He walked along the High Street, listening to Hamish in his head until he reached the police station. Constable Horton was there, reading a manual on the use of the typewriter.
He looked up as Rutledge came in, smiling sheepishly. “I hear him swearing in his office. I wondered what the fuss was all about. Looks easy enough to me, once you know where your fingers belong.” Setting the manual aside, he added, his eyes carefully avoiding the red and swollen abrasion on the Londoner’s forehead, “The inspector isn’t here, sir, if it’s him you’re after.”
“I need the direction of the Jones house. I just spoke to Mr. Jones in the bakery. I’d like to talk to his wife next.”
“Inspector Padgett thought you’d gone up to London.”
“So I have,” Rutledge answered, and left it at that.
Horton explained how to find the Jones house, and Rutledge thanked him, leaving on the heels of it.
The Jones family had a rambling home at the bottom of James Street, apparently adding on with the birth of each child. There was no front garden, but the window boxes were rampant with color, and the white curtains behind them were stiff with starch.
Rutledge tapped on the door, and after a moment a woman answered it, a sleepy child on her hip.
She had been crying, her eyes red-rimmed.
Rutledge introduced himself, showing her his identification. She hesitated before inviting him into the house, as if trying to come up with an excuse to send him away. In the end she realized she had no choice.
The parlor, with its horsehair furniture and broad mantelpiece, was spotlessly clean. Mrs. Jones settled the child on her lap, and asked quietly, “What brings you here, Mr. Rutledge?”
Her Welsh accent was stronger than her husband’s. Her hands, red from Monday’s washing, brushed a wisp of dark hair back from her face, and she seemed to brace herself for his answer.
“You’ve heard that Mr. Quarles was killed over the weekend?”
“The news came with the milk. I was sorry to hear of it.”
But he thought she wasn’t. She couldn’t spare any thought or emotion for Harold Quarles, when she could see her whole world crumb-ing into despair if her husband was the murderer.
“I’ve spoken to your husband. I need only to verify what he told me, that he spent Saturday evening with you and the children.”
Her eyes flickered. “He did that. It’s the only time we have as a family, to tell the truth.”
“And he didn’t go out after you’d gone up to bed?”
“That he didn’t. The next youngest, Bridgett, had a little fever, and we were worried about her.”
Her hands shook as she smoothed the dress of the little girl in her lap. “We’ve six girls,” she said, then immediately regretted speaking.
“I understand that the oldest daughter is living in Cardiff.”
She was reluctant to answer, as if not certain what her husband might have said. “Gwyneth’s with my mother. A real help to her, she is, and there’s no denying it.”
“I also understand that it was Harold Quarles’s fault that your daughter had to be sent away.”
“The whole town knows of it,” she answered, on the verge of tears.
“We can’t go anywhere without some busybody asking after her, as if she was recovering from the plague. That tone of voice, pitying, you see, but with a hint of hunger about it, hoping we had had bad news. A baby on the way.”
“I’m sure it has been difficult for you—”
“And if you’re thinking that Hugh had anything to do with what happened to that devil,” she said fiercely, “you’d be wrong.” The child in her lap stirred with her intensity, an intensity in defense of the husband she herself doubted, protecting her family if she must perjure her soul.
How many wives had done the same, time out of mind? Yet would Mrs. Quarles have protected her husband this fiercely? he wondered.
But Hamish reminded him that there was a son, Marcus.
“How can you be so certain?” Rutledge asked Mrs. Jones. “He must have felt like any father would feel, that the man ought to be horsewhipped.”
“He wanted to use his fists on him, true enough, but there was us to think about. Too high a price, he said. And it wasn’t as if the devil had touched Gwyneth, only talking to her in such a way that she believed he would take her away to London. It was foolishness, but her head was turned, wasn’t it? And she’s so pretty, it makes your heart ache to think what can happen to one so young—” She stopped, something in her face, an anguish that she tried to stifle, alerting him.
To think what can happen . . . not what could have happened.
But before he could question the difference in tenses, she began to cry, a silent weeping that was all the more wrenching to watch, tears rolling down her face, and her arms encircling the sleeping child as if to keep her safe from all harm. He had to look away from the grief in her eyes.
After a moment Rutledge said, “What’s wrong, Mrs. Jones? Shall I bring someone to you—your husband—”
“Oh, no, please don’t let him see me like this!” She tried to wipe her eyes with the dress the little girl was wearing, but the tears wouldn’t stop. It was as if he’d opened floodgates, and there was no way to put them right again.
Hamish said, “It’s no’ yon dead man she’s crying for.”
And not Hugh Jones, either.
What’s more, her husband hadn’t appeared to be upset.
“What’s happened? What is it your husband doesn’t know?”
He crossed the room and took the child from her arms, and went down the passage to the kitchen where a crib stood under the windows looking out over the back garden. The child sighed as he lowered her to the mattress, and she put her thumb in her mouth.
Rutledge went back to the parlor and sat down next to Mrs. Jones, offering her his handkerchief.
“I couldn’t tell him,” she said, sobbing. “I didn’t know how.” Her fingers fumbled in the pocket of her apron and drew out a sheet of paper.
He saw that it was from a letter.
The scrawled writing was tear stained and nearly indecipherable, but he managed to read the pertinent sentences.
—she must have waited until I was asleep, and left then, in the middle of the night, with only the clothes on her back, and I’m at my wits’ end what to do or where to look—ungrateful child after all I’ve done—
Gwyneth, it appeared, had run away from her grandmother’s house.
And if any man had an excuse for murder, Hugh Jones did now.
“Are you certain he doesn’t know?” Rutledge asked, folding the letter and putting it back into Mrs. Jones’s hand.
“I can’t think how he could—but he loves Gwyneth, she’s our first-born and he’s been set on her since she first saw the light of day. He may have felt it in his bones, that she was in trouble. I’ve been so frightened, with nowhere to turn—for three days it’s nearly eaten me alive, and then Bertie this morning spilling out the news as if he knew—knew she had run away and was certain Hugh must know as well.”
Had the girl come to that gatehouse to look for Harold Quarles, and somehow the baker had discovered that she was there?
But Mrs. Jones was right—how could he have learned she had left Cardiff?
Yet she herself had answered her own question— He may have felt it in his bones, that she was in trouble—
True enough, but surely not to the extent of going to the Hallowfields gatehouse to see.
Hunter had reported that he’d heard voices quarreling, just before Quarles turned the corner.
Had Jones confronted Quarles, demanding to know where his daughter was? Then followed him home to Hallowfields, to see for himself if she was hiding in the gatehouse? And when he couldn’t find her, he lost his temper.