fear for their souls, they fear the hangman, they fear for those they love. And Harold Quarles would still be alive.'
Brunswick laughed. 'I've lost God, I've lost those I loved. Why should I fear the hangman when he comes to put the rope around my neck? I don't have much to live for.'
'If you didn't kill the man, who did?'
'Someone who is fool enough to believe he won't be caught. Inspector Padgett brought the Yard in, didn't he? Why do you think he did that?'
Hamish said, 'Aye, it's a guid question.'
'To avoid having to arrest someone he knew,' Rutledge replied, and was pleased to see that his answer had taken Brunswick aback.
'You think so? He's had as much reason to hate as any of the rest of us.'
'If you know what that reason is, you must tell me.'
Brunswick shook his head. 'You're the policeman. You'll have to ask him.'
'Then tell me instead about your wife's death.'
Brunswick's color rose into his face. 'She's dead. Leave her in peace.'
'I can't.' He could hear Hamish objecting, but he pressed on. 'I'm told she drowned herself. Did she leave a note, any explanation of why she took her own life?'
'There was no note. Nothing. Leave it alone, I tell you.'
'Do you think Harold Quarles played any part in her decision?'
'Why should he have?'
'Because you hate him. It's the only conclusion I can draw, Mr. Brunswick. And the only reason I can think of for Mrs. Quarles to include your name in her list of those who might have killed her husband.'
That shook him to the core.
'Did she also tell you that my wife spent weeks at Hallowfields, working for her bastard of a husband?'
'Perhaps it's time you gave me your side of the story.'
Brunswick was up, pacing the floor. 'She went there against my wishes. She said we needed the money. He'd left London, rusticating, he said. Hiding from angry clients, if you want my view. He worked in his study at the house, and after a time, he let it be known he needed someone to type letters for him. She applied, and he took her on, two hours in the morning, and three in the afternoon. One week after she left Hallowfields, she was dead. What would you make of it, if she'd been your wife?'
'What sort of mood was she in that week?'
'Mood? How should I know? She wouldn't talk to me. She wouldn't tell me what had happened, nor would she explain why she sat here and cried that first morning she didn't go back to him.'
'And so you suspected the worst.'
'Wouldn't you? She couldn't live here in this cottage after spending her days at Hallowfields. She couldn't accept me, after she'd had her head turned by that bastard. Do you think I didn't guess that something had happened? She'd gone to Dr. O'Neil that morning, first thing. She must have thought she was pregnant. We'd tried, we couldn't have a child. That's why she wanted the money, to go to a specialist in London and find out why. After she was dead, I went to Dr. O'Neil myself and demanded to know what he'd said to her. I asked him straight out if she was pregnant. And he said she wasn't, that he'd wanted her to talk to someone in Glastonbury. It was an ovarian tumor, he said. But the truth was, he didn't want me to know what my wife couldn't tell me-that the child she was carrying wasn't mine. He didn't want me to live with that for the rest of my life. But I knew. I knew.'
He turned to face the wall, his back to Rutledge and his head raised to stare unseeingly at the ceiling. 'Get out of here. I've never told anyone, not even Rector, what I just told you. I don't know why I'd confess my shame to
