Todd, Charles (31 page)

"I think it more likely that you feared him."

Penrith got to his feet. "I won't hear any more of this."

"We are speaking of Quarles, not of you. If you feared him, why didn't his wife?"

That caught Penrith off guard. "I—don't know whether she feared him or not."

"It seems that a few years into their marriage, she learned something about him, what sort of man he was, that caused her to separate from him legally. Not just a move to another part of the house, but terms drawn up by their solicitors. Just as you did financially."

There was worry in Penrith's eyes now that he couldn't conceal.

"I don't know what their relationship was—or why. She stopped coming to London, and they stopped entertaining. And Quarles became a different man, in some ways. He never spoke of his wife to me after that. I told myself it might be because of Archer..." He stopped. "Does she tell you she feared him? That he might have made her come to regret her decision?"

There was intensity in the question that Penrith couldn't keep out of his voice.

"Whatever it was that came between them, she appears to feel a deep and abiding emotion of some sort. I think, if you want the truth, that she acted to protect her son."

Light seemed to dawn behind Penrith's eyes. "Yes," he said slowly. "I begin to see what you are saying."

"Then what was it that turned Maybelle Quarles against her husband?"

Penrith sat down heavily. "I don't know what it was."

"But you must have some suspicion. It wasn't only Cumberline that turned you away from the firm the two of you had built together. The immediate cause, perhaps, but not the long-standing one."

That hit its mark, but Penrith said nothing.

"What is there in Harold Quarles's background that could have brought someone to Cambury to kill him?"

"Considering the reputation he had for being overbearing and dictatorial in the village, I should think you would find enough suspects there to satisfy any police inquiry," he retorted.

"The more I question the villagers, the more I hear one thing: whatever their grievances, people tell me that Harold Quarles wasn't worth hanging for."

Hamish said, "He didna' mention the women... It was you."

But then, not living in Cambury, he might not know, Rutledge answered silently.

When Penrith made no reply, Rutledge said, "You never asked me how he died."

Surprised, Penrith said, "Didn't I? Of course I did."

"He was struck in the head with one of the white stones that ring the iron table in the Home Farm's gatehouse garden."

Penrith turned away. "That's terrible." But the words lacked feeling.

"Did you know that Quarles provided a Christmas pageant in the tithe barn on his property, for the entertainment of the village?"

"I was the one who went out and found that confounded camel," Penrith told him with some force. "It took me the better part of a week."

"Why were
you
sent on such an errand? Why not one of the house clerks?"

"Quarles was threatening to sack everyone in sight. God knows why he wanted a camel—I expect it was something his son asked for."

"We know very little about Quarles's life before he came to London, only that he'd worked in the mines, came south to make his fortune, and so on. You must know more than that."

Penrith was suddenly wary. "His background? I don't think he spoke of it, except for that early story about his mother's ring. He was an odd sort. He'd dredge up stories about going down for coal, and they rang true. People believed him. And five minutes later, he was a Londoner through and through. The time came when I didn't really know what to believe. Whether he used the coal face to promote himself, or whether he really did go down. He said once that his parents' house had been eaten by the coal. That he had nothing to go back to but bad memories."

"No one came from Yorkshire to visit him? No one stopped him on the street to beg a few pounds from an old friend? No one wrote to him?"

"He told me his family was dead. I had no reason to think that was a lie," Penrith said defensively "After all, I didn't really give a damn about his past."

"You were a curate's son, I believe?"

"Yes. How did you know that?"

"Someone told me that you gave respectability to the firm, after Quarles took over from the James family."

Penrith flushed. "If you say so. I had no prospects when I—when I came to London. Like most young men, I was grateful to find a position. I had no expectation of rising in it."

"Where was your father's living?"

"In Hampshire. Why?"

"You didn't know Quarles before you were thrown together in London?"

"That's right. I don't see where this is going."

Neither did Rutledge. He was looking for anything, a crack in Penrith's armor, a small piece of information that he could move ahead with. But his sixth sense, his intuition, told him that something was not right. Penrith seemed to alternate between fears for his own standing and distancing himself from Quarles.

"Look, I've left my guest for long enough. If you will come again at a more convenient time, I'll be happy to continue this conversation." Rutledge stood up. "Thank you. I will."

Penrith was waiting for Rutledge to precede him through the door. But as Rutledge came up to him, he stopped and said, "What village was that in Hampshire?"

Penrith stiffened. "I thought perhaps you would prefer to know where in Yorkshire Harold Quarles had come from."

"I think that door is shut. Quarles himself closed it a long time ago. Thank you for your time, Mr. Penrith."

He walked by the man and down the passage the way he had come. Penrith followed him as far as the entrance to the house, as if to be certain he was gone.

When Rutledge had reached the street, he looked back, and Penrith was still standing there.

Hamish said, "Ye're a fool if ye drive far again tonight."

"I'll go to the flat," Rutledge answered, cranking the car.

He was caught in London traffic, and on the spur of the moment he turned toward the Yard in the hope of seeing Gibson leaving, but no such luck. He was looping back toward the west end, and as he pulled into the swirl around Trafalgar Square, he saw Mrs. Channing trying to hail a cab. It was late, a busy evening, and she looked tired.

Without thinking he maneuvered the motorcar to the lions, nearest where she was standing, and called, "Can I give you a lift?"

He would have done the same for his sister, Frances, or for Maryanne Browning.

She looked up, smiling in recognition. "Ian. How lovely! Yes, I'd be glad of a lift."

He waited for her to slip in next to him, and she said, light and dark flitting across her face as he drove on, "I was at St. Martin-in-the-Fields with friends. A memorial service. "

"At this hour?"

"It was especially arranged for this hour, actually. An evening concert in his memory. The music was wonderful. His family arranged it—they do every year, on the Thursday evening closest to his birthday. A rejoicing for his life, short as it was."

He wanted to ask who the friend was but refrained. "You're on your way home, then."

"Yes. I had a letter from Elise. They're having a lovely time."

"That's good to hear."

The conversation dwindled as he turned toward Chelsea, as if neither of them knew quite what to say next. A few drops of rain spattered on the windscreen. Mrs. Channing saw them and said, "Well, I'm doubly grateful to you now, Ian." Her last words were lost in a downpour, and she laughed. "It's quite like Dunster, isn't it?"

The thunder soon followed, and she moved a little nearer so that her voice would carry, one gloved hand pulling her coat closer against the chill of the sudden storm. "Mrs. Caldwell telephoned me. We're having lunch together next week. I think she's planning a little dinner party for the bridal pair when they return."

He had forgot Elise Caldwell's father, and his invitation to call. Caldwell was in the same business as James, Quarles and Penrith.

Meredith Channing was still speaking, and he realized he'd missed half of it. Just ahead was her house, and as he drew up to the walk, he said, "I think there's an umbrella somewhere—"

"It's not far, don't bother. I should ask you to come in for tea or coffee, but I'm tired tonight. Another time?"

"Yes, thank you."

She got out, shut her door, and with a quick wave dashed to the house. Her maid was there to let her in almost at once.

As the door closed behind her, he sat where he was, the motor ticking over, and wished he'd asked her where the Caldwells lived.