Todd, Charles (19 page)

The tone of his voice was enough. Rutledge wheeled and pressed his face to the glass as well before shoving Padgett aside and kicking open the door. As it flew back, the flimsy lock shattering, Padgett was ahead of him, bursting into the shop.

Beyond the desk, in a small alcove where Stephenson kept a Thermos for his tea and a stock of wrapping paper, the man was hanging from a rope attached to a hook in the ceiling where he had once run a cord to bring the lamp nearer. The lamp was dangling beside him now, and it was the swaying of the glass shade that Padgett had glimpsed through the window glass as the bookseller jumped.

The odor of spilled lamp oil filled the small space.

For a mercy, Stephenson had not broken his neck in his fall, but his face was suffused with blood and his hands were flailing, as if to stop them from rescuing him. The chair he'd used had tipped over almost directly under him, just out of reach.

Rutledge turned it up, shoved a stack of books on it, and had it under Stephenson's feet in a matter of seconds, catching first one and then the other and forcing them down to relieve the pressure on his neck. His hands went on thrashing about, in an effort to jerk away.

Padgett had clambered up the shelves in the alcove, pushing aside the rolls of wrapping paper and tipping over the Thermos in his haste to reach the dangling man. Rutledge spied a knife used to cut the wrapping paper just as it spun to the floor, and releasing one of Stephenson's ankles, he reached up to hand it to Padgett. Stephenson tried to kick him in the face with his free foot, but Rutledge caught it again, just as a toe grazed the lump on his forehead. He clamped the foot down hard, his grip reflecting his anger.

The rope was heavy, heavy enough to do the work of killing a man, but Rutledge had Stephenson's wriggling feet securely pinned while Padgett cursed and sawed at the rope from his precarious perch.

The strands of hemp parted so suddenly that all three men fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs, the books from the chair clattering around them. Rutledge fought his way out of the knot of hands and feet, stretching across to lift the rope from Stephenson's neck.

A ring of red, scraped flesh showed above his collar as Stephenson clawed at it and gasped for breath, the air whistling in his throat before he could actually breathe again.

"Damn you!" he whispered when he could muster enough breath to speak. And after much effort, gulping in air, struggling to say something, he managed to demand, "Why didn't you let me finish it—and save the cost of the hangman?"

"Because, you fool, we want some answers first," Padgett shouted at him in furious relief. "You can't go doing the hangman's work and leave me to wonder if you were the killer or if someone else is still out there."

Rutledge turned to the desk, looking to see if there was a note, but he found nothing. His head was thundering again, and Hamish was busy in his mind.

"Where does he live?" Rutledge asked Padgett as they got to their feet.

"Above the shop."

Leaving Padgett to minister to the distraught man, Rutledge found the stairs and went up to the first floor. It was mostly used for stock, with a clutter of empty boxes, wrapping paper, a ladder, and other odds and ends that had no other home. After one swift glance Rutledge went on to the second floor. There he found modest living quarters, a bedroom and a sitting room, a kitchen to one side. On the walls were framed lithographs, the only touch of color except for a red tablecloth in the kitchen.

There was no sign of a note.

So Stephenson wasn't intending to confess, but to leave doubts in all their minds, just as Padgett had accused him of doing.

Hamish said, "But it doesna' prove he's guilty."

Rutledge hurried back down the stairs and found Padgett trying to get Stephenson to drink some tea from the mercifully undamaged Thermos. The man clenched his jaw, his eyes closed, his abrupt return to life leaving him shaken.

Rutledge squatted beside Padgett and, when he looked up, shook his head.

Padgett nodded.

They waited for five minutes before questioning Stephenson.

Padgett said, "What in God's name did you think you were doing?"

As the heavy flush faded from Stephenson's still-puffy face, Rutledge recognized him as the man he'd seen reading a book in the hotel dining room the morning he'd questioned Hunter about Quarles.

