“Perhaps the point of that was to make sure he wasn’t found for some time. If Padgett here hadn’t heard a dog barking and gone to investigate, it might have been a day or two before the barn was searched.”
“Which would give the murderer time to get clear of Cambury and see to his alibi,” Padgett said.
Soon after, they thanked O’Neil and left.
“I must telephone London,” Rutledge commented as the two men walked back the way they’d come. “Someone may already have spoken to the solicitors and the partner.”
He’d suspected that Bowles had put someone else in charge of the London side of the inquiry. Now he had an excuse to find out.
“I thought you were in charge,” Padgett said.
“Here, yes.”
Padgett paused by a bookshop. Rutledge looked up and saw that the name in scrolled gold letters above the door was NEMESIS. The shop was dark, but he could see the shelves of books facing the windows and a small, untidy desk on one side.
Padgett was saying, “You didn’t tell me this.” There was dissatisfaction in his voice. He’d hoped to be rid of the Yard.
If that was the case, why had he sent for them in the first place?
Rutledge wondered.
With a sigh Padgett prepared to take his leave. “See what your London colleague has to say, and perhaps we’ll have a better grip on what’s to be done here. Tomorrow I’ll send Constable Horton to Minton Street to discover where Quarles dined. We’ll see if it holds with what Hunter told you at the hotel.” He nodded in farewell and went on toward his house.
Rutledge watched him go. Hamish, in the back of his mind, said,
“It wouldna’ astonish me if yon policeman was the killer.”
Surprised, Rutledge said aloud, “Why?”
“I dona’ ken why. Only that he muddles the ground at every turn.
And there’s only his word that he found the body.”
It was true. Padgett had offered a number of suspects for consideration, and then changed his mind. Others he’d neglected to mention.
“The invalid chair . . .”
“Aye, that’s verra’ clever.”
“Such a suggestion would please the K.C. who defends the killer no end—what’s more, it could have happened that way. We’d walked about too much to find the chair’s tracks. If they were ever there.
I wonder why Inspector Padgett dislikes the Quarles family so intensely.”
At The Unicorn, Rutledge asked for the telephone and was shown to a small sitting room behind the stairs. He put in the call to London, and after a time, Sergeant Gibson came to the telephone instead of Bowles.
“The Chief Superintendent isn’t here, sir. And I don’t know that anyone’s spoken to the solicitors yet,” Gibson responded to Rutledge’s questions. He added, “Inspector Mickelson is still in Dover, but he’s expected to return tomorrow at one o’clock. He’s taking the morning train.”
Rutledge smiled to himself. Mickelson was Bowles’s protégé.
“And what about the former partner? Penrith?”
“I was sent around to his house this morning, sir. Mr. Penrith isn’t there. His wife’s in Scotland, and the valet says he went to visit her. He should be home tonight.”
“Did you tell his valet why you’d come to see Penrith?”
“It seemed best not to say anything, sir,” Gibson answered. He was a good man, with good instincts and the soul of a curmudgeon And if there was gossip to be had at the Yard, Gibson generally knew it.
“Then I’d rather be the one to interview him.”
“As to that, sir, if you’re in Somerset, you won’t be in London before one o’clock. I was present when Chief Superintendent Bowles told the inspector to make haste back to the Yard. Though he didn’t say why, of course.”
“I understand. Thank you, Sergeant.”
“I do my best, sir.” And Gibson was gone.
Hamish said, “Ye canna’ reach London before noon.”
“I can if I leave now,” Rutledge answered.
“It’s no’ very wise—”
“To hell with wise.”
11
In a hurry now, Rutledge strode out of the sitting room and went in search of Hunter, making arrangements for a packet of sandwiches and a Thermos of tea to be put up at once.
“I’ll be away this evening. Hold my room for my return, please.”
“I’ll be happy to see to it. Er—did you find Mr. Quarles?”
“Yes, thank you,” Rutledge answered, and went up the stairs two at a time. He took a clean shirt with him and was down again just as Hunter was bringing the packet of food and the Thermos from the kitchen.
The long May evening stretched ahead, and he made good time as he turned toward London. The soft air and the wafting scents of wild-flowers in the hedgerows accompanied him, and the sunset’s afterglow lit the sky behind the motorcar. When darkness finally overtook him, Rutledge was well on his way. But a second night without sleep caught up with him, and just west of London, he veered hard when a dog walked into the road directly in his path.
The motorcar spun out of control, and before Hamish could cry a warning, Rutledge had crossed the verge and run into a field. Strong as he was, he couldn’t make the brakes grip in the soft soil, and then suddenly the motorcar slewed in a half circle and came to an abrupt stop as the engine choked.
His chest hit the wheel and knocked the wind out of him, just as his forehead struck the windscreen hard enough to render him unconscious.
It was some time later—he didn’t know how long—that he came to his senses, but the blow had been severe enough to muddle his mind.
His chest ached, and his head felt as if it were detached from his body.
He managed to get himself out of his seat and into the grass boundary of the field.
There he vomited violently, and the darkness came down again.
The second time he woke, he thought he was back in France. He could hear the guns and the cries of his men, and Hamish was calling to him to get up and lead the way.
“Ye canna’ lie here, ye canna’ sleep, it’s no’ safe!”
Rutledge tried to answer him, scrambling to his feet and running forward, though his legs could barely hold him upright. He must have been shot in the chest, it was hard to breathe, and where was his helmet? He’d lost it somewhere. He shouted to his men, but Hamish was still loud in his ear, telling him to beware.
He could see the Germans now, just at that line of trees, and he thought, They hadn’t told us it was that far—they lied to us—we’ll lose a hundred men before we get there—
Despair swept him, and Hamish’s accusing voice was telling him he’d killed the lot of them. And the line of trees wasn’t any closer.
The machine gunners had opened up, and he called to his men to take cover, but this was No Man’s Land, there was no safety except in the stinking shell holes, down in the muddy water with the ugly dead, their bony fingers reaching up as if begging for help, and their empty eye sockets staring at the living, cursing them for leaving the dead to rot.
Rutledge flung himself into the nearest depression, but his men kept running toward the German line, and he swore at them, his whistle forgotten, his voice ragged with effort.
“Back, damn you, find cover now. Do you hear me?”
He dragged himself out of the shell hole and went after them, but they were determined to die, and there was nothing he could do. He watched them fall, one by one, and he tried to lift them and carry them back to his own lines, but his chest was aching and his legs refused to support him. He could hear himself crying at the waste of good men, and swearing at the generals safe in their beds, and pleading with the Germans to stop because they were all dead, all except Hamish, whose voice rose above the sound of the guns—cursing him, reminding him that each soul was on his conscience, because he himself was unscathed.