Todd, Charles (26 page)

"You believe him then?" Padgett asked. "And Nelson as well?"

"It doesn't appear to be a motive strong enough for what happened at the tithe barn. I hardly see this man Nelson killing someone he had never met before just to rid himself of an obstacle to the site for his factory. Do you?"

"No," Padgett returned grudgingly. "But by God, I'll see to it we have both statements in our hands."

They had reached the High Street themselves now, and in the distance Greer was just walking through a door. "His place of business?" Rutledge asked.

"Yes. Beyond Nemesis, in fact. You know, it could have been Stephenson who spoke to Quarles on the street. Or Brunswick. But probably not the baker, Jones. He would have been home at that hour, not prowling the streets. But my men tell me that sometimes Stephenson is restless and walks about at night."

"We'll have to ask him—"

Rutledge broke off. The rector, Samuel Heller, was coming toward them, distress in his face.

When he reached Rutledge he said, "You misled me."

"In what way, Mr. Heller?"

"You told me that Mr. Quarles was dead. But not the manner in which he was found. My housekeeper informed me this morning. Is it true? And if so, why did you keep it from me?"

"It was a police decision," Rutledge replied. "I didn't want that part of Quarles's death to be public knowledge until I was ready."

"And so we all have learned such terrible news with our morning tea, and from a servant! It's not proper."

"Would it have made any difference in what you told me?" Rutledge asked. "As I remember, you were not eager to judge others." Heller had the grace to flush. "And I would still tell you the same thing. But this is—I don't know—I can hardly find the word for it. Blasphemous. Yes. Blasphemous suits it best. To use that angel in such a fashion. What drives another human being to that sort of barbarity?"

"If you remember, I warned you to beware of a confession that might mean someone is looking for absolution for what he'd done."

"Yes, Mr. Rutledge, you warned me, and I have been on my guard. But no one has come to confess. Though I have heard from Dr. O'Neil that Mr. Stephenson from the bookshop might have need of my counseling. Apparently he's distraught, working himself up into an illness."

"Any idea why?" Rutledge asked.

"He lost his only child in the war. And he feels that he himself is partly responsible for the boy's death."

"In the war?" Padgett asked. "Quarles didn't have anything to do with it?"

Heller lifted his eyebrows. "Harold Quarles? I should think not. If there's anyone to blame, it's the Army. Or the Kaiser. What made you suggest Mr. Quarles?"

"Because Stephenson admits to hating him, indeed, he told us he wanted to kill the man. Where's the connection, if he's haunted by the son and hates Quarles?" Padgett asked.

"In his own poor imagination, I expect," Heller said with some asperity. "A man who is in great distress, great agony of spirit, sometimes blames others for his misfortunes, rather than face them himself."

"I'm a greater believer in connections than in spiritual agony, thank you all the same, Rector," Padgett said.

Heller smiled grimly. "I would never have guessed that, Mr. Padgett," and with a nod to Rutledge that was brief and unforgiving, Heller turned away and strode back toward his church.

"I think," Rutledge said slowly, "we ought to have another chat with Stephenson."

"What's the use? He's not ready to tell us anything. And I have work to do. You might contact the Army, to see if there's any truth in what the rector was told."

Changing the subject, Rutledge asked, "Has Mrs. Quarles made any decision about her husband's burial?"

"Yes, oddly enough. She's taking him back to Yorkshire."

"I can understand that she might not want him here, although that might be his son's choice. But why not London?"

"She said that he deserved to return to his roots," Padgett answered him. "Whatever that might mean."

Rutledge considered the matter. "Then whatever turned her against him might also have to do with his roots."

"She knew what he was when she married him."

"Yes, she's honest about that. But what did she learn later that made her judge him differently and demand a separation? Apparently Quarles didn't fight it, and it's possible he didn't want whatever it was to become open knowledge. For that matter, why was she searching his background in the first place? Was she looking for something— or did she stumble over it? And I don't believe it was Charles Archer wounded in France that upset the marriage."

"You can't be sure of that," Padgett objected.

Rutledge gave him no answer. He was already in a debate with Hamish over the subject, Hamish strongly supporting the need to find out more about Quarles's past while his own pressing concern at the moment was the bookseller.

Padgett said, "Well, I'll leave you to your wild goose chase. I'll be at the station, if you want me."

Hamish was saying now, "What about yon lass? Ye canna' leave her much longer."

"Let her sleep. Then we'll see what to do about her. I'll have to tell her father. And that should answer a lot of questions."

He walked on to the doctor's surgery, found that Dr. O'Neil was busy with another patient, and asked his nurse if he could speak to Stephenson without disturbing the doctor.

She was willing to allow him to see the patient, she said, if he promised not to upset the man. "We've got five people in the waiting room, and I don't want a scene."

"Has Stephenson been upsetting the household?"

"Not precisely, but his state of mind is delicate. I was asking him just this morning if there was anyone we might send for, a cousin or something, to help him through his distress, and he began to howl. I can't describe it as a cry, and the doctor's wife came running to see what was the matter."

Small wonder that O'Neil had sent for the rector.

Rutledge gave her his word and hoped that he could keep it as he was led back to the room where Stephenson was sitting on the edge of his bed, his face buried in his hands.

He looked up as Rutledge came through the door, then dropped his head again, saying, "What is it you want? Can't you leave me alone?"

"I'm worried about you," Rutledge said easily. "I think there's something on your mind that you can't let go. Is it the fact that Quarles is out of reach now, and there's no one else to hate? Except yourself?"

