Evering was very still. 'Who are you? And what do you want here?'
'I'm Inspector Ian Rutledge, from Scotland Yard, Mr. Evering.' He held out his identification. 'Harold Quarles has been murdered-'
Evering turned away toward the mantelpiece, his hands gripping the mahogany edge, his head bowed. 'I hadn't heard. I'm sorry. When did this happen? Where?'
'In Somerset, where his country house is located. Some ten days ago.'
Evering took a deep breath. 'I hope you've found his killer.'
'Yes, he's already in custody. It was when I was searching Mr. Quarles's rooms that I came across your name in connection with Cumberline. In his study he kept a file on the transactions.'
Evering turned to face Rutledge. 'And how did you learn about my brother? '
'We were looking up Harold Quarles's service records, in an effort to find out what role, if any, his past played in his death.'
'I can't see how South Africa matters? Or the Cumberline stocks. Surely neither of those could be connected to murder?'
'Not to my knowledge. But it pays to be thorough, Mr. Evering. How long have you known Mr. Quarles?'
'Not very long. I invested a sum of money with him, and it didn't prosper.'
'Did you know when you invested your money that Quarles had served under your brother in the Boer War?'
Evering glanced toward the windows, where a shaft of errant sunlight had turned the sea from gray to deep green. 'The War Department gave us very little information about my brother's death. He died on active duty and served his country well. That's what my father was told in the telegram. I was very young at the time, and if he learned more, he never spoke of it.'
'And so it was quite by chance that you should choose an investment offered by two men who served in your brother's company.'
'Neither Mr. Quarles nor Mr. Penrith ever mentioned the fact. If they recognized the name or knew my relationship to Timothy, I didn't realize it.'
'Did you deal with both partners? Penrith and Quarles?'
'Yes, I talked to Mr. Quarles first, and then he brought in Mr. Penrith.'
It sounded straightforward, told without hesitation or attempt to conceal.
'Is that all you came to ask me, Mr. Rutledge?'
'I'm informed that Penrith and Quarles were the only survivors of the Boer attack. Do you know if that's true?'
'I've told you-I know very little about how Timothy died. The fact of his death was enough. My parents never recovered from the shock.'
'Yes, I can understand.'
'Were you in the Great War, Mr. Rutledge? If you were, you can appreciate that many details of what happens in a battle are not reported. My brother's commanding officer wrote a very fine letter to my father, and it said very little beyond the fact that Timothy died bravely and didn't suffer. That he was an honor to his regiment, showed great promise as an officer, and would have had a fine career in the army if he'd lived. How many such letters does an officer write? He could say the same thing to a dozen grieving families, and who would be the wiser? '
'It is meant well. Sometimes the details are-distressing.'
'Yes, I'm sure that must be true. For my mother's sake, I was grateful. She died not knowing whether he suffered or not. Which is what really mattered, in the end.' Evering gestured to the chairs that stood between them. 'Won't you sit down, Mr. Rutledge? I'll ring for tea. It will be some time before the boat returns.'
'Thank you.' Rutledge took the chair indicated and waited until Evering had given the order for tea to the woman who'd answered the door.
'One of the reasons I'm following up on the South African campaign is that something that happened in Harold Quarles's service out there-he served nowhere else, you see-disturbed his wife to such a degree that there was a serious breach with her husband. It lasted until his death.'
Evering considered Rutledge for a moment and then said, 'I don't know what to say. I've never met Mrs. Quarles or spoken to her. Does she think this-whatever it was-had to do with my brother?'
'I have no way of knowing what it is. I'm here to learn as much as I can about the only serious action Quarles saw during the war.'
'It's a mystery to me. But if she tells you anything that I ought to know, please send me word. I'd be grateful.'
The tea came, and they drank it in silence. Rutledge's mind was occupied, and Evering seemed to have little conversation, as if living alone in this empty, silent house had shaped his spirit.
But as he set his teacup down, Rutledge asked, 'And so, as the only surviving son, you inherited this house?'
'My father's family was one of the earliest settlers here. Generations ago. We are as close to 'native' here as anyone can be. You either love or hate it. My brother joined the army because he wanted adventure and excitement, both in short supply here on St. Anne's. My mother called it a need to be a man, and persuaded herself that in due course he'd come home, marry, and settle here for the rest of his life. As the elder son, that's what was expected of him. Instead he died in a place none of us had ever heard of and couldn't find on a map. Look, there's the mail boat. No passengers to hold it up today. You should be there when it comes in, Mr. Rutledge.'
'I almost forgot.' Rutledge reached into his pocket and brought out the packet of mail. 'I was to give you this.' He glanced at the return address on the top envelop but said nothing.
Evering thanked him and sent for the maid to bring Rutledge's coat and hat. 'I'm afraid it will be a wet crossing. Those clouds on the horizon spell rain. Thank you for coming, Mr. Rutledge. I'm sorry I couldn't be more helpful.'
But Rutledge, as he went out into the wind, smelling now of rain, thought that on the whole Ronald Evering had not been sorry at all.
By the time the boat reached the mainland, they were caught in a downpour, and in spite of his useless umbrella, Rutledge managed to start his motorcar without drowning.
Cutting across Cornwall in the direction of Dunster, Rutledge spent the night there with the Maitlands, newly returned from their wedding trip and delighted to see him. They would have kept him longer, but he was up before dawn the next morning, and by first light was well on the road again, heading for Cambury.
He drove straight through the village when he reached the High Street, and out to Hallowfields.
Mrs. Quarles was in mourning, he was told, and not seeing anyone.
'Tell her I know about Evering,' he said, and in three minutes, he was face-to-face with Harold Quarles's widow in the formal drawing room. She was not happy to see him, and the two small dogs at her feet growled as he entered.
'I thought we were fortunate in not having to deal with Scotland Yard any longer,' she told him shortly. 'And here you are again.' She didn't ask him to sit down.
'I'm afraid that I'm rather tenacious when it comes to making certain that the man I hang is indeed the killer I was looking for.'
'You have doubts about Brunswick? But I was told he confessed.'
'For reasons of his own-which may or may not be the right reasons. It's Evering I'm interested in, and how he died.'
'Who told you about Evering? Was it Penrith? If you tell me it was, I won't believe you.'
'Penrith would as soon keep the matter quiet. He's lied to me enough to make me suspicious, and that wasn't very clever of him.'
'Then you'll hear nothing from me.'
'Mrs. Quarles, I'm very close to stumbling on the truth. If you know Evering's name, then you know what it is I'm after. And I warn you, it's very likely that Michael Brunswick knows more than I do, and that he'll use what he knows at his trial, to disgrace your husband publicly.'
'There's no way Brunswick could know anything. I wouldn't have learned the truth myself if Harold hadn't been so drunk one night that he talked in his sleep. It was as if he were having a waking nightmare. I've never seen
