kill.'
But Rutledge thought he was trying to convince himself, not the man from London, as he spoke the words. Sometimes doubt was the deadliest of fears. It grew from nothing more than a niggling concern until it overwhelmed trust and shone a new light on small inconsistencies, white lies, honest mistakes, and human frailty. And as it distorted perspective, it could also distort the truth. Words taken out of context loomed terrifyingly large, and in the end, doubt could convince a loving husband or wife that their partner was capable of the unthinkable.
Both Hugh Jones and his wife were in the throes of doubting, and they would never quite be the same again.
Outside on the High Street, Rutledge swore. It hadn't gone well, this business with the baker. But it had been doomed from the start, because the girl had run away. Would Jones persist in his assertion that he'd killed Quarles? Or would his wife persuade him to let the police do their work unhindered.
And in the meantime, what was he, Rutledge, to do if one of that family was a murderer?
Padgett was just coming out of the station.
'You look like a man who wished he hadn't seen a ghost,' the inspector said in greeting.
Rutledge was in no humor for the man's badgering. 'I want to know what it is you held against Harold Quarles. And I want to hear it now. If not in the station, we can walk on the green.'
'I told you-'
'I know what you told me, and I'm damned well running out of patience. What did Quarles do? Threaten to have you dismissed? It's the only reason I can think of, other than insulting your wife, for your refusal to give me the truth.'
'It's none of-'
'-my business. But it is. This is your last chance. Talk to me, or I'll know the reason why.'
Padgett walked away, as if turning his back on Rutledge. Then he whirled around, his face twisted with fury. 'I gave you my word I hadn't killed him.'
'Other people in Cambury are having to watch their most private affairs being aired in public. Why should you be different? Whether you killed him or not, I want to know what lay between the two of you. I want to make my own judgment call. I can tell you, if I'm recalled to London, you'll fare less well with the man who will take my place. At least you know you can rely on my discretion.'
'All right. Let's be done with it. You won't be satisfied until you know. There were two occasions when the bastard swore he was going to speak to the Chief Constable and have me dismissed. And he could do it. Rich and powerful as he was, he could do it. The Chief Constable doesn't like to be disturbed. That's why I called London myself, instead of going to him. Anything for peace, that's his belief.'
'What happened with Quarles?'
'One such occasion was when Hunter was having trouble with him at the hotel. It was while Quarles was rusticating here. I stepped in and Quarles told me flat out that he would see the Chief Constable the next day. He did, and I was dragged on the carpet for upsetting an important man. Told to mind my manners and get along with my betters, and stop this nonsense.'
'That must have stung.'
'You have no idea,' Padgett said trenchantly.
'And the other occasion?'
'It was shortly after Quarles moved into Hallowfields. I had to remind him that the two dogs he had at that time-not the spaniels, but two large brutes-couldn't be allowed to run free and attack the sheep of nearby farms. He told me they'd done no such thing. I replied that I had eyewitnesses and would pursue the matter. He told me he'd have the Chief Constable teach me my manners. And I was called to account. I referred the Chief Constable to the farmers who'd complained. And when he spoke to them, Quarles had paid them off without my knowledge. They denied losing a single sheep. But the dogs were penned at night after that, and I was left to look the fool.'
'Where are they now? The dogs?'
'They were old, they died some time ago. They weren't eating the sheep, just chasing them and killing them, for sport. I never found out what price he'd paid the farmers, but they blandly lied on his behalf and left me hanging out to dry. Lazy he may be, but the Chief Constable has a long memory, you'll find. And that's why I couldn't have you going to him. It would be the last straw. I'd lose everything.'
It could, Hamish told Rutledge, explain the bark of the dog outside the tithe barn that attracted Padgett to investigate: a well-honed lie that had about it the sweet taste of vengeance.
'You heard a dog the night Quarles was murdered.'
'So I did. You can't disprove it.'
'Nor do you seem to be able to prove it.'
Padgett said, 'I've told you. Now the matter is closed. Do you hear me?'
'You still haven't grasped the fact that by your own admission you're a suspect. Don't you see? Whether you like it or not, whether I wish to pursue it or not, you had a very good reason to kill that man. Don't expect favors from me. I will treat you as fairly as I do everyone else.'
'Is that why you've held information back from me? Do you really think I've killed Harold Quarles?' There was something in his eyes, a measuring look, that made Rutledge want to step back, away from Padgett.
'It doesn't matter what I feel. I'll want to find your statement ready for me tomorrow morning. About finding the body. Whether I use it or not, I must ask for it. And whether you want to give it or not, personally and professionally, you have no choice.'
'Damn you.' Padgett turned and went back into the police station, slamming the door behind him.
Rutledge let out a long breath.
But the question now was, how had Brunswick learned of Quarles's two attempts to have Padgett sacked? Had he been present, that night in the hotel dining room? And had someone-his wife?-told him about the earlier event? There must even have been talk in the village at the time, forgotten though it might be now.
Hamish said, 'Ye must ask yon clerk why he didna' tell ye that the inspector was present when there was trouble.'
That was easily dealt with. Rutledge crossed the street to the hotel and went in search of Hunter.
The manager was working in his office behind Reception. He rose when Rutledge came through the door, wariness in every line.
Rutledge greeted him and got to the point. 'You didn't tell me, when you described the problem you had with Harold Quarles here in the hotel dining room, that you had called the police in.'
'Inspector Padgett was here that night, a diner. He and his wife were celebrating her birthday. He came to my assistance when Quarles turned nasty, and intervened.'
'Did you know that Quarles had spoken of this to the Chief Constable, in an effort to have Padgett dismissed from his post in the police?'
Hunter's eyes slid away. 'Yes. I heard later. It was talked about. I didn't wish to bring it up. It wasn't my place. If you want to know more, you should speak to Inspector Padgett.'
'If you've misled me about this, how do I know that you've told me the truth about Quarles arguing with someone-Quarles turning the corner out of Minton Street, and the fact that you have no idea where he went from there.'
Hunter said, 'I told you the truth. My truth. I thought it was best that Inspector Padgett explain his role and the consequences of his actions.'
'Because this information could involve him in the murder?'
Smiling wryly, Hunter said, 'That's not my problem. It's yours. It seems he's told you. Or someone has. Either you've leapt to conclusions about the Chief Constable being approached, or you know what transpired there. I don't. I kept my position and Mr. Padgett kept his. That was what mattered.'
'Who else was here that night? Do you remember?'
'The dining room was quite busy that evening. I can't recall everyone who was here. Mr. Brunswick. Mr. Greer. The rector, dining with a curate he knew from another living. Others. It was a matter of face, you see. Mr. Quarles was intent on saving his, and Inspector Padgett was trying to calm a volatile situation. Quarles insisted that I be sacked from the hotel, but fortunately for me, the owner had no intention of being bullied. Hardly, you'd think, a reason to kill a man.'
