“Didn’t you think your grandmother would be frantic with worry?”
“No. She doesn’t like me. She says God didn’t intend for a woman to be as pretty as I am, and it’s a burden for her to keep an eye on me, and the devil works through a pretty face, and—” She burst into tears again.
Even if Jones had no idea his daughter was going to run away, he knew she was unhappy, and he must have missed her greatly himself.
Tormented by the need to keep her away from Quarles, he could well have decided to take matters into his own hands and rid them both of the man who had caused the family so much grief.
Either way, the baker had much to answer for.
“Did you write to Mr. Quarles, to say you were leaving Wales?”
She looked up, shocked. “Oh, no, if I did that, Da would never let me come home again!”
Rutledge said to Miss O’Hara, “I think you should put her to bed straightaway, and keep her out of sight until I’ve had time to sort this out.” And to Gwyneth, he said, “You must stay here for a day or perhaps two, and keep out of sight. Do you understand?”
“I want to go home to my mother and my sisters.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to pay that price for leaving your grandmother’s house without permission. Miss O’Hara has been put to a good deal of trouble taking you in like this, but she’s done it for your mother’s sake, and for your father’s as well. If you don’t listen to her, and gossips connect your unexpected return with Mr. Quarles’s death, there could be long-lasting suspicion about your father’s guilt even after we’ve found the killer. The bakery could suffer as well. You owe your parents this consideration.”
“I understand,” she answered petulantly. But she was young and, in the end, might not be ruled.
He waited until Miss O’Hara had taken the girl upstairs and put her to bed, then thanked her for her help.
She looked tired, and strained. “I know something about being hunted,” she said. “That’s why I took Gwyneth in. Her mother was at her wits’ end. I think Mrs. Jones must be a little afraid of her husband.”
“Perhaps not afraid, precisely. But she’s feeling guilty about her role in hiding Gwyneth’s return. Did the girl tell you more about how she managed to get this far on her own? She took an enormous chance.”
Miss O’Hara smiled. “She dirtied her face and teeth, to make herself seem less attractive. Now you must go, before the neighbors begin to talk. I can hear Bertie in the next street.” In fact the clink of milk bottles and Bertie’s whistle were ominously close.
He smiled in return. “Thank you. Tell Mrs. Jones that patience will serve her better, and silence.”
“Do you believe that this child’s father killed Quarles?”
“God knows. For Gwyneth’s sake, and her mother’s, I pray he didn’t.”
Bertie had other gossip to carry with the milk that morning. Someone had told him the way in which the body had been found, and the shocking news turned the town on its ear.
It met Rutledge over his breakfast.
Rutledge said, irritated, “Who let slip this information?”
Hamish answered, “I wouldna’ put it past yon inspector, in retaliation.”
That was not only possible, but likely. It served two purposes. It annoyed Rutledge, and it made it more difficult for him to do his job properly. Often what the police held back was a key to tripping up a killer.
Padgett would be satisfied with both outcomes. Whether he himself was guilty of murder or not, he was in no haste to prove that someone on his patch had done such a thing. By the same token, if it could have been laid at Mrs. Quarles’s door, Padgett would have been pleased enough.
Glancing out the window as he drank his tea, Rutledge saw the Quarles motorcar passing down the High Street.
Mrs. Quarles on her way to fetch her son from Rugby?
He pitied the boy. The whole ugly story of the murder was common knowledge now, and there would be no way to protect him. It would have come out in the course of the trial, and the newspapers were bound to make much of the circumstances. But that was months away, not now while the boy’s grief was raw.
Padgett came to find him before he’d finished his tea.
Rutledge swallowed his ire with the last of his toast and waited.
“We’re not slack in our duty in Cambury,” Padgett said, sitting down. “My men have been busy. It appears one Harold Quarles dined with Mr. Greer on Saturday evening. But not until seven o’clock.”
“I’m surprised that he didn’t come to us with that information himself.”
“You’re free to ask him. That brings us to another problem. Where was Quarles between the time he left Hallowfields and his arrival on Minton Street? It doesn’t take that long to walk in from the estate, now, does it?”
Half an hour at most, in a leisurely stroll. Which would mean he could have reached the High Street as early as six o’clock.
Where was Quarles for nearly an hour? At the estate still? Sitting in the gatehouse cottage, waiting for someone? Or had he come into Cambury?
“He met someone on the way,” Rutledge answered Padgett. “It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”
“He was expecting to meet someone on the way. Or he’d have left later than he did.”
“Point taken. Why did he dine with Greer? I thought they disliked each other.”
“They do.”
Rutledge pushed his chair back. “I’ll want to pay a visit to Mr.
Greer.”
“I thought you might.” Padgett, grinning, followed him out of the hotel.
The owner of the glove firm lived in a large house next but one to the High Street, with black iron gates and a handsome hedge setting it off.
Greer was just stepping out his door, on his way to his office, when the two policemen lifted the gate latch and started up the short walk.
Greer said, “We will speak here, at the house,” as if he’d called the meeting, not the reverse.
A man of middle height with graying hair and an air of confidence, he waited for them to pass through the door before him and then shut it behind them. “This way.”
He led them to a study at the back of the house, overlooking the side gardens. A bench in the grassy lawn stood beside a small pool, and a frog perched on the pool’s edge. Set apart by trees, this appeared to be a retreat, and one of the long study windows opened on to it.
Greer took his chair behind the broad maple desk and gestured to the other two placed across from him.
“Well. This is to do with Harold Quarles. What is it you want to know?”
“He dined at your house on Saturday evening. What time did he arrive?”
“We had another guest, a Mr. Nelson. They came in together promptly at seven.” There was something in his tone of voice that told Rutledge he was not pleased about that.
“Did Mr. Nelson bring Quarles in from Hallowfields?”
“As to that, I don’t know.”
“Did they leave at the same time?”
“No, Mr. Nelson remained here for another hour or more. He had a business proposition to put before us. Neither Quarles nor I approved of it. We both preferred to see Cambury stay as it is, rather than bring in new industry to the area. Mr. Nelson believed that the village could support two business enterprises and wanted our backing in present-ing his concept to the town fathers.”
“And so he stayed on to try to convince you?”
“Quarles was adamant in his position. He said what he had to say early on, and then left. I expect Mr. Nelson had already put as much effort into persuading Quarles as he did afterward with me.”
“What sort of new industry?” Padgett wanted to know.
“He felt that gloves had seen their day, and that the up-and-coming field would be leather goods of a different sort. Valises, wallets, dia-ries—a long list of items. I think if Quarles had believed it would benefit me in any way, he’d have been against change on general principles.