a stranger, when I couldn't even confess to God.'
Hamish said, as Rutledge shut the door behind him, 'Do ye believe him? '
Rutledge replied, 'More to the point, I think he believes what he told me. And that's the best reason I've heard so far for murdering Harold Quarles and then hanging his body in that infernal contraption. It goes a long way toward explaining why simply killing Quarles wasn't enough.'
He walked back to the hotel, to his motorcar, and drove out to Hallowfields.
Mrs. Quarles agreed to receive him, though she kept him waiting for nearly a quarter of an hour before Downing came to take him to the same room where he'd met her the first time. And she was alone.
'Are you here to tell me you've found the man who killed my husband?'
'Not at present. I've come to ask you if you know what the relationship was between your husband and Mrs. Brunswick.'
'Hazel Brunswick? She came to do clerical work for him. There was no relationship, as you call it.'
'Her husband believes there must have been.'
'Only because of Harold's reputation. I can assure you there was nothing between them.'
'Why should he make an exception of Hazel Brunswick, if he didn't draw the line at seducing a girl of sixteen?'
'Gwyneth Jones? He wouldn't have touched her, either. He wanted me to believe he would-he wanted me to be torn apart by jealousy and so shamed by his behavior I'd do anything to stop it. And then when I came crawling back, he'd have the satisfaction of rejecting me. But you see, I was married to him all those years. I learned to see through him. Once the scales fell from my eyes, I realized what sort of man he was, and how he punished people who got in his way. Davis Penrith knows that as well, but he blinds-blinded-himself to what Harold's true nature was. He didn't want to see. Or perhaps was afraid to see, afraid to recognize the man he'd worked with for so long.'
'Gwyneth's father was worried enough to send her away to Wales.'
'Believe me, if Harold had been seriously interested in Gwyneth, sending her to Wales wouldn't have stopped him from following her. My husband got what he wanted, most of the time. That too was in his nature.'
'And in the process, he tormented a girl and her father, a woman and her husband, and who knows what other victims. Was there nothing you could do to stop the game?'
'You haven't understood my husband.' She had kept him standing, as if he were a tradesman. 'How do you move someone like that? Ask Samuel Heller, not me. Though I doubt very much that Harold had a soul. I know for a fact that he didn't have a conscience.'
'Are you aware that sometimes he entertained someone in the gatehouse by the Home Farm lane?'
'I've been told that sometimes the lamps burned there late into the night. But no one, so far as I know, had the courage to find out what he did there. It was talked about, you see, there was speculation. And when I went into Cambury, I had no way of knowing whether the girl who waited on me in a shop or in the hotel dining room was one of his conquests or not. But if you look for the truth, you'll probably discover he never brought anyone there. Betty might tell you, she cleaned those rooms. Still, the gossips of Cambury were agog with curiosity. And so for the most part, I never went into town at all.'
Rutledge wondered if she really knew what her husband was doing-whether she had simply convinced herself of his spite or used it to excuse her relationship with Charles Archer. Physically or emotionally, a tie was there.
'Why do you hate your husband so much?' he asked. 'Is this because of Charles Archer? Did you marry the wrong man? Or were you late in discovering the sort of man your husband was?'
'I was in love with Charles Archer, and he with me, before he took his mother to Switzerland for treatment of her tuberculosis. They'd told him she was dying, but she lived six more years. I never saw him during those six years. He never left her side. He cared for her, and he stayed with her to the end. While he was away, I met Harold Quarles, and he swept me off my feet. He was attentive, charming, caring, and he was there. There were flowers and gifts, invitations to dinner, invitations to the opera, invitations to go riding. He was just a clerk at the house where he was employed, but already he was making a reputation for himself-a reputation of another sort, as a man who could manage money and was astute in business dealings. And he asked me to believe in him and marry him, and he would see that I continued to live as well as I did then, if not better. I thought I was in love with him, and I knew I was lonely. I could hardly recall what Charles looked like-certainly not the man in the photograph he'd given me before leaving for Switzerland. I told myself he was never coming back, that the doctors had been wrong before, and that his mother would live forever, and I'd be a spinster by that time. And so I married, and the first years were wonderful. Harold kept every promise he'd made me, and I was happy-' She broke off. 'Why in God's name am I telling you all this? It's none of your business!'
'What went wrong?' he asked gently. 'What changed your feelings?'
'I will never tell you that. You can hang me if you like, but I will never tell you. I have a son, and I would rather face death than break his heart. '
'Have you told him that his father is dead?'
She turned away and walked to the window. 'No. I haven't found the words. I'm leaving tomorrow to bring him home.'
'How did you explain Charles Archer to your son?'
She wheeled to face him again. 'I didn't have to. There's nothing to tell, except that he's an old friend and I have brought him here to heal.'
'You were lovers before Charles Archer was wounded at Mons.'
Her face flamed to the roots of her hair. 'How dare you?'
'It's there in the way you put your hand on his shoulder for strength and for courage,' he said, his voice gentle. 'Is your child Harold's son or Charles's?'
'Get out!'
'I must ask that, you see, because it could explain why you killed your husband. He's old enough, your son, to hear rumors, to make guesses, to read into your look or your touch when you're with Archer more than you expect him to see.'
'Get out!' she said again and reached for the bell pull, almost yanking at it.
'I'm sorry if I've upset you. But for your own protection, you need to tell me the truth. Your son has lost one parent-'
She strode to the door, opening it herself.
Rutledge said 'I'm sorry' again, and left the room, passing her so close that he could smell the fear on her.
But not, he thought, as he went to find Mrs. Downing, fear for herself.
Betty was in the laundry room sorting sheets, her long face flushed with the work, her eyes red from crying.
She made a move when she first saw him coming through the door, like a startled child who didn't know where to turn and couldn't find its mother's skirts. And then she straightened, bracing herself, waiting for him to speak to her.
Rutledge said, 'I'm here to ask a few more questions, that's all. Tell me about the cottage at the end of the Home Farm lane. Do you know who came there with Harold Quarles?'
'I never asked. It was none of my business,' she said again.
'Were there women who stayed there-for an evening, for the night?'
'I don't know.'
'You must. You kept the rooms clean, and the beds. There would be signs.'
'I made an effort not to pry. I did my duty and saw only what I wanted to see.' Pushing at her sleeves, she went back to work. Her arms, though thin, were strong, the bones large.
'He's dead, Betty.'
'I know he is. And where am I to go now, without him to care for? What's ahead for me, how will I manage? I was safe here, and I was needed. Where will I find that again? '
He was startled by her vehemence.
'Mrs. Quarles will keep you on. Or give you a reference if you wish to leave.' It was not his place to tell her that Quarles had taken care of her future.
'You don't understand. I'm tired, I can't go on doing the heavy work a maid of my age is given. Like these
