Todd, Charles (35 page)

"When was this?" Rutledge asked.

"I don't remember just when—I think while Mr. Quarles was living here in Cambury for several weeks. I was out walking one afternoon, and he was coming back from one of the outlying farms. He stopped to ask me if he could give me a lift back to town, and I accepted. We got on the subject of enemies, I can't think how..."

"That's an odd topic for a casual encounter."

"Nevertheless, he made that remark about Penrith, and I commented that loyalty was something to value very highly. He told me it wasn't a matter of loyalty but of fact."

Yet Penrith had walked away from their partnership. And as far as anyone knew, Quarles hadn't felt betrayed. Had, in fact, done nothing to stop him.

"They were an unlikely pair to be friends, much less partners," Rutledge mused.

"Yes, that's true. I thought as much myself from Mr. Quarles's remarks. But there's no accounting for tastes, in business or in marriage, is there? Good day, Mr. Rutledge."

He watched the rector striding toward the church door, his head down, his mind occupied. As Heller disappeared into the dimness of the doorway, Hamish said, "There's no' a solution to this murder."

"There's always a solution. Sometimes it's harder to see, that's all."

"Oh, aye," Hamish answered dryly. "The Chief Constable will ha' to be satisfied with that."

Miss O'Hara was just coming out her door with a market basket over her arm as Rutledge passed her house. She hailed him and asked how the Jones family was faring.

"Well enough," he told her.

"We ought to find whoever killed Quarles and pin a medal on him. They do it in wars. Why not in peace, for ridding Cambury of its ogre."

"That's hardly civilized," he told her, thinking that Brunswick might agree with her.

"We aren't talking about civilization." She drew on her gloves, smiled, and left him standing there.

Rutledge could still see her slender fingers slipping into the soft fabric of her gloves. They had brought to mind the uglier image of Harold Quarles's burned hands, the lumpy whorls and tight patches of skin so noticeable in the light of Inspector Padgett's lamps as the body came to rest on the floor of the tithe barn.

Like the coal mines, those hands were a part of the public legend of Harold Quarles. Neither Rutledge nor Padgett had thought twice about them, because they had been scarred in the distant past.

He turned back the way he'd come and went on to Dr. O'Neil's surgery.

The doctor was trimming a shrubbery in the back garden. Rutledge was directed there by the doctor's wife, and O'Neil hailed his visitor with relief. Taking out a handkerchief, he wiped his forehead and nodded toward chairs set in the shade of an arbor. "Let's sit down. It's tiresome, trimming that lilac. I swear it waits until my back's turned, and then grows like Jack's beanstalk."

They sat down, and O'Neil stretched his legs out before him. "What is it you want to know? The undertaker has come for Quarles, and I've finished my report. It's on Padgett's desk now, I should think."

"Thank you. I'm curious about those scars on Quarles's hands."

"You saw them for yourself. The injuries had healed and were as smooth as they were ever going to be. It must have happened when he was fairly young. I did notice that the burns extended just above the wrist. And the edges were very sharply defined, almost as if someone had held his hands in a fire. You usually see a different pattern, more irregular. Think about a poker that's fallen into the fire. The flames shoot up just as you reach for it. You might be burned superficially, but not to such an extent as his, because in a split second you realize what you've done, drop the poker, and withdraw out of harm's way. What I found remarkable was that Quarles hadn't lost the use of his fingers. That means he must have had very good care straightaway."

"Were there other burns on his body? His neck, for instance, or his back. I'm thinking of bending over a child, protecting it with his own body as he runs a gantlet of fire."

"I wasn't really looking for old wounds."

"If he'd had other scars like those on his hands, surely you'd have noticed them."

"Yes, of course. Burns do heal with time, if not too severe. A wet sack over his back might have been just enough to prevent permanent scars. Where, pray, is this going?"

"Curiosity. I'm wondering if there were other enemies besides those we know of in Cambury."

O'Neil said slowly, "If someone had held his hands to a fire, it would have been Quarles who wanted to avenge himself."

"Yes, that's the stumbling point, isn't it?" Rutledge smiled wryly.

O'Neil said, "Sorry I can't help you more."

"Do you by chance know anything about these Cumberline funds that Quarles nearly lost his reputation over?"

O'Neil laughed. "A village doctor doesn't move in such exalted circles." The laughter faded. "Sunday night as I was trying to fall asleep, I kept seeing those wings outstretched above the dead man. It occurred to me that after someone hit him from behind, they desecrated his body. The only reason I could think of was that Quarles died too easily, that perhaps he was expected to die slowly up there with the wings biting into his back. Terrible thought, isn't it?"

And that possibility, Rutledge thought, spoke more to Michael Brunswick than it did to Hugh Jones.

Constable Horton spent a wet Saturday evening in The Black Pudding. It was not his first choice, but his friends drank there from time to time, and he went in occasionally for a pint to end his day.

Tom Little was courting a girl in the next village but one, and full of himself. He thought she might say yes, if he proposed, and his friends spent half an hour helping him find the right words, amid a good deal of merriment. The landlord had occasion to speak to them twice for being overloud.

Constable Horton, trying his hand at peacemaking, joined the group and steered the conversation in a different direction. He was finishing his second glass when a half-heard comment caught his attention. He brought his chair's front legs back to the floorboards with a thump and asked Tommy Little to repeat what he'd just said.

Little, turning toward him, told him it would cost him another round. Constable Horton, resigned, got up to give his order, and when everyone was satisfied, Little told him what he'd seen on the road beyond Hallowfields.

It was too late to rouse Inspector Padgett, but Constable Horton was at his door as early in the morning as he thought was politic.

Padgett went to find Rutledge as soon as he'd finished his breakfast.

