'No, Sussex it was. I'm nearly certain of that.'
Then Penrith had lied.
'Go on…'
'Quarles came from somewhere around Newcastle. Coal mining, which he was lucky enough to escape, according to the accounts he gave. I met him several times when he was clerk to Mr. James the younger. There was something about him-and this will sound to you quite discriminating on my part, but it isn't-that didn't seem to march well with his story. I had the feeling that there was more to him than met the eye. And that was it, something in his eyes, as if the real person were locked away behind them. I had the feeling that he could be quite ruthless if he chose.'
'An interesting point.'
'Yes, and I said something to my father about it. His reply was that I had no way to measure how rough the man's life had been, or how he had managed to escape the fate of his brothers. The story was that they'd died in a mining accident and he didn't want to do the same.'
'There appears to have been some ruthlessness on his part aside from working his way into a prosperous business,' Rutledge said, thinking about Cambury.
'Nevertheless, Quarles quickly changed from the rough diamond he claimed himself to be to a rather polished one. He married well, and he had a reputation for scrupulous honesty-'
'Even when it came to Cumberline?'
'Ah. That was an odd story. I think it was seven men who paid dearly for investing in that disaster. Quarles swore he'd put some of his own money into it, but I find that hard to believe. He was too astute.'
'Do you know who these seven men were?'
'I don't. But there should be files of transactions somewhere. We're required to keep track of such things.'
Rutledge saw again in his mind's eye the box marked CUMBERLINE on the shelf in Quarles's study at Hallowfields.
'What else can you tell me about him?'
'Nothing, I'm afraid. Oh, there was one thing, rather strange I thought at the time, but I can't remember why it disturbed me. We were standing outside a restaurant in the Strand, and a young woman came up to us, asking if we'd like to subscribe a sum for the memorial that was being erected to the men missing on the Somme, those who were never found. We all gave her money toward the cause-how could you not? All save Quarles. He turned away from her and said something to the effect that he was not an army man, that he'd sent in his subscription for the navy dead instead.'
'It seems to me the simplest thing was to make a donation and let it go,' Rutledge responded.
'Yes, but the young woman was asking to write our names down on the subscription list, to go into a book they were intending to place in the memorial.'
Rutledge could almost hear Stephenson's voice, breaking as it recounted how he'd pled with Quarles to speak to the Army on his son's behalf. And Quarles refusing to even entertain the idea.
'He was too old for the war,' Hamish said, without warning. 'And his son is verra' young still.'
Both comments were true. But Rutledge had taken up enough of Caldwell's time, and the teacups were empty. Courtesy required that he leave.
'Is there anything else you can think of?'
'No. I don't care to speak ill of the dead. If you weren't a policeman, and someone I trust to use the information wisely, I would never have told you as much as I have.'
'Thank you, sir, for your trust. It isn't misplaced.'
They shook hands, and Rutledge left.
Outside in the street, he mulled over the fact that Penrith had lied.
Why?
He found a telephone in a hotel and called a friend of his who had been an Anglican priest. Anthony Godalming had lost his faith and retired to his family's home in Sussex. He rarely went out and seldom spoke to old friends. But Rutledge reached the man's sister, told her it was urgent, and in time Goldalming came to the telephone.
His voice was neither friendly nor unfriendly-it seemed to hold neither warmth nor coldness. But Rutledge could tell his call was not welcomed, a reminder of too much that still had to be put behind, for sanity's sake.
'Anthony, thank you for speaking to me. I'm looking for someone, a curate in Sussex some years ago. Twenty perhaps? Longer, even. His name was Penrith. He had one son.'
'Penrith?' The man on the other end of the line seemed to dredge deep in memory and come up short. 'I don't recall anyone of that name down here. Are you sure it was Sussex?'
'Before your time, then?'
'It could be. Does it matter greatly?'
'Yes. I need to find the father, if he's alive. And the son as well, if anyone knows where he may be. London, possibly.'
There was a long silence. 'Very well. Tell me how to reach you.'
Rutledge gave him instructions to call The unicorn in Cambury.
'Has this to do with the war, Ian? Tell me honestly.' There was strain in Godalming's voice now.
'No. To my knowledge, neither man was young enough to serve with us. This has to do with a murder inquiry. That's why I'm searching for information. Otherwise, I wouldn't have asked you.'
'Surely the police have ways to find these men.'
'I don't think they do. You have the only fact I've been able to dig up, and that's little enough.'
Rutledge heard a grunt that might have been in disagreement.
'Thank you, Anthony.'
'Not at all.' There was a click at the other end.
Driving fast as he reached the outskirts of London, Rutledge headed for Somerset, his mind sifting through what Penrith and Caldwell had had to say to him.
It had been, for the most part, a very unproductive journey. Pen- rith's relationship to Quarles had not been worth pursuing, or so it seemed, and yet that one lie about where his father had been curate still rankled. Why had he felt the need to lie?
'It doesna' mean,' Hamish said, taking up the thread of Rutledge's thoughts, 'that he's a murderer.'
'It's possible he has his own secrets to conceal. His own background. Was it really Penrith who initiated the separation from Quar- les? Or the other way around?'
But that didn't make sense. A man like Quarles would have made it his business to know any secrets that Penrith possessed. It was in his nature, as it was in Penrith's to bury his head in the sand.
What had broken up Quarles's marriage? And what had broken up Quarles's partnership?
This occupied Rutledge's mind all the way to Somerset, and late as it was when he arrived, he drove straight to Hallowfields and knocked on the door.
It was several minutes before someone answered his summons. Mrs. Downing, still in her black dress with the housekeeper's keys on a chain at her waist, the symbol of her office even in this modern age, was not pleased with him.
'It's late, Mr. Rutledge, and you've disturbed the household. Mrs. Quarles is not here.'
'Yes, I understand she's gone to Rugby. I need to look at something in Mr. Quarles's study, and you don't need her permission to allow me to do that.'
'Can't this wait until the morning?'
'I'm afraid not.'
Reluctantly she let him into the foyer, and then when the door was securely locked once more, she led him up the stairs.
Charles Archer, in his dressing gown, was rolling down the passage toward them, coming from the other wing as Rutledge reached the first floor.
'Is there trouble?' he asked anxiously, but Rutledge shook his head.
'I've something I wish to see in the study Mr. Quarles used here at the house. I'm sorry to call so late, but it's rather urgent.'
