'I don't know. Apparently no one answered the telephone, and so there was no opportunity to leave a message.'
'I'll make a point of getting in touch.'
She changed the subject, talking about the weather, pouring the tea when it came, offering nothing more demanding than quiet conversation, never expecting him to say more than he felt like saying. It was a kindness.
When they left the tearoom, he found the courage to say, 'I must apologize for what happened today. Sometimes-' He broke off and shook his head, unable to explain. To her, to anyone.
She smiled. 'I'm glad I was there. Would you like to drive now?'
He took the wheel, and in another half hour they were back in Chelsea. He had no memory of how he'd got there earlier. Or how, for that matter, he had negotiated the streets of London without hitting something or someone. It was a frightening thought.
When he had seen her to her door, he looked at his watch and decided he just might catch Caldwell at his office. The war had receded, it would be all right.
Caldwell was preparing to leave for the day when Rutledge was shown in. He said, 'You look worn out. Is it another case?'
'I suspect you are a better judge of the answer to that. I understand you tried to reach me in Somerset. Was this to do with the Cumber- line venture?'
'I was curious about this man Evering. I have a few contacts, here and there. It took some time but I found out more than I felt comfortable knowing. I wasn't aware that Evering had a brother, nor that both Penrith and Quarles fought off the Boers in an action where the elder Evering was killed. I had no idea either Penrith or Quarles had been in the army, much less South Africa. It was quite a surprise. I couldn't be sure you'd discovered any of this, that's why I called Somerset. I felt rather foolish after telling you that you could safely ignore this man Evering!'
'I was able to piece together some of the story,' Rutledge replied carefully. 'Sometimes the past has a long reach. Ronald Evering is dead. He was killed by Harold Quarles's sister, who then took her own life.'
'Dear God. I saw that you'd taken up Penrith for Quarles's murder. I would never have expected him to be a killer. It seemed so contrary to his nature. He was always in Quarles's shadow. Ever since the war, apparently.'
'With the right goad, even people like Penrith can kill,' Rutledge answered neutrally.
'There's more to this business of Quarles and Penrith. Since my telephone call to you, I was told something by a friend, in strictest confidence. I trust you'll treat it as such. There was a fair sum of money going up the line the day the Boer attacked. I'm not privy to why it was on the train, just that it was. It was burned when the carriages caught fire after the attack. There was some question in the doctors' minds whether-judging from the nature of his wounds-Quarles was trying to save the money or Lieutenant Evering. The Army kept an eye on him, but after Quarles got back to London, he was poor as a church mouse. And so after a time, the Army lost interest in him. A man of that sort, they reckoned, would have spent every penny in months, if not weeks, on whatever whims took his fancy. Instead he worked hard in the firm that hired him, rose through their ranks on his own ability, and led an honest life.'
It explained why Penrith wouldn't talk-he had been given a share of that money. It explained why Lieutenant Evering had to die-he would have told everyone if Quarles had taken the money. It explained why the carriages had to be burned-otherwise the Army would have searched for the missing currency. And still they had been suspicious. But Quarles had outwaited them, clever man that he was.
It had all begun with greed. With money that could be had for the taking, if one had no qualms about committing murder.
Rutledge said, 'Thank you for telling me. It will go no further.'
'Just as well,' Caldwell said. 'It will only hurt the survivors. But I thought it might be useful to you.'
Pray God, Rutledge thought, Michael Brunswick never learns the truth. Or if he does, never acts on it. Or the killing will go on.
And Marcus Quarles might prove to have more of his father and his aunt in him than his mother ever imagined…
