A clerk in the outer office verified that Hurley and Sons had dealt with Mr. Quarles’s affairs for many years, and showed Rutledge into the paneled office of Jason Hurley, a white-haired man of sixty. When he realized that his visitor was from Scotland Yard, he immediately suggested that his son Laurence join them. The younger Hurley was indeed his father’s son—they shared a prominent chin and heavy, flar-ing eyebrows that gave them both a permanently startled expression.
Quarles’s solicitors were shocked by the news—which Rutledge gave them in full—asking questions about their client’s death, showing alarm when Rutledge told them that no one had yet been taken into custody.
“But that’s monstrous!” the elder Hurley told him. “I find it hard to believe.”
“The inquiry is in its earliest stage,” he reminded them. “There’s still much to be done. That’s why I’m here, to ask who will inherit the bulk of Harold Quarles’s estate.”
Jason Hurley turned to his son. “Fetch the box for me, will you, Laurence?”
The younger man got up and left the room.
Hurley said, as soon as the door closed, “Was it an affair with a woman, by any chance? Mr. Quarles had many good qualities, but sometimes his—er—passions got the best of him.”
“Did they indeed?”
“Occasionally we’ve been required to mollify the anger of someone who took exception to his pursuit. Mr. Quarles didn’t wish his . . .
pecadillos . . . to come to the ears of his London clientele.”
“Who were these women? Where did they live?”
“In Somerset. I sometimes felt that perhaps this wasn’t really an unfortunate passion as much as it was a way of striking back at Mrs.
Quarles for the separation. You know her circumstances?”
“I’ve spoken to her,” Rutledge answered the solicitor. “She was quite clear about how she felt.”
“Yes, well, they had a quarrel the year before the war. I have no idea what it was about, but the result was a decision to live separately after that. Mrs. Quarles undertook the management of her own funds, and except for the house, for their son’s benefit, they no longer held any investments in common.”
“How did Quarles take the arrival of his wife’s cousin soon after their separation?” Rutledge asked, curious now.
“He had very little to say about it. He’d already informed us that we would handle the legal aspects of the separation, and there was really nothing more to add. Certainly, Mr. Archer was on the Continent when the marriage fell apart, for whatever reason. He couldn’t be called to account for that, whatever his later relationship with Mrs.
Quarles might be.”
“Was it before or after Mr. Archer came to live at Hallowfields that Mr. Quarles’s—er—pursuits began?”
“To my knowledge, well afterward. Which is why I drew the conclusions I have. As far as the separation went, Mr. Quarles was scrupulous in his handling of it.”
“Aye,” Hamish interjected, “he could show his vindictiveness then.”
An interesting point, and Rutledge was on the brink of following it up when the solicitor’s son returned with the box.
Hurley opened it and looked at the packets inside before choosing one. “This is Mr. Quarles’s last will and testament.” He unfolded it and scanned the document. “Just as I thought, the only bequest to Mrs. Quarles is a life interest in the house in which she now resides—
the estate called Hallowfields. The remainder of his estate is held in trust until Marcus’s twenty-fifth birthday. A wise decision, as it is a rather large sum, and Marcus is presently at Rugby.”
“Nothing unusual in that arrangement,” Laurence Hurley put in.
“Considering their marital circumstances.”
“Yes, I agree. What about his firm? Did he leave instructions for its future? Does anyone gain there?” Rutledge asked.
“There is provision for junior partners to buy out his share. A very fair and equitable settlement, in my opinion. When he made out his will, Mr. Quarles told me that he couldn’t see his son following in his footsteps. He felt Marcus would be better suited to the law if he wished to follow a profession. He held that money could ruin a young man if not earned by his own labor, even though his son will be well set up financially.”
“Can you think of anyone who might have clashed with Mr. Quarles, over business affairs or personal behavior? Enough to hate him and want to ridicule him in death?”
Laurence Hurley said, “By indicating that he was no angel? Or that he pretended to be an angel? I don’t quite see the point, other than to hide his body for as long as possible. His murderer would have had to know about that apparatus, wouldn’t he? That smacks of someone local.”
Jason Hurley frowned at his son’s comments. “To be honest with you, I can’t conceive of anyone. No one in London, certainly. He was respected here.”
Rutledge asked, “If he was—unhappy—about his wife’s situation, how did Mr. Quarles react to what he might have viewed as his partner’s defection? Was there retaliation?”
“Even when he and Davis Penrith dissolved their partnership, it appeared to be amicable. Although I couldn’t help but think that Mr.
Penrith would have been better off financially if he’d continued in the firm. Not that he hasn’t done well on his own, you understand, but the firm is an old one and has been quite profitable over the years. It would have been to his advantage to stay on.”
“I understand from Mr. Penrith that he wished to spend more time with his family than the partnership allowed.”
“Ah, that would explain it, of course. Mr. Quarles was most certainly a man who relished his work and devoted himself to it. I sometimes wondered if that had initiated the rift with his wife. His clients loved him for his eye to detail, but it required hours of personal attention.”
“Was there anyone else who might have crossed Mr. Quarles? Who later might have felt that there were reprisals?”
Both father and son were shocked. They insisted that with the exception of his matrimonial troubles, Mr. Quarles had never exhibited a vengeful nature.
“And marriage,” Laurence Hurley added, “has its own pitfalls. I daresay he could accept the breakup, perhaps in the hope that it would heal in time. When Mr. Archer joined the household, hope vanished.
Mr. Quarles wouldn’t be the first man to suffer jealousy and look for comfort where he could.”
Hamish said, “Ye ken, he’s speaking of his ain marriage . . .”
There was nothing more the senior Mr. Hurley could add. Quarles had left no letters to be opened after his death, and no other bequests that, in Hurley’s terms, “could raise eyebrows.”
“Except of course the large bequest to a servant, one Betty Richards,” Laurence Hurley reminded his father.
“Indeed. Mr. Quarles himself explained that she had been faithful and deserved to be financially secure when he was dead. I haven’t met her, but I understand there was no personal reason for his thoughtful-ness, except the fact that she was already in her forties and as time passed would find it hard to seek other service. He was often a kind man.”
“In the will is there any mention of the gatehouse at Hallowfields?”
Hurley frowned. “The gatehouse? No. There’s no provision for that. I would assume that it remains with the house and grounds.
Were you under the impression that someone was to inherit it?”
Hamish said, “He’s thinking of yon man in the wheelchair.”
Archer . . .
“The gatehouse came up in a conversation, and I wondered if it held any specific importance to Mr. Quarles.”
Laurence Hurley said, “None that we are aware of.”
“What do you know of Mr. Quarles’s background?”