“Your freedom, perhaps?” Rutledge asked. “Or a large inheritance?”
She regarded him with distaste. “Mr. Rutledge. I already have my freedom. And money of my own as well. My husband’s death is an inconvenience, if you want the truth. I’ve been patient enough. If you wish to question my staff, Downing, the housekeeper, will see to it.
Otherwise, I must bid you good day.”
Padgett said, in a final attempt to irritate her, “Dr. O’Neil and the rector will confer with you about the services, when the body is released for burial.”
“Thank you.”
At the door, Rutledge paused. “I understand you have dogs, Mrs. Quarles.”
“Yes, two small spaniels.”
“Were they with you during the night?”
She glanced at Archer, almost reflexively, then looked at Rutledge.
“They were with me. They always are.”
But they were not here now . . .
“Are there other dogs on the estate?”
“I believe Tom Masters has several. They aren’t allowed as far as the house or gardens.”
Hamish was clamoring for Rutledge’s attention, pointing out that Mrs. Quarles had not asked either policeman how her husband had died. She had shown almost no interest in the details—except to assume in the beginning that it was an accidental death.
And Padgett, as if he’d overheard Hamish, though it was more likely that he was goaded by a need Rutledge didn’t know him well enough to grasp, said with venom, “Perhaps it would be best if we tell you, before you hear the gossip, Mrs. Quarles. We found your husband beaten to death, hanging in the tithe barn in the straps meant for the Christmas angel.”
Charles Archer winced. Rutledge took a step forward in protest. He had not wanted to make such details public knowledge at this stage.
But Mrs. Quarles said only, “I never liked that contrivance. I told Harold from the start that no good would come of it.”
A flush rose in Padgett’s face, and he opened his mouth to say more, but Rutledge forestalled him.
“Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Quarles. Padgett—” There was stern command in Rutledge’s voice as he ushered the man through the door.
But before he could shut it, Charles Archer asked, “Is there anything we should do—?”
From the passage, Padgett interjected, “You must ask Dr. O’Neil about that, sir.”
Rutledge felt like kicking him in the shins to silence him. But Padgett had had his say and let the man from London shut the door.
The housekeeper was waiting, and Rutledge wondered if she had been listening at the keyhole. Padgett said to her, “What is said here is not for gossip. Do you understand?”
“Indeed.”
“We’ll be back in the afternoon to speak to the staff. I don’t want them talking amongst themselves before that.”
Rutledge said, “Do you have keys to Mr. Quarles’s rooms? I want you to lock them now, in our presence, and give the keys to me.”
She was about to argue, then thought better of it. The two policemen followed her up the stairs and toward the wing that Quarles used on his visits to Hallowfields. Mrs. Downing made certain that each passage door was locked, and then without a word handed the keys to those rooms to Rutledge.
“These are the only ones?”
“Yes. I don’t think Mr. Quarles wished to have just anyone going through his possessions.” It was a barb intended for Padgett, but he ignored it.
“Who cleans his rooms?”
“That would be Betty, Inspector. But she has no keys. She asks me for them if Mr. Quarles isn’t here. When he’s at home, the rooms aren’t locked.”
“Are there any other rooms in the house that Mr. Quarles used on a regular basis?” Rutledge asked.
“Only the gun room, sir. He had his study moved up here some years ago, in the suite next to his bedroom, and put through a connecting door. For privacy. He said.”
They thanked Mrs. Downing and went down the stairs. She followed, to see them out, as if expecting them to lurk in the shadows and steal the best silver when no one was looking. They could hear the click of the latch as she locked the door behind them.
8
Rutledge turned to Inspector Padgett as they crossed the drive to the motorcar. The anger he’d suppressed during the interview with Mrs. Quarles had roused Hamish, and his voice was loud in Rutledge’s ears.
“What the hell were you thinking about? You were rude to the victim’s widow, and you made no effort to conceal your own feelings.”
“I told you. I hate them all. I wanted to see her show some emotion.
Something to tell me that she cared about the man. Something that made her human.”
“Next time we call on witnesses, you’ll leave your own feelings at the door. Is that understood?”
Padgett said fiercely, “This is my turf. My investigation. I’ll run it as I see fit.”
“Not while the Yard is involved. Another outbreak like that, and I’ll have the Chief Constable remove you from the case.”
“No, you won’t—”
“Try me.” Rutledge walked down to the motorcar and turned the crank. He could hear Hamish faulting him for losing his own temper but shut out the words. Padgett had behaved unprofessionally, intending to hurt, and that kind of emotion would cloud his judgment as he dealt with the evidence in this case.
For an instant Rutledge thought Padgett would turn on his heel and walk to the tithe barn. Instead, sulking, he got into the motorcar without a word.
As they drove toward the gates, Rutledge changed the subject.
“Who is Charles Archer? Besides Mrs. Quarles’s cousin?”
“Gossip is, he’s her lover. I’ve heard he was wounded at Mons.
Shouldn’t have been there at his age, but when the war began, he was researching a book he intended to write on Wellington and Waterloo.
The Hun was in Belgium before anyone knew what was happening, and Archer fled south, into the arms of the British. He stayed—experience in battle and all that, for his book. Well, he got more than he bargained for, didn’t he?”
“And he lives at the house?”
“Not the normal family arrangement, is it? But then rumor has it that there’s not a pretty face within ten miles that Quarles hasn’t tried to seduce. Sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose, I’d say.”
“Any official complaints about his behavior?”
“Not as such.”
“Mrs. Quarles mentioned a son. Are there any other children?”
“Just the one boy. He’s at Rugby.”
They reached the gates and turned into the lane that led to the tithe barn.
Harold Quarles’s body had been taken away, and the barn had been searched again for any evidence or signs of blood, without success.
“Nothing to report, sir,” the constable told Padgett, gesturing to the shadowy corners. “We’ve gone over the ground carefully, twice.
And nothing’s turned up.”
Rutledge, with a final look around the dimly lit, cavernous building, found himself thinking that something must have been left behind by the killer, some small trace of his passage. No crime was perfect. If only the police knew where to look. Surely there must be something, some small thing that was easily overlooked . . .
Another problem. “Where did he dine?” he mused aloud. “And how did he get there?”
“We’ve only Mrs. Quarles’s word that he went out to dine,” Padgett pointed out. “It could be a lie from start to finish.”
“I hardly think she would kill her husband in the house,” Rutledge said to Padgett after dismissing the constable. “And he’s not dressed for a walk on the estate. Let’s have a look at that gatekeeper’s cottage. I recall you told me no one lived there, but that’s not to say it hasn’t been used.” He glanced around the tithe barn. “There’s something about this place—it’s not a likely choice for a meeting, somehow. If I’d been Quarles, I’d have been wary about that. But the gatehouse is another matter. Private but safe, in a way. Is it unlocked, do you think?”