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“Let’s find out.”

Picking up a lantern, Padgett followed Rutledge out the barn’s door. They walked in silence through the trees to the small cottage by the Home Farm gate.

There was a single door, and when they lifted the latch, they found it opened easily.

Rutledge took the lantern and held it high. There were only three rooms on the ground floor: a parlor cum dining room, a tiny kitchen, a bathroom hardly big enough to turn around in. Stairs to the upper floor were set into the thickness of one wall. There were two bedrooms, the smaller one possibly intended for a child, though someone had converted it into a workroom.

“When Jesse Morton lived here, he made gloves. He’d been a head gardener until rheumatism attacked his knees. That was before Quarles bought Hallowfields.”

“Gloves?” Rutledge turned to look at Padgett.

“It’s a cottage industry in many parts of the county, and especially here in Cambury. Hides are brought in from Hampshire and distributed to households on the list. Mr. Greer owns the firm here, and there are still a good many people who earn their living sewing gloves.

My grandmother, for one. She raised three fatherless children, sewing for the Greers, father and son.”

The furnishings—well-polished denizens from an attic, judging by their age and quality—weren’t dusty, Rutledge noted, running his fingers over a chair back and along a windowsill. And the bedclothes smelled of lavender, sweet and fresh. Yet when he opened the armoire, there were no clothes hanging there, and nothing in the drawers of the tall chest except for a comb and brush and a single cuff link.

“Did you come here when the man Morton lived here? Has it changed?” he asked Padgett.

“Once, with my grandmother. I remember it as dark, reeking of cigar smoke, and there was a horsehair settee that made me break out in a rash. So I was never brought back.”

“And you’re sure that no one has lived here since then?”

“As sure as may be. What’s this, then? A place of rendezvous?”

“It’s been made to appear comfortable,” Rutledge mused. “To give an air of—”

“—respectability,” Hamish supplied, so clearly that the word seemed to echo around the solid walls.

But Hamish was right. There were lace curtains at the windows, chintz coverings on the chairs, and cabbage roses embroidered on the pil-lowcases. If Quarles had an eye for women, he could bring his conquests here rather than to an hotel or other public place. Or the house . . .

“—respectability,” Rutledge finished. “Let’s have a look at the kitchen.”

It yielded tea and sugar and a packet of biscuits that hadn’t been opened, along with cups and saucers and a teapot ready for filling from the kettle on the cooker.

“Who washes the sheets and sweeps the floor clean?” Padgett asked, looking round. “You can’t tell me Mr. High and Mighty Quarles does that. Not for any woman.”

“An interesting point,” Rutledge answered. “We’ll ask Betty, the maid who does his rooms at the house.”

Both men could see at a glance that this was most certainly not the place where Quarles was killed. No signs of a struggle, no indication on the polished floor that someone had tried to wipe up bloodstains or dragged a body across it.

Rutledge said, “All right, if they met here, Quarles and his killer, then the confrontation was outside. Somewhere between this cottage and the tithe barn.”

Padgett said nothing, following Rutledge out and closing the door behind them.

The sun was up, light striking through the trees in golden shafts, and the side of the cottage was bright, casting heavier shadows across the front steps. The roses running up the wall were dew-wet, today’s blooms just unfurling.

A path of stepping-stones set into the mossy ground led to the shaded garden in the rear of the cottage. Flower beds surrounded a patch of lawn where a bench and a small iron table stood. Setting the grassy area off from the beds was a circle of whitewashed river stones, all nearly the same size, perhaps a little larger than a man’s fist.

In the dark, Rutledge realized, the white stones would stand out in whatever light there was, marking where it was safe to stroll. Otherwise an unwary step might sink into the soft loam of the beds. He moved closer to examine them. None of them appeared to be out of place. Still, he leaned down to touch each stone in turn with the tips of his fingers. One of them, halfway round and half hidden by the bench, moved very slightly, as if not as well seated as its neighbors.

Padgett, watching, said, “You’re barking up the wrong tree. There was a heavy mist last night, remember, hardly the weather for chatting under the light of the moon.”

“And if Quarles was walking here, for whatever reason—coming home from a dinner party—it was a perfect site for an ambush.”

“He’d have walked down the main drive.”

“Who knows? He might have intended to go to the Home Farm.”

“Far-fetched.”

“Early days, that’s all. I think we’ve done all we can here.” Rutledge was ready to go on. But Padgett was staring now toward the house, which he couldn’t see from here.

“If Charles Archer could walk, I’d wager it was him. She may have been content with the status quo, but if the man has any pride—well, it takes nerve to cuckold a man in his own house.”

Padgett turned to walk back through the wood, and Rutledge, getting to his feet, heard Hamish say, “He’s no’ verra eager to help.”

They went back to the tithe barn, where Rutledge’s motorcar was standing. Padgett nodded to the constable guarding the tithe barn’s door as Rutledge turned the crank.

They drove in silence, each man busy with his thoughts. As they reached Cambury, the High Street was empty, and many of the houses were still shuttered. Bells hadn’t rung for the first service, and the doors of the church beyond the distant churchyard were closed.

Sunday morning. A long day stretched ahead of them.

Padgett was rubbing his face. “I’m dog tired, and you must be knackered. We’ll sleep for a few hours then go back to Hallowfields. It’s bound to be someone there. Stands to reason. They knew his movements.”

Rutledge said nothing.

Padgett went on. “I sent Constable Daniels to bespeak a room for you at The Unicorn after he telephoned the Yard. It’s just across the street there.” They had reached the police station. As Rutledge stopped the motorcar in front, Padgett added, “Come in. We’ll make a list of names, persons to consider. It won’t take long.”

With reluctance Rutledge followed him inside.

Padgett’s office was tidy, folders on the shelves behind his desk and a typewriter on a table to one side.

Indicating the machine as he sat down and offered the only other chair to Rutledge, he said, “I’ve learned to use the damned thing.

There’s no money for a typist, but I find that most people can’t read my handwriting. It’s the only answer.” He seemed to be in no hurry to make his list. Collecting several papers from his blotter, he shoved them into a folder and then turned back to Rutledge.

“Perhaps I should tell you a little about Cambury. It’s a peaceful town, as a rule. We’ve had only two murders since the war. Market day is Wednesday, and there’s always a farmer who has had a little too much to drink at The Glover’s Arms. The younger men prefer The Black Pudding. They grew up wild, some of them, with no fathers to keep them in line. An idle lot, living off their mothers’ pensions. But where’s the work to keep them honest? A good many workmen con-gregate there too. It can be a volatile mix.”