Stephenson said in a strained voice, "I knew you'd be coming. When Bertie told me about Quarles being murdered, I knew it was only a matter of time. And when I saw you walking down the High Street, I couldn't face it any longer."

A confession? Rutledge waited grimly.

"Face what?" Padgett demanded testily. "Here, drink this tea. I can hardly hear you."

He pushed the cup aside. "I thought everyone knew. It's why I came back to Cambury. It's why I named the shop Nemesis."

"Well, you're wrong."

"I wanted to kill him, you see, but lacked the courage. I hoped that if I came back here, having to see him, unable to hide, one day I'd be able to do it." He ran his hand through his thinning hair and went on bitterly, "You can't imagine what it's like to want to kill someone. It eats away at you until there's nothing of you left. It's like a hunger that can't be satisfied, and in the end it destroys you too. The shame of it is like a knife in your brain."

"What had he done to you, that you hated him?" Rutledge asked. Stephenson moved restlessly, his face turned away. "It's none of your business."

"It is now. If you hadn't tried to hang yourself, we'd have done nothing more than question you. Now you're a suspect, and a suspect has no secrets," Padgett said roughly. "Not from the police."

His words were met with a stubborn silence.

Finally Padgett said, "Very well, I'll see you to Dr. O'Neil's surgery. Can you walk that far?"

"I don't intend to walk that far or anywhere else."

"That's as may be, but you'll see the good doctor if I have to fetch a motorcar and drive you there myself."

"Fetch one," Rutledge replied. "We don't want to give the gossips more than needful."

With a grunt, Padgett went away to the police station.

Rutledge could see the man before him sink into himself, his face still red, coughing racking him. He refilled the cup with tea, and Stephenson swallowed it painfully, almost strangling on it.

They waited in silence, the bookseller looking inward at something he couldn't face, and Rutledge listening to Hamish in the back of his head.

When Padgett came back, Stephenson stood up shakily, a martyr ready to face the lions. "Oh, very well, let's be done with it."

"Are you going to try this again?" Rutledge asked, gesturing toward the rope.

"To what end?" Stephenson replied wearily. "Fear drove me to desperate measures. You're here now. It serves no purpose to die."

Padgett led Stephenson out the door and Rutledge shut it firmly behind them. The broken latch held, just, and Rutledge left the sign reading closed.

There were a number of people on the street, and they turned to stare as Rutledge assisted Stephenson into the vehicle.

A young woman rushed up, asking, "What's wrong? Where are you taking him? Mr. Stephenson, what's happened? You look so ill." Stephenson, unable to face her, mumbled to Rutledge, "My parttime assistant, Miss Ogden."

She was very frightened. Rutledge was suddenly reminded of Elise. for the women were about the same age. Yet the differences between the two were dramatic. Elise with her confidence, her willingness to take on a marriage that would challenge her, had the courage of her convictions if not the patience. Miss Ogden was gripping her handbag so tightly that her knuckles were white, and she was on the verge of tears, looking from one man to the other for guidance. She struck Rutledge as timid, willing to serve, perfectly happy to be buried among the dusty shelves of a bookstore, and helpless in a crisis, expecting others to take the first step and then reassure her.

"We're driving Mr. Stephenson to Dr. O'Neil's surgery," he told her gently. "He'll be fine in a day or two. There's nothing to worry about."

"Could it be his heart?" she asked anxiously. "My grandfather died of problems with his heart. Please, ought I to go with you? Or should I keep the shop open?"

Others were attracted by the fuss, clustering across the street from the motorcar, trying to hear what was being said. Halting as they came out of shops, several women put their hands to their mouths, their small children staring with round, uncertain eyes as they sensed the apprehension gripping the adults: two policemen appearing to take poor Mr. Stephenson into custody—

Rutledge could almost feel the rising tide of speculation rushing toward him, on the heels of word that Quarles was dead.

He answered Miss Ogden before Padgett could put a word in.