His words must have struck a chord. Stephenson lifted his head again, his eyes showing alarm. "What have you found out? What do you know?"

"Very little. You mourn for your son. You hated Harold Quarles. There has to be a link somewhere. And if you hate yourself, it was because you feel you let your son down in some way, when he needed you most."

Stephenson began to cry in spite of himself. "Yes, yes, I should have put him on the first ship out of England, and let him go somewhere—anywhere—safe. But I didn't. He was so young, and I wanted to keep him with me. He was so like his mother, so gentle and sweet-natured. I couldn't let him go—and so I killed him."

Alarmed, Rutledge said, "When?"

"Damn you, not literally. I'd never have laid a finger on him."

"Then how is Quarles involved? I'm tired of playing solve the riddle."

Stephenson, burdened by his shame, buried his face in his hands again, unable to look anyone in the eye.

Rutledge, considering what Stephenson had just told him, asked, "Was your son called up in the draft and afraid to go to war?" It was hazarding a guess, but he was surprised at the reaction.

Stephenson rose to his feet to defend his son, gathering himself together to shout Rutledge down. He could see it coming.

And so he added, "Or was the coward you?"

Stephenson gasped, his features changing from pure blazing anger to such self-loathing that Rutledge had to look away.

But he thought Stephenson was lying when he said, "Yes, it was I. I couldn't bear to see him brutalized by the army, shoved into the battle lines, told to kill or be killed. I couldn't live with that."

It was the
boy
who'd been afraid, who had wanted to take ship. And the father who was determined to keep him in England. The boy, not the man.

"What could you do about it?"

"I went to the only person I could think of important enough to help me. I went to Harold Quarles—I'd grown up in Cambury, my mother was still living here—and I begged him to find a way to get my son out of the army. I told Quarles what would happen if I let him go, and I promised him anything, that I would do anything he asked, however difficult it was, if he would go to the Army and tell them not to send Tommy across to France."

"And what did Harold Quarles promise you?"

Stephenson's face twisted in grief. "He wouldn't even hear me out. He refused to help. I tried to tell him that they have all sorts of units. Quartermaster, signals, radio, enlistments—none of them having to do with actual fighting—and I told him Tommy could do those. He was cold, unyielding, and told me that he would not speak to the Army for me or anyone else. And so Tommy went to be trained as a soldier, and he was shipped to France, and on his first day at the Front, he waited until the trench had emptied and bent over his rife and pulled the trigger. The letter from his commanding officer called him a coward and said that he had disgraced the company. All I could think of was that he was dead, and that surely there had been some way for a man as powerful and well thought of as Harold Quarles to stop him from going abroad."

He was silent in his grief now, and that was all the more telling as he stared into a past he couldn't change. Rutledge rested a hand on his shoulder.

"I wanted to kill his commanding officer, then I realized those were only words, they didn't matter. It was Quarles who was to blame, and I wanted to make him suffer as I had done. I came here to haunt him, I wanted him to think about Tommy every time he passed the shop or saw me on the street, and remember his own child. I made a point to find out when he was returning to Cambury, and I put myself in his way as often as I could. And when I had wrought up my determination, I was going to kill him. But like my son, I couldn't find the courage to do anything. Like my son, I couldn't bring myself to kill, and yet I wanted it as I'd never wanted anything before or since, save to keep Tommy alive."

Stephenson saw himself as failing Tommy twice, Rutledge realized. In not saving him in the first place and then in not being able to avenge him in the second. And as long as Harold Quarles was alive, the opportunity to kill him still existed. Once Quarles was dead, it was too late for vengeance. And so the bookseller had punished himself by putting that rope around his neck. It wasn't so much a fear of the police that had driven him; it was the knowledge that when he was questioned, his shame would be exposed to the whole world. Tommy the coward, son of a coward.

But the story
was
out now.

As if Stephenson realized that, he lay back on his cot, his arm over his face, and his face to the wall.

Rutledge said, "Thank you for telling me. Whatever you feel about Harold Quarles, the fact remains that we must find out who killed him. It's a question ofjustice. As for his failure to help you and your failure to help your son, there are times when no one can help and a man's life has to take its course. Tommy wasn't the only one in that battle who was afraid. Most of us in the trenches were terrified. It would have been unnatural not to be."

Stephenson said, "He was the only one who didn't go over the top that morning. He was the only one who used his weapon against himself rather than the enemy. He let all the world see his fear and judge him for it. I think of that often, how awful his last hours—minutes— must have been, with no one to tell him he was loved and must live. I wasn't there, I wasn't
there
."

The final failure, in the father's eyes.

"Nor was God," Rutledge said, and sat with the grieving man for another quarter of an hour, until he was calmer.

Rutledge went back to the O'Hara cottage and tapped lightly on the door. He had the distinct feeling that every window overlooking where he stood was filled with people waiting to see how he was received.

Miss O'Hara answered his knock, her finger to her lips. "She's asleep. I can only hope her mother is resting as well. What are we to do? Have you spoken to her father?"

"Not yet." He followed her into the pretty room he had hardly had time to notice that morning. There were comfortable needlepoint cushions everywhere, a row of small framed photographs on the mantel, and surprisingly, a pair of revolvers mounted on a polished board. As he glanced at them, she said, "My father's."

There was defiance in the words, as if Rutledge might think she had no right to them.

Certainly they were incongruous in this very feminine setting, but he had no intention of rattling her pride.

She offered him tea, but he declined, adding, "You've been up most of the night, I think. Sit down. We'll have to work this out between us. The rest of the family, Gwyneth included, will be too emotional to choose what's best."