anything before or since to match it. The next morning I confronted him with it, and at first he told me I was imagining things. And then he swore he'd see me dead if I said anything to anyone. I knew then that it was true. And I left him, because I couldn't stand to be in the same room with him or feel those hands-'
She broke off.
'You might as well tell me, Mrs. Quarles. I won't walk away until I know the whole truth about your husband. If it has nothing to do with his murder, I will never speak of it. You can trust my word on that.'
She stared at him. 'What use to me is your word?'
'It's better that I find out than someone else trying to pry into the past.'
Walking past him to the door, Maybelle Quarles opened it quickly, as if expecting to find Mrs. Downing there with her ear pressed to the panel. But the passage was empty. She closed it again and went to the window, looking out. When she spoke, she had pitched her voice low, so that it barely reached his ears.
'You are a persistent man, Mr. Rutledge. Very well. I will tell you what you want to know. Not because of the persistence, but because by your digging, it's possible that other people will get wind of the truth, and we will never have peace in this family again.'
Turning back to him, she said baldly, 'My husband burned Lieutenant Evering alive, after shooting the wounded on that train.'
'Gentle God,' Rutledge said softly. 'In heaven's name, why?'
'I don't know. I wish I did, it would make my own nightmares easier to bear.'
'Does Penrith know? Surely-'
'He must know. The soldiers who reached the train misread what they saw, and Penrith made no move to correct them. They must have thought Harold was burned trying to save the lieutenant. They believed the Boers had come into the train and killed the wounded. My husband was delirious, he couldn't tell them what had happened after Penrith went for help.'
'It could well be true.'
'In that nightmare, he relived listening to Evering die. He relived shooting the wounded. He lay there, writhing on the bed, and begged God to help him after he'd burned his hands to make it appear he'd done his best. He'd kept that secret so long that it was tormenting him, and that night, he confessed to God or the devil, I don't know which, and I sat there, afraid to call for help, listening to it all'
Rutledge had only to look at the torment in her face to believe her. To understand why she hated the man she'd married and couldn't bear to live with him. And yet she'd never divorced him…
'Why did you stay with Quarles?'
'I have a son. Harold would have taken him from me if I'd told anyone else. I'm not a fool, Mr. Rutledge, I knew the danger of living under the same roof with a murderer. But I did it for Marcus, and God saw fit on that Saturday night to release me from my prison. And I have thanked him on my knees for it.'
'Why didn't you consider killing him yourself, if you felt afraid?'
'And leave my child without a father or a mother? I think not.'
He left soon after. There was nothing more he could say to the woman standing by the empty grate staring down into flames that she could see only in her mind. And there was no comfort he could give her. It was beyond any words he could utter, and it would be patronizing to try.
Hamish said, as Rutledge pointed the bonnet of the motorcar down the drive, 'It doesna' change the murder or who did it.'
'Quarles was a strange man. A killer at heart, ruthless and coldblooded, and yet he could be kind as well. What was it Miss O'Hara said? That someone should be given a medal for ridding Cambury of the ogre?'
All at once he could hear shouting in the distance and stopped the car to listen. It appeared to be coming from the Home Farm. He got out, walked a little way across the lawns, and saw that Masters and one of his men were wading into the pond just beyond the barns and outbuildings. Something was in it, a long blue streak in the middle of water already turning muddy from the hurried thrashing of their feet. He raced toward the farm, watching the scene play out like a drama on a stage. Masters was close now to what appeared to be a blue gown, and he was reaching out, trying to drag it nearer, then trying to right the figure as it began to lash out wildly.
It was a woman, and she wasn't trying to cling to her rescuers, she was struggling to free herself. Rutledge, out of breath, got to the water's edge just as Masters succeeded in dragging the woman to shallower depths.
It was Betty Richards, the elderly woman who had served Quarles, and in his name tried to destroy the bakery.
Her hair was down, gray streaked and straggling, half covering her face, and she was crying, trails of tears spreading into the muddy stream running from her hair and into her eyes.
Masters, his breathing tumultuous, was shaking her, demanding to know in broken sentences what the hell she thought she was doing.
Rutledge said, 'She was trying to drown herself, man. Get her inside and fetch some blankets. Tea as well, and towels to dry her hair.'
Masters let her go, turning to Rutledge. 'What are you doing here? I thought you'd found your killer.'
'In more ways than one.' He reached out and put a hand on Betty's shoulder, comforting her as best he could.
'There was nothing else I could do,' she said, sobbing into the wet skirt she held to her face. 'I had nowhere else to go, nothing left.'
Rutledge asked sharply, 'Did Mrs. Quarles give you notice?'
She tried to shake her head but her hair was a heavy mass down her back. 'It was Mrs. Downing. She said they'd be cutting back staff now, and I'd not be needed any longer. Mr. Archer told her I could take care of his rooms. But she said it would be up to Mrs. Quarles, and I mustn't hold out any hope.'
Rutledge swore. Hadn't they read the will? Hadn't they seen the bequest to this poor wretch?
As if in answer, Betty said, 'Mrs. Downing never liked it that I wasn't under her. But I wasn't and never was meant to be. She was told that from the start.'
Mrs. Masters had come with blankets and they wrapped Betty in them as water ran from her clothes and she began to shiver. Rutledge let Mrs. Masters take over, guiding Betty toward her kitchen, making soothing noises.
Masters said, 'I never liked that woman.'
'Betty?'
'Not Betty, I hardly knew her. No, Mrs. Downing. She creeps around the house, listening at doors and spreading gossip. I don't know how Mrs. Quarles can stand her.'
'I don't think she sees that side of her housekeeper. Will Betty be all right with your wife?' He watched Mrs. Masters close the kitchen door behind them.
'She'll see that Betty is taken care of. I've half a mind to take her on myself, to get her out of Mrs. Downing's clutches. But I don't need more staff.'
'Then you might spread a little gossip of your own. Harold Quarles left a sizeable bequest to that housemaid. She'll never want for anything again.'
'Why on earth should he do that?'
'I don't know. But I think Mrs. Downing might. I'll have a word with her.'
Rutledge walked back the way he'd come, and leaving the motorcar where it was, he went on to the house and knocked again at the door.
Mrs. Downing opened it to him, and he stepped inside before she could prevent him.
'Has there been a reading of the will?' he asked, and her eyes flickered.
'It was read privately. The staff wasn't invited to hear. Afterward, we were told by Mrs. Quarles how we were to be provided for.'
'Was nothing said to you about a bequest to the woman who had served Mr. Quarles by taking care of his rooms?'
'Not to me. I wasn't told anything at all.'
'But you overheard something, didn't you? When Mrs. Quarles spoke privately to Betty.'
'She never did-'
Rutledge said, 'Bring her down here to me. I want to speak to Mrs. Quarles.'
'I can't-'