"Mr. Stephenson had an accident and should see Dr. O'Neil, but there's no danger of his dying. We were lucky to find him in time. Perhaps we ought to leave the shop closed for today and let him rest." He knew how to make his voice carry so that onlookers heard him as well.

She turned to Stephenson for confirmation. He nodded wretchedly. With a long backward glance, she stood aside to let them leave.

Rutledge got into the rear seat with the bookseller, swearing to himself. Padgett drove off without acknowledging the people on the street, not interested in what they were thinking.

"Did you not consider that that woman would have been the one to find you, if we hadn't?" Rutledge demanded of Stephenson. "It was an unconscionably selfish thing you did. Next time you want to kill yourself, choose a more private place."

Stephenson said, "I was wretched—I only wanted to die." His voice had taken on a whine. "You don't know what I felt, you can't judge me."

But Rutledge did know what he felt. Disgusted with the man, he tapped Padgett on the shoulder. "Let me out just there. If you have no objection, I'll call on Mrs. Newell as planned." He tried to keep the revulsion he was feeling out of his voice.

"Go ahead. I'll be kept some time with this fool." There was irritation in the inspector's voice as well as he pulled over to let Rutledge step down. He offered begrudging instructions on how to find the former cook from Hallowfields, and then was gone almost before Rutledge had swung the rear door shut.

Rutledge watched them out of sight on their way to O'Neil's surgery, then set out for Mrs. Newell's small cottage.

Hamish said, "Ye've lost your temper twice now. It's yon blow to the head. Ye'll no' feel better until ye gie it a rest."

Rutledge ignored him, though he knew it to be true.

He was just passing the greengrocer's shop, its awning stretched over the morning's offerings: baskets of early vegetables and strawberries and asparagus. A motorcar drew up beside him, and Rutledge turned to see who was there. He found himself face-to-face with Charles Archer seated behind a chauffeur, one of the servants Rutledge had met in the Hallowfields kitchen.

Archer's invalid's chair was lashed to the boot in a special brace made for it.

"My apologies. I can't come down. Will you ride with me as far as the green?"

"Yes, of course." Rutledge got into the rear of the motorcar and nearly stopped short when he realized that there was no room for Hamish to sit. But that was foolishness. He shut the door and turned to Archer. The man shook his head. Silence fell until the motorcar pulled to the verge next to the green. There Archer said to the chauffeur, "Leave us for a few minutes, will you? A turn around the green should be sufficient."

When the man was out of earshot, Archer continued. "I've just come from Doctor O'Neil's surgery. I'm told you haven't—er— finished yet with Harold's remains. But I wanted to see the body for myself. He refused to let me, even though I was there to identify it."

"In due course."

"I haven't told Mrs. Quarles what I came to do. She will insist on carrying out that duty herself. But there's no need."

"If you'll forgive me for saying so, Mr. Archer, she doesn't seem to be distressed over her husband's death. I doubt you're sparing her, except in your own mind."

"She married the most eligible of men. It was seen as a good match in spite of his background. Only she discovered too late that the facade didn't match the man. I don't know what precipitated the break between them, but she has said she had very good reasons for turning her back on him."

"Then why not a divorce, to end the match once and for all?"

"I don't know. It isn't money. She has her own. I think it was in a way to prevent him from marrying anyone else. God knows why that mattered to her."

Hamish noted, "He's verra' plausible..."

"Perhaps to prevent another woman suffering as she has done?" Rutledge suggested.

"That's too altruistic. I love Maybelle, in spite of the fact that I'm her cousin. I'd have married her myself, if she hadn't met Quarles while I was away in Switzerland for some time. My mother was ill and the mountain air had been recommended for her. I stayed there six years, watching her die. When I came home, it was to an invitation to a wedding. And I couldn't talk her out of it. You saw Quarles dead, I imagine. You never knew him when he exerted that wretched ability to make people agree to whatever he wanted. It's what made him a successful investment banker."