see his business prosper, and he'd judged Quarles as the sort who resisted change for the sake of resisting. And he accepted that, because, and I quote, 'I grew up in the north myself, and know a stubborn bastard when I see one.' '
He spoke the words with distaste. 'I had no desire to work with that man on Saturday evening, and even less desire to do it now. If you will excuse me, I'm late at my office, and I think there's nothing more I can do to help the police in their inquiry.' He stood up, dismissing them.
Rutledge said, 'Thank you for your time. You'll still be required to make a statement about events of that evening. If you will give Inspector Padgett the direction of Mr. Nelson in Manchester, he'll ask the police there to take his.'
That seemed to please Greer and make up for the unpleasantness of having to present himself at the police station.
He followed them out, and as he closed the gate behind them, he said, 'I never liked Harold Quarles, and I've made no pretense of anything else. But I don't resort to murder to settle my differences. I would not have willingly invited the man to dine, most certainly not on a social occasion. Because he doesn't entertain at Hallowfields, it was left to me to invite both men here. I can tell you that my wife didn't join us. It was not that sort of evening.'
He nodded and left them standing there.
'Pompous ass,' said Padgett, watching Greer walk up the street.
'But he filled in that hour for us. What's left is to find out who argued with Quarles before he reached the corner of the High Street, where Hunter tells us he was alone.'
'You believe him then?' Padgett asked. 'And Nelson as well?'
'It doesn't appear to be a motive strong enough for what happened at the tithe barn. I hardly see this man Nelson killing someone he had never met before just to rid himself of an obstacle to the site for his factory. Do you?'
'No,' Padgett returned grudgingly. 'But by God, I'll see to it we have both statements in our hands.'
They had reached the High Street themselves now, and in the distance Greer was just walking through a door. 'His place of business?' Rutledge asked.
'Yes. Beyond Nemesis, in fact. You know, it could have been Stephenson who spoke to Quarles on the street. Or Brunswick. But probably not the baker, Jones. He would have been home at that hour, not prowling the streets. But my men tell me that sometimes Stephenson is restless and walks about at night.'
'We'll have to ask him-'
Rutledge broke off. The rector, Samuel Heller, was coming toward them, distress in his face.
When he reached Rutledge he said, 'You misled me.'
'In what way, Mr. Heller?'
'You told me that Mr. Quarles was dead. But not the manner in which he was found. My housekeeper informed me this morning. Is it true? And if so, why did you keep it from me?'
'It was a police decision,' Rutledge replied. 'I didn't want that part of Quarles's death to be public knowledge until I was ready.'
'And so we all have learned such terrible news with our morning tea, and from a servant! It's not proper.'
'Would it have made any difference in what you told me?' Rut- ledge asked. 'As I remember, you were not eager to judge others.'
Heller had the grace to flush. 'And I would still tell you the same thing. But this is-I don't know-I can hardly find the word for it. Blasphemous. Yes. Blasphemous suits it best. To use that angel in such a fashion. What drives another human being to that sort of barbarity? '
'If you remember, I warned you to beware of a confession that might mean someone is looking for absolution for what he'd done.'
'Yes, Mr. Rutledge, you warned me, and I have been on my guard. But no one has come to confess. Though I have heard from Dr. O'Neil that Mr. Stephenson from the bookshop might have need of my counseling. Apparently he's distraught, working himself up into an illness.'
'Any idea why?' Rutledge asked.
'He lost his only child in the war. And he feels that he himself is partly responsible for the boy's death.'
'In the war?' Padgett asked. 'Quarles didn't have anything to do with it?'
Heller lifted his eyebrows. 'Harold Quarles? I should think not. If there's anyone to blame, it's the Army. Or the Kaiser. What made you suggest Mr. Quarles?'
'Because Stephenson admits to hating him, indeed, he told us he wanted to kill the man. Where's the connection, if he's haunted by the son and hates Quarles?' Padgett asked.
'In his own poor imagination, I expect,' Heller said with some asperity. 'A man who is in great distress, great agony of spirit, sometimes blames others for his misfortunes, rather than face them himself.'
'I'm a greater believer in connections than in spiritual agony, thank you all the same, Rector,' Padgett said.
Heller smiled grimly. 'I would never have guessed that, Mr. Padgett,' and with a nod to Rutledge that was brief and unforgiving, Heller turned away and strode back toward his church.
'I think,' Rutledge said slowly, 'we ought to have another chat with Stephenson.'
'What's the use? He's not ready to tell us anything. And I have work to do. You might contact the Army, to see if there's any truth in what the rector was told.'
Changing the subject, Rutledge asked, 'Has Mrs. Quarles made any decision about her husband's burial?'
'Yes, oddly enough. She's taking him back to Yorkshire.'
'I can understand that she might not want him here, although that might be his son's choice. But why not London?'
'She said that he deserved to return to his roots,' Padgett answered him. 'Whatever that might mean.'
Rutledge considered the matter. 'Then whatever turned her against him might also have to do with his roots.'
'She knew what he was when she married him.'
'Yes, she's honest about that. But what did she learn later that made her judge him differently and demand a separation? Apparently Quarles didn't fight it, and it's possible he didn't want whatever it was to become open knowledge. For that matter, why was she searching his background in the first place? Was she looking for something- or did she stumble over it? And I don't believe it was Charles Archer wounded in France that upset the marriage.'
'You can't be sure of that,' Padgett objected.
Rutledge gave him no answer. He was already in a debate with Hamish over the subject, Hamish strongly supporting the need to find out more about Quarles's past while his own pressing concern at the moment was the bookseller.
Padgett said, 'Well, I'll leave you to your wild goose chase. I'll be at the station, if you want me.'
Hamish was saying now, 'What about yon lass? Ye canna' leave her much longer.'
'Let her sleep. Then we'll see what to do about her. I'll have to tell her father. And that should answer a lot of questions.'
He walked on to the doctor's surgery, found that Dr. O'Neil was busy with another patient, and asked his nurse if he could speak to Stephenson without disturbing the doctor.
She was willing to allow him to see the patient, she said, if he promised not to upset the man. 'We've got five people in the waiting room, and I don't want a scene.'
'Has Stephenson been upsetting the household?'
'Not precisely, but his state of mind is delicate. I was asking him just this morning if there was anyone we might send for, a cousin or something, to help him through his distress, and he began to howl. I can't describe it as a cry, and the doctor's wife came running to see what was the matter.'
Small wonder that O'Neil had sent for the rector.
Rutledge gave her his word and hoped that he could keep it as he was led back to the room where Stephenson was sitting on the edge of his bed, his face buried in his hands.
