“I’ve finished with Quarles, by the bye. And he did eat dinner the night he was killed.”
“Then let his wife bury him,” Padgett said. “The sooner the better.”
O’Neil looked at Rutledge for confirmation, and he nodded.
The doctor opened the door to Stephenson’s room. The man looked up, sighed wearily, and visibly braced himself for what was to come.
Rutledge said, “I’m happy to see you feeling a little better.”
“There’s better and better,” Stephenson said without spirit.
“Why kill yourself, if you’ve done nothing wrong?” Rutledge asked. “It’s a waste of life.”
“My reasons seemed to be sound enough at the time—”
He broke off and turned his face toward the wall, tears welling in his eyes.
“Do we clap you in gaol as soon as Dr. O’Neil here gives us leave?”
Padgett demanded irritably. “You as much as confessed that you wanted to kill Harold Quarles. Did you or didn’t you? You can’t have it both ways.”
“But he can,” Rutledge put in quietly. “If he paid someone to do what he couldn’t face himself.”
“That would be betrayal. I wouldn’t stoop to that. By rights,” he went on, “an eye for an eye, I should have killed his son. I couldn’t do that, either.”
“If you didn’t kill Quarles, why were you so certain we were about to take you into custody for this murder? Certain enough to kill yourself before we could.” He added in a level voice, no hint of curiosity or prying, merely trying to clarify, “Just what did Quarles have to do with your son?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. I’m still shaken, hardly able to believe I’m still alive. I expected never to see this world again. I thought I was well out of it.” His face was hidden, his voice rough with tears. “For God’s sake, go away and leave me alone.”
“In the end, you’ll have to clear yourself by telling us the truth.”
“I don’t have to do anything of the sort. You can’t threaten me with hanging. I know how the noose feels about my neck, and what it’s like to plunge into the dark. The next time will be easier, and it won’t be interrupted. I really don’t give a damn. ”
“If you want to die so badly,” Padgett reminded him, “you’d have to convince us first that you deserve to. What you’re feeling now is self-pity, not evidence. Do you think you’re the only man who’s lost a son? I can find you a dozen such fathers without leaving the parish.”
“He was my only child—my wife is dead. I never thought I’d be grateful for that, until the day the news came.”
Rutledge shook his head, warning Padgett to leave it as he was about to reply. Reluctantly Padgett turned and walked away, shutting the door behind him. Rutledge said to Stephenson, “Consider your situation. If you want to claim this crime even though you didn’t commit it, go ahead. That’s not vengeance, it’s martyrdom. And in the final moments before the trapdoor drops, you’ll find martyrdom isn’t a satisfactory substitute for what you’d promised your son to do.”
Not waiting for a reply, Rutledge turned on his heel, leaving Dr.
O’Neil alone with his patient.
As they walked down the passage, he could hear Stephenson’s voice: “I loved him more than anything, anything.”
Outside, Padgett said, “Why did he call that bookstore of his Nemesis, if he wasn’t waiting for his chance to kill Quarles? Whatever lay between them, it must have been a fearsome hate on Stephenson’s part.”
They had just reached the High Street when the boot boy from The Unicorn caught up with them. “You’re wanted, sir, if you’re Inspector Rutledge. There’s a telephone call for you at the hotel. I was told at the station you’d be with Inspector Padgett.”
“And who would be calling the inspector?” Padgett asked, inquisi-tiveness alive in his face.
“London,” Rutledge answered. “Who else?” He handed the flushed boot boy a coin, nodded to Padgett, and walked away toward The Unicorn.
Hunter was waiting for him at Reception, and escorted him to the telephone room. “They promised to call again in fifteen minutes.” He took out his pocket watch. “That’s half a minute from now.”
On the heels of his words, they could hear the telephone bell, and Rutledge went to answer it.
It was Sergeant Gibson, who asked him in a formal tone to wait for Chief Superintendent Bowles to be summoned.
The tone of voice, as always with Gibson, reflected the mood of the Yard.
Bowles, when he took up the receiver, shouted, “You there, Rutledge?”
“Yes, sir, I’m here.”
“What’s this I hear about your questioning Mr. Penrith and speaking to Hurley and Sons?”
Mickelson was back in London and complaining.
“It was in the course of—”
“I don’t give a fig for your excuses. I sent you to Cambury to find a murderer, and I’ve had no report of your progress. Davis Penrith has been on the horn to the Yard, expressing his concern, wanting to know if we’ve taken anyone into custody. Have we?”
“Not yet. I reported the death of his former partner to Penrith, and asked who among the victim’s business connections might have a grievance against the man dead. I asked Hurley and Sons who benefited from the will. It’s the usual procedure. You gave me no instructions not to follow up in London.”
In the background Rutledge could hear Hamish derisively mocking his words.
“This was an important man, Rutledge. Do you understand me?
Inspector Padgett was quite right to call in the Yard, and if you aren’t capable of dealing with this inquiry, I’ll send someone down who can.”
“We’re interviewing—”
“You’re wasting time, Rutledge. I can have you out of there in twenty-four hours, if you don’t give us results. Do you hear me?” The receiver banged into its cradle with a violence that could be heard across the room. Rutledge smiled. Mickelson must have been very put out indeed.
As he turned around to leave, Rutledge saw that Padgett had followed him to the hotel and was standing in the doorway. He must have heard a good part of the conversation. From the look on his face, most assuredly he’d heard the receiver put up with force.
He said blandly, “I was just coming to inquire. Do you want to tell Mrs. Quarles that she can bury her husband, or shall I?”
Rutledge wiped the smile from his lips. “Yes, go ahead. I think she’ll be glad of the news.”
“Yes, sooner in the ground, sooner forgotten. Shall I tell the rector that he’ll be posting the banns for a marriage, as soon as the funeral guests are out of sight?”
“Sorry to disappoint you. I don’t think she’ll marry Archer. Now or ever.”
“Care for a small wager?” Padgett asked as he turned away, not waiting for Rutledge’s answer.
Hamish said, agreeing with Rutledge. “She willna’ marry again.
There’s her son.”
Rutledge went up to his room, surprised at how late in the afternoon it was. He felt fatigue sweeping over him, and knew it for what it was, an admission that Padgett and Chief Superintendent Bowles had got to him.
Hamish said, “You were in great haste to get to London before yon inspector returned from Dover. You canna’ expect to escape unscathed.”
It was nearly four-thirty in the morning when someone knocked at the door of Rutledge’s room.
He was sleeping lightly and heard the knock at once. “I’m coming.”
The only reason he could think of for the summons was another murder, and he was running down a mental list as he pulled on his trousers and opened the door.
It wasn’t Inspector Padgett or one of his constables. Standing on the threshold was Miss O’Hara, her hair tousled, and a shawl thrown over hastily donned clothes.