'Well, she wasn't carrying a child at the time of her death. Not according to O'Neil. But she did have a tumor the size of a small cabbage. Brunswick believes the doctor is covering up the truth. They had words just before the funeral. Of course he-Brunswick- wouldn't care to think he'd killed his wife for no reason other than his own jealousy.'
'Could she have borne children, if the tumor was safely removed?'
'Probably not. She wasn't drowned at home, mind you, but in one of those streams on Sedgemoor. A dreary place to die. A dreary battlefield in its day, for that matter. She ought to have survived-if she'd changed her mind, she might have saved herself. The stream wasn't all that deep. The only reason I didn't take Brunswick into custody was that simple fact. But I've kept an eye on him since then.'
'What was your quarrel with the victim? You might as well tell me,' Rutledge said, 'it will have to come out sooner or later.'
He could see the defiance in Padgett's eyes as he surged to his feet and leaned forward over the desk, his knuckles white as they pressed against the scarred wooden top. 'I see no reason to tell you anything. I'm a policeman, for God's sake. Do you think I killed the man? If so, say that to my face, don't go hinting about like a simpering woman.'
Rutledge held on to his own temper, knowing he'd provoked the anger turned against him and that the angry man across from him hoped to use it to deflect him from his probing.
'Padgett. I'll speak to the Chief Constable if I have to. And don't push your luck with me. My temper can be as short as yours.'
' 'Ware,' Hamish warned Rutledge. 'He's likely to come across yon desk and throttle ye.'
But at mention of the Chief Constable, Padgett got himself under control with a visible effort.
'Leave the Chief Constable out of this!'
'Then talk to me.'
'I'm not a suspect. I don't have to give you my private life to paw over.'
Rutledge was on the point of taking Inspector Padgett into custody and letting him think his position over in one of his own cells.
But Hamish warned, 'Ye ken, it will only set him against you more. There's shame here, and it willna' come out, whatever ye threaten.'
Rutledge took a deep breath. 'Padgett. You found the body. There's no other witness. You could have hauled Quarles up to the beams yourself, as a fitting revenge for whatever he did to you. It doesn't look good.'
Padgett started for the door, intending to push Rutledge aside. 'If that's what you want to believe-'
'It's what the killer's barrister will claim, to throw doubt on the evidence we collect for trial. And then whatever you're hiding becomes a matter of public record forever after. I shouldn't have to tell you this. Think about it, man!'
Padgett stopped in midstride.
'Look, set your feelings about Quarles aside and consider the case clearly. If it were Mrs. Quarles-or Jones, the baker-or even Brunswick who had found the man's body by the side of the road, and you knew the history of their relationship with the victim, that person would be suspect almost at once. An unexpected confrontation, a temper lost, an opportunity taken. You'd have no choice but to investigate the circumstances.'
'I'm an honest man, a good policeman.' Padgett's voice was tight, his face still flushed with his fury.
'No doubt both of these are true. Do they put you above suspicion? You may not be guilty-but you must be cleared, any question of doubt put aside so that you don't cast a shadow over the inquiry.'
'Are you going to take me off the case? I don't see how we can work together now.'
'I'm not removing you. But you must give me your word you didn't kill Quarles.'
'What good is my word, if I'm a murderer? Do you think I'd stop at perjuring myself to escape the hangman?'
'Your word as a policeman.'
It was the right thing to say. Padgett's ruffled feathers relaxed, and he swore, 'As God is my witness, then. I give you my word as a policeman.'
Hamish said to Rutledge, 'Aye, all well and good, but he didna' swear to stop interfering.' hey went on to Dr. O'Neil's surgery, to interview Stephenson.
'I was looking for the truth, not trust,' Rutledge answered him grimly. The doctor greeted them, and if he saw any stiffness in their manner, he said nothing about it. Taking them to the narrow examination room where he'd put the bookseller, he added, 'He's recovering well enough. Physically, if not emotionally. But that's not unexpected, given the circumstances. Be brief, if you want to question him.'
'Before we go in,' Rutledge said, 'can you tell me if Michael Brunswick's wife was diagnosed with a tumor? Or was she pregnant at the time of her death?'
O'Neil sighed. 'Brunswick has convinced himself that I lied to him. I didn't. If he killed Quarles, he'll be coming for me next. He's one of those men who can picture his wife in another man's arms if she so much as smiles at a poor devil in the post office or the greengrocer's. The fact is, I believed it to be ovarian from the start, because she'd had no symptoms until the tumor was well advanced. And I told her as much, warning her to prepare herself. I did prescribe tests, to confirm my diagnosis. Her mother had died of the same condition. Sadly, she knew what to expect. And if by some miracle of surgery she survived the cancer, there would be no children.'
'How did you do the tests?' From what Rutledge had seen of the small surgery, he was certain Dr. O'Neil didn't have the facilities for them here.
'I sent her to Bath, to a specialist there. Quarles lent her his motorcar and his chauffeur. She was in her last week of employment at Hallowfields the day she came to me, and when she told Quarles she was glad she was nearly finished, because it appeared that she was ill, he arranged to send her. It was a kind gesture. But Mrs. Brunswick made me promise to say nothing to her husband about that-she said he would disapprove.'
Rutledge thought, It could have been that Brunswick found out But that wasn't the murder he'd come to Cambury to solve.
'Why the interest in Mrs. Brunswick?' O'Neil asked, clearly busy putting two and two together.
'It could offer a reason for her husband to kill Quarles,' Padgett answered, following Rutledge's thinking. 'Early days, no stone unturned, and all that.'
'I've finished with Quarles, by the bye. And he did eat dinner the night he was killed.'
'Then let his wife bury him,' Padgett said. 'The sooner the better.'
O'Neil looked at Rutledge for confirmation, and he nodded.
The doctor opened the door to Stephenson's room. The man looked up, sighed wearily, and visibly braced himself for what was to come.
Rutledge said, 'I'm happy to see you feeling a little better.'
'There's better and better,' Stephenson said without spirit.
'Why kill yourself, if you've done nothing wrong?' Rutledge asked. 'It's a waste of life.'
'My reasons seemed to be sound enough at the time-'
He broke off and turned his face toward the wall, tears welling in his eyes.
'Do we clap you in gaol as soon as Dr. O'Neil here gives us leave?' Padgett demanded irritably. 'You as much as confessed that you wanted to kill Harold Quarles. Did you or didn't you? You can't have it both ways.'
'But he can,' Rutledge put in quietly. 'If he paid someone to do what he couldn't face himself.'
'That would be betrayal. I wouldn't stoop to that. By rights,' he went on, 'an eye for an eye, I should have killed his son. I couldn't do that, either.'
'If you didn't kill Quarles, why were you so certain we were about to take you into custody for this murder? Certain enough to kill yourself before we could.' He added in a level voice, no hint of curiosity or prying, merely trying to clarify, 'Just what did Quarles have to do with your son?'
'I don't want to talk about it. I'm still shaken, hardly able to believe I'm still alive. I expected never to see this world again. I thought I was well out of it.' His face was hidden, his voice rough with tears. 'For God's sake, go away and leave me alone.'
'In the end, you'll have to clear yourself by telling us the truth.'
'I don't have to do anything of the sort. You can't threaten me with hanging. I know how the noose feels about my neck, and what it's like to plunge into the dark. The next time will be easier, and it won't be interrupted. I really don't give a damn.'
