everything you could lay hands to?'
Tears filled her eyes but didn't fall. 'He's been good to me. M-Mr. Quarles. No one else cared, but I did. I wanted to punish whoever had killed him. I wanted to make him as wretched as I was.'
'You succeeded in making Mr. Jones wretched. He didn't deserve it.'
'But they talk, the servants. I hear them. His daughter had come home, and he was distraught. Everyone said he was the only one who could have put Mr. Quarles up in that wicker cage. They said he'd done it to show that Mr. Quarles was no angel, that he'd tormented the Jones family until they couldn't stand it any longer.'
'Yes, I know. The police nearly made that same mistake. But it wasn't true. You owe him an apology, and restitution.'
'How can I pay for what I've done? I only have my wages.' She was gripping her hands together until the knuckles were white. And then she looked at Rutledge. 'He said terrible things about Mr. Quarles when he sent his daughter away. What does he owe for that?'
'You aren't Mr. Quarles's defender. He has a wife and a son to protect his good name.'
'His wife hated him as much as the rest did. But the boy, Marcus, is a good child. He would have made his father proud. It's hard to think of him fatherless. If they hang this man you've decided killed Mr. Quarles, I'd like to be there.'
'Why do you think his wife turned against him? It was a happy marriage for some time, or so I was led to believe.'
'And so it was. I was never told what it is she holds against him. But she said once, when she didn't know I was there, if she knew a way, she'd wash the very blood out of Master Marcus's veins if it would do any good. Mr. Archer called that a cruel thing to say, but she answered him sharply. 'You can't imagine what cruelty is, Charles. I can't sleep at night for remembering what was done.' '
'You've known Mr. Quarles for some years. What was his wife talking about?'
'He was a hard man, but not half the things said about him are true. I think she wanted an excuse to live with Mr. Archer, to make it right in her own eyes. I think she believed he'd feel better about living under her roof if he thought she was married to a monster.' She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. 'He was good to me. That's all I know. No one else ever was.'
The next morning, as Rutledge was packing his valise, he was summoned to the telephone.
It was Sergeant Gibson. 'I've had a bit of luck, sir. Remember the constable you spoke with on Saturday, when you left me a message?'
'Yes, I do.' The lion's head and a small boy charging his mates a few farthings to look at it.
'That was Constable Wainwright, sir. Over the weekend he spoke to his father about fighting the Boers. His father saw a good deal of action. And he remembers Private Penrith. Described him as a fair, slender chap, a quiet one keeping to himself for the most part. Said he was reminded of the young Prince of Wales, sir. This was in Cape Town, just before Corporal Wainwright was to sail home. Penrith was quite the hero, according to Wainwright. He walked miles back to a depot for help, after the Boers ambushed the train he was taking north. There was talk of a medal, but Penrith himself quashed that idea. He says he was too late, all the men were dead by the time rescue reached them. He blamed himself.'
'He was the sole survivor?'
'According to Wainwright's account, yes, sir. He was knocked about when the train came to a screeching halt, and dazed. But his rifle had been fired, though he couldn't remember much about the action.'
'Hardly a record to be ashamed of.'
'No, sir. Shall I go on looking at Mr. Penrith's military career?'
'No. Yes. When did he leave the army? And where else did he serve? Did Corporal Wainwright mention one Harold Quarles?'
'I don't believe he did, sir.'
'Include him in your search. And, Gibson, I want to be sure who and what this Davis Penrith is. One source has told me his father lived in Hampshire, another that his father lived in Sussex. I want that cleared up.'
'Yes, sir. I believe one Davis Penrith came in this morning to make his statement about a journey to Scotland. Is this the same man, sir?'
'It is.'
'Wouldn't it be simpler to send a constable around to ask him these questions?'
Rutledge said, 'He's already answered one of them. But not to my satisfaction.'
Sergeant Gibson said neutrally, 'Indeed, sir.'
Rutledge broke the connection, absently rubbing his jaw with his fingers.
So Penrith was apparently all he claimed to be. No one, however, had so far explained the confusion between Hampshire and Sussex. But it might be nothing more mysterious than being born in one county and growing up in the other.
For the moment he put Penrith out of his mind and went in search of Hugh Jones.
The bakery was still closed on this Monday morning, but it was ready for use as soon as fresh supplies arrived. Jones said, as Rutledge came through the door, 'I managed to bake bread this morning for my regular customers. Only twenty loaves, but a start. It was all the flour I had.'
'I think I've found the person who did this damage. An elderly maid at Hallowfields. She'd served Quarles, seen only his best side, apparently, and she was told that you had killed him. Hence the vandalism.'
Jones sighed. 'He still makes trouble for me, even in death. I'm grateful Mrs. Quarles took him away from here to bury him. Else I'd fear to walk through the churchyard of a night.'
'Inspector Padgett is satisfied that we've found Quarles's killer. He'll be taken into custody sometime this morning.'
'Who is it?'
'You'll hear soon enough. The evidence points strongly to Michael Brunswick.'
'Another family Quarles destroyed. Ah well. I'm sorry for him. He's a man haunted by disappointment. But I never saw him as a murderer.'
'Inspector Padgett believed Brunswick could have killed his wife.'
'There was a lot of talk at the time. No one paid much attention to it. Thank you for telling me about what happened here.'
Rutledge left the baker and walked on to the police station. Padgett had just returned from his meeting with the Chief Constable.
'He agrees, there's enough evidence to make an arrest. We'll see what the lawyers can make of it now. I expect you're wanted back in London. I'll deal with Brunswick. He's at the church, playing the organ. I spoke to Rector on my way in, and he told me. He wants to be present. I think he's afraid Brunswick will do something foolish. I don't see it that way.'
Rutledge went there himself and stood in the open door at the side of St. Martin's, listening to the music for a time. Brunswick was practicing an oratorio, struggling with it, going over and over the more complicated sections until he got it right and locked into his memory. It was a long and frustrating session. When he'd finished, he launched into a hymn he knew well, and the difference in the two pieces was telling. Brunswick had ability but not the soaring skill that great musicians strove for.
Hearing voices approaching, Rutledge went back to the hotel to fetch his valise. Coming down the stairs again, he stopped by Reception.
Hunter was there to bid him farewell and a safe journey.
Half an hour after he'd driven out of Cambury, the telephone in the small parlor beyond the stairs began to ring.
The staff was busy with the noonday meal, and no one heard it.
It was an uneventful drive to the city. Rutledge arrived late and went directly to his flat.
The next morning, he called on Davis Penrith at his home.
'We've found your former partner's murderer. He was taken into custody yesterday and charged. The inquest will find enough evidence to bind him over for trial.'
Penrith's face was still. 'Who is he?'
'The organist at St. Martin's. He believed his late wife had an affair with Quarles. She killed herself.'
Penrith searched for something to say. 'I'm sorry to hear it.'
