morning when he came in. Constable Daniels is there now.'
Padgett swore. 'Some months ago, Jones gave me the names of two boys who had stolen tarts when he wasn't looking. I expect they wanted revenge, and since the town's gabbling about the man's guilt, they must have decided this was as good a time as any. I'll have a word with them.'
Rutledge held his tongue. In another ten minutes he could make the telephone call to Godalming.
But Padgett sensed something in the texture of the silence and said, 'What are we to tell the Chief Constable?'
'Whatever you like,' Rutledge answered and stood up. 'I've got something to attend to. Then I'm going back to speak to Brunswick.'
'Suit yourself.' Padgett got to his feet. 'I'll be at the station.'
Rutledge waited until he had gone out, then went to the telephone room to make his call.
Godalming himself answered, and Rutledge asked, 'Did you find our man? '
'A curate by the name of Penrith had the living for some years in a village northeast of Chichester. He died of typhoid early in 1903. He had one son and no money to educate him. The boy went into the army. He never came back to see his father. Whether that means he's dead as well, or that he knew his father was no longer living, I can't say.'
'And that's all you've turned up?'
'It isn't enough?' There was a weariness in the voice coming down the line that had nothing to do with fatigue.
'Yes, thank you, it is. I was-hoping for more.'
'Yes. We all do, don't we?'
And the connection was broken.
A dead end. Whatever reason Penrith might have had for lying about his father, it appeared to have nothing to do with Quarles. There might be other skeletons that filled that particular closet. Penrith could be illegitimate, for one, and the curate took him in. Or because their names were the same, Davis Penrith might have tried to provide himself with more respectable antecedents than a serving girl sacked because someone had tired of her.
Hence the lie to Rutledge…
He had learned through his years in the police that no detail was so small it could be safely ignored.
And so he put in a call to London, to Sergeant Gibson, who was not on duty at the Yard that day, if he cared to leave a message…
Rutledge did. It was brief. 'Find out if one Davis Penrith served in the British Army between 1898 and 1905. If so, where, and what became of him.' Let them sort it out. It would take time, and he'd already given two hours to the War Office on behalf of Stephenson's son.
The voice on the other end of the line, laboriously writing out the message, said, '1898 and 1905?'
'That should be inclusive. If it isn't, we'll look again.'
'My father was in the Boer War,' the voice said. 'Saw a bit of fighting, and came home with a lion's head mounted for the wall. Drove my mother mad hanging it where it could be seen, coming down the stairs. We were the only family on our street with a real lion's head. I used to charge my mates a farthing a look. Very good, sir, I'll see he gets the message on Monday morning.'
Rutledge fished in his pocket for the list he'd made in Harold Quarles's study. Then he put in his third and final telephone call, this one to Elise Caldwell's father.
'Sir, can you tell me anything about these men?' he asked after Caldwell's greeting. He read the list of eight names.
'I know six of them. They made their fortunes from the war. Butler is dead, of course-an apoplexy. Simpleton went to Canada, as I recall. Talbot and Morgan live in London, as does Willard. MacDonald is in Glasgow. Hester and Evering are new to me. Here, are these by any chance a list of investors in Cumberline?'
'Yes, they are.'
Caldwell chuckled. 'Well, well. I've always wondered. If you're thinking of the six I know in terms of the murder of Harold Quarles, then you're barking up the wrong tree. While I wouldn't trust them with my purse, I can tell you they aren't likely to avenge themselves with a spot of murder. They'd rather lose a second fortune than admit to investing unwisely. And they seldom sue, because there's the risk that a canny barrister might find that their own coattails are none too clean.'
'Would they be likely to hire someone to do the deed for them?'
'Not likely at all. Of course I can't speak for this man Hester, or Evering. What can you tell me about them? '
'Hester is from Birmingham. A manufacturer of woolens-I have the name of his firm. Broadsmith and Sons.'
'Ah. He's Willard's son-in-law. You can strike him off the list as well.'
'That leaves Evering. He lives in the Scilly Isles. No firm given.'
'Don't know him at all. You'll probably find your murderer closer to home,' Caldwell informed him. 'I wouldn't worry about these eight men.'
'Thank you, sir. This has saved a great deal of footwork.'
Caldwell said, 'Any time, Ian. Good hunting.'
19
Rutledge decided to walk to Brunswick's house. The morning was fair. The streets were filled with people doing their marketing, and a farmer was bringing in half a dozen pigs, their pink backs bouncing down the middle of the street as motorcars and lorries pulled to one side.
Brunswick didn't answer his door, and Rutledge walked on to the church, thinking that the organist might have gone to practice for the Sunday morning services. In fact, as he crossed the churchyard, he could hear music pouring out the open door. He stepped inside.
As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw that there were two women kneeling by the front of the church, arranging flowers in tall vases, and somewhere the rector, Mr. Heller, was deep in conversation with a young man, their voices carrying but not their words.
The church was larger inside than it appeared to be outside, with a wagon roof and no columns. As Rutledge passed by, Heller caught his eye and nodded but continued with his conversation. Brunswick, in the organ loft, paused between hymns, but was playing again by the time Rutledge had climbed the stairs and come to stand by him.
'I'm busy,' Brunswick said over the crash of the music.
Rutledge's posture was that of a man content to wait through the next five hours if necessary.
After a time, Rutledge said, 'My mother was a pianist, quite a fine one in fact. Your interpretation of that last piece was very different from hers.'
With an abrupt gesture of annoyance, Brunswick lifted his fingers and feet, letting the pipes fall silent. Everyone in the church looked up, the two women and the two men, as if after the music, the sudden stillness was deafening.
'If you've come to take me into custody, get on with it. Otherwise you're breaking my concentration.'
'Do you wish to talk to me here, where everyone can hear, or elsewhere?'
Brunswick got to his feet, stretching his shoulders. 'We can walk in the churchyard.'
They went down to the door and into the sunlight, warmer outside after the chill trapped within the stone walls of the church.
'The talk of Cambury is that Mr. Jones is your man. Why should you need to speak to me?'
As they walked among the gravestones, Rutledge said, 'I've often wondered if a guilty man ever spares a thought for the poor bastard who is sacrificed in his stead. If you were the killer, would you speak up to set Jones free?'
'I don't see that this is something I need to consider. Unless of course you aren't confident of your ability to judge who is guilty and who isn't,' Brunswick countered.