"Here's something we ought to look into. Horton brought me word before I'd had my tea at six. It seems that one Thomas Little and a friend were on their way back to her home last Saturday evening. He's courting a girl from a village not far up the road, and she'd spent the day with him in Cambury. This was nine-thirty, he thinks, or thereabouts. They'd ridden out of Cambury on their bicycles just as the church clock struck nine. As they were nearing Honeyfold Farm— that's about two miles beyond Hallowfields, on your left—they saw Michael Brunswick coming toward them on a bicycle. He passed without a word, and they went on their way, laughing because he'd looked like a thundercloud. Unlucky in love, they called him, and made up stories about the sort of woman
he
was seeing. Then they forgot all about him until Little made a remark about him last night in The Black Pudding."

Rutledge, standing in Reception, said, "That would put Brunswick at Hallowfields before Quarles left the Greer house. And if he'd been away, he wouldn't have known that Quarles was dining in Cambury. There wouldn't have been any point in waiting for the man."

"Yes, I'd thought about that. But where did Brunswick go when he reached Cambury? Home? To The Glover's Arms?"

"He told me he was in bed and asleep."

"Hard to prove. Hard to disprove."

"The early service this morning isn't for another three-quarters of an hour. I should be able to catch Brunswick before he goes to the church."

Rutledge walked briskly toward Brunwick's house, and when he knocked, the man opened the door with a sheaf of music in his hand.

He regarded Rutledge with distaste and didn't invite him inside. "What is it now?"

"We've just learned that you were seen on the road near Honeyfold Farm last Saturday evening at nine-thirty. You said nothing about it when we asked your whereabouts the night that Quarles was killed."

"Why should I have? It had nothing to do with his murder."

"Where had you been?"

"To Glastonbury."

"Can anyone confirm that?"

"I went to dine with a friend who stopped there on his way back to London. He was tired, the dinner didn't last very long, and I came home." There was an edge to his voice now. "If you must know, I'd had more to drink than was good for me, and I had spent a wretched two hours listening to this man crowing over his triumphs. He's a musician; we'd studied together. I wished I'd never gone there. I wasn't in the best of spirits when I left him."

Which explained the comment that he'd looked like a thundercloud when he passed Tommy Little and the girl he was courting. "When you reached Cambury, what did you do?"

"I undressed, when to bed, and tried to sleep. Harold Quarles was the last person on my mind then."

Rutledge thanked him and left.

"It's no' much," Hamish said.

"I didn't expect it to be. He would have been too early to see Quarles leaving Minton Street and turning toward Hallowfields. They must have missed each other by a quarter of an hour at the very least."

"If he didna' lie."

"There's always that, of course. But Little seems to feel very confident of his times." Rutledge stopped and turned to look over his shoulder. Brunswick was hurrying toward St. Martin's, his black robe streaming behind him. Rutledge watched him go.

Would a man in Brunswick's state of mind go meekly to bed in the hope of sleeping, after being humiliated by a more successful friend?

Especially if he'd had a little too much to drink? Of course there was the long ride to Cambury to cool his temper and wear him down. But Tommy Little had seen the man's face, and it appeared he was still smarting from the visit.

Looking up at the Perpendicular tower of St. Martin's, Rutledge realized that the rectory overlooked the church on its far side. He went back to The Unicorn and bided his time until the morning services were over.

When he reached the rectory an hour after noon, Rutledge found Heller dozing in a wicker chair in his garden, a floppy hat over his face. He woke up as he heard someone approaching, and sat up, pulling down his vest and smoothing his hair.

"Is this an official call?" he asked, trying for a little humor, but the words were heavy with worry.

Rutledge joined him in the shade, squatting to pick up a twig and twist it through his fingers.

"It's about Michael Brunswick," he said after a moment, not looking up at the rector. "I believe it's customary for him to practice your selections for the Sunday services on Saturday morning. Do you recall if he did that on the Saturday that Quarles died? He was meeting a friend in Glastonbury. There might not have been time for him to play beforehand."

Heller was caught without an answer. He sat there, studying Rutledge, then said, "He did indeed come into practice that morning. A little earlier than usual, as I recall. I was there and heard him. We talked about the anthem I'd chosen. It's a favorite of mine."

"And so there was no need for him to play the organ that evening, after his return?"

Heller sighed. "No need. But of course he did. The windows were open, I could hear him from my study. He wasn't playing my selections. It was tortured music. Unhappy music. I did wonder if it was his own composition. And it ended in a horrid clash of notes, followed by silence." He looked back at the rectory, as if he could find answers there in the stone and glass and mortar. "He's a wretched man. He wants more than life has chosen to give him. He plays perfectly well for us during services. We are fortunate to have him. Why should he feel that he needs to reach for more? If God had intended for him to be a great organist, he wouldn't have brought him to us at Cambury, would he have? There is much to be said for contentment. And in contentment there is service."

Rutledge stood up, without answering the rector.

Heller said, "You mustn't misunderstand. Michael Brunswick's music isn't going to drive him to kill. It's eating at
him,
he's the only victim."

Rutledge said, "Perhaps his music is the last straw in a life full of disappointments. What time did he finish playing?"

"I don't know. Perhaps it was twenty past ten. If you remember there was a mist coming in. Hardly noticeable at that time, but an hour later, it was thick enough that strands of it were already wrapping around the trees in my garden. I was worried about Michael, and looked to see if his house was dark. It was, and so I went to bed myself."

"If there had been lights on?"

"I'd have found an excuse to go and speak to him. To offer comfort if he needed it. Or if not, to assure myself that he was all right." He took a deep breath and examined his gardening hat to avoid looking at Rutledge. "You mustn't misconstrue what I've told you. It would be wrong."