break down and tell him the truth.'
'She's stronger than you realize. But his suspicions will be aroused.'
There was a short silence. He said, 'You told me you knew something about murder. And about being hunted.'
'That I did. It's why I'm in England, the last place on earth I'd like to be. I was caught in the middle of the Easter Rebellion in 1917. I did what I had to do, to save myself and my family. And after that I had to leave. Do you want to take me up for that?' He could feel her anger and resentment.
'It's not my jurisdiction,' he answered mildly. 'If it has no bearing on Quarles's death, then I have no business interfering.'
'Thank you for being so damned condescending,' she flared, her voice rising a little before she could control it.
'Condescending?' He smiled, and it touched his eyes. 'Hardly. It's you who is still sensitive. I'm merely putting your mind at ease.'
She had the grace to laugh lightly. 'You were in the trenches, I think. You know what war is like. Well, it was war in Dublin. And elsewhere. We were under siege, and we were afraid of what would happen if we lost. What sort of retribution there would be for us and, more urgently, our families. I went to the fighting to bring my father's body back, and I had to kill someone to do it. I don't regret it, he doesn't invade my dreams, and I'd do it again if I had to.'
She would have been an easy target, with that flame red hair. It had been a brave thing to do to go after her father, and it could have ended horribly. Right or wrong, his cause or not, Rutledge could respect her courage.
Returning to what had brought him here, Rutledge said, 'May I leave Gwyneth in your care for a little longer? I'll be gone for some time. Don't let her leave, for any reason.'
'No, I've kept the door locked until l look to see who's knocking. I've said my prayers for that family. I hope God is listening.'
As he rose to leave, Miss O'Hara said, 'She won't go back to her grandmother's. I can tell you that. She was wretched, and the old woman used her unmercifully. The tyranny of the weak. And then she had the unmitigated gall to tell the poor lass that she was the devil's get whenever Gwyneth failed to please her.'
'I don't think the family knew.'
'They must have. But they closed their eyes because there was no other way to keep her out of the man's clutches. Quarles had much on his soul when he went to God, and the names of Gwyneth and her family are engraved on it.'
Rutledge went out the door and waited until he'd heard the click of the key locking it before turning toward the Jones's house.
Hamish was saying, 'Ye ken, you were taken in.'
'By what?'
'That one, the Irish lass. Ye absolved her of the killing withoot a single proof that what she said was true.'
'It's not my jurisdiction,' he said, a second time.
'Oh, aye? She's done you a guid turn and bought your silence.'
'It doesn't matter right now. The girl does.'
'She admits to a murder,' Hamish admonished him. 'What's to say that the second killing wasna' easier? And the lass has a temper. When he spoke on the street, she gave him short shrift. But who is to say what happened next between them?'
It was true.
'But it will have to wait,' Rutledge said. 'Hugh Jones must be sorted out first. Before he learns that Gwyneth is back in Cambury.'
Hamish said, still not satisfied, 'She holds on to a guid deal o' anger, that lass. She would ha' put him in the rig to be a lesson, even if only for her ain pleasure. Yon murderer felt the same anger. It's no' a thing most of the village could ha' done.'
'I don't see Stephenson dragging Quarles to the tithe barn and manhandling him into that cage. But then it might explain his strong sense of guilt.'
'Ye ken, ye havena' delved into yon dead man's past. Is it to put yon inspector's nose oot of joint that ye cling to this village? Just as ye went in sich a great hurry to London, to spike the guns of the ither inspector?'
'That's nonsense!' Rutledge snapped, and then realized he'd spoken aloud.
He wasn't aware that during his conversation with Hamish he'd been standing outside the Jones house. Going up to the door, he hoped it would be Mrs. Jones who answered, not one of the children. But she was quick, before he'd knocked, as if she'd been watching for him to come. She could see the O'Hara house from the south window of her parlor.
The little girl wasn't on her hip today, and she glanced over her shoulder as she opened the door, as if to be sure there was no one about.
'Do come in,' she said softly, and as soon as they were shut into the little parlor, she went on. 'How is she? I was that worried-she was in such a state when I opened the door. God alone knows she took an awful risk, all alone on those roads! I knew she was unhappy…'
Her voice trailed off.
'She's sleeping. It's what she needs. But she won't go back to Cardiff. You do see that, don't you? The next time she may not be as lucky.'
'Well, she won't have to now, will she-' And she broke off, her hand to her mouth, as if to stop the words, but it was too late.
'With Quarles dead?'
'He was an awful man. I can't wish him alive again. And I want my girl home to stay. Her gran's getting on. She wasn't always such a terror. But what choice was there, I ask you! '
Her eyes were pleading with him to tell her that everything would be all right, that this nightmare would resolve itself without trouble for anyone she loved. But he couldn't, and after a moment, she looked away, sadness pulling her face down. 'What are we to do about Gwyneth? She must come home. I want her here, not at a stranger's house.'
'Mrs. Jones, I must ask you again. Can you be absolutely certain that no one in the house told your husband about the letter from Wales?'
'I don't see how anyone could have done. The post came when only the baby was here, and she wouldn't know. And I kept it safe in my apron pocket, where no one would look.'
But he could read the uncertainty in her face now. The fear that she hadn't done enough.
'Would you have killed Harold Quarles to keep your daughter safe?' he asked bluntly. 'I have to know.'
She looked at him then. 'If it was to be Gwynnie or him, I'd choose Gwynnie. But what about the rest of them, what are they to do without me, if I'm gone? Besides, I've heard what was done to him. Much as I wanted him away from Gwynnie, I couldn't have brought myself to touch him…'
On the whole, Rutledge thought that was true. She wasn't the sort of woman to take pleasure in her vengeance. It would be enough for the man to be dead, out of her daughter's troubled life.
'I must go now and tell your husband. Will you do nothing until I've seen him?'
'When he comes home tonight, what will he say? That's what frightens me. He'll know I kept secrets. As well, he'll be angry with me for keeping Gwynnie from him.'
'I can't promise you he won't be angry.'
'You think he's done this thing.'
'I don't know, Mrs. Jones. And that's the truth.'
'He could have pulled him up on that rig. He's done it before for the Christmas angel…'
He was shocked that she would admit it. At first he wondered if she was trying to shield herself, the mother, the protector of her children. And then he realized that she was thinking aloud, that she had forgotten he was there in the agonizing drain of her own worry.
He said good-bye, and she nodded absently, her mind so wrapped up in the question of whether the man she'd married and given six daughters to was capable of murder, that he wasn't sure she knew when he left.
The walk to the bakery was silent. Hamish had finished what he wanted to say. But Rutledge's thoughts were
