But I disliked the idea as well. For once,” he said, smiling wryly, “we were actually in agreement about this matter.”
“You felt that Nelson met Quarles first, possibly driving him here, in order to bring him around to his position?”
“As Quarles left first and on foot, it’s a natural assumption.”
“How did you know he left on foot?”
Greer flushed. “I asked my butler.”
“As he was leaving, did Nelson follow Quarles into the street to finish the conversation between them?”
“No, of course not, I told you he’d stayed. He joined me in a glass of port, and continued to try to persuade me.”
“Do you think Mr. Nelson had any reason to wish Quarles harm?
That he might have followed him back to Hallowfields, talked to him again, and in a fit of anger, attacked him?” It was Padgett’s question now, and Greer turned to him in disgust.
“That’s absurd. Nelson mentioned three villages he’s interested in for his factory. We were the first he spoke to, because of my glove firm.
He still had two others to visit. One of them has nearer access to the railway. It would suit his purpose much better. But there’s less competition in Cambury, and I think that held a great appeal.” He shrugged.
“Labor would be cheaper here, you see, versus the convenience of the railway for shipping.”
“Is it possible that Quarles agreed with Mr. Nelson after all, and you went out as Quarles left and had words with him?” Rutledge asked.
“I don’t pursue my guests into the street to harangue them.”
“But you failed to inform us that you’d seen the victim on the evening he was killed,” Rutledge said.
“I saw no reason to present myself at the police station just to tell them I’d had a dinner guest who later died. You found me soon enough, and as you can see, I was in no way involved with what happened to Harold Quarles.”
“Has your staff told you that not only was Quarles murdered, he was also put into the Christmas angel harness and hauled into the rafters of the tithe barn?”
No one had. They could see the shock in Greer’s eyes, and the graying of the skin on his face.
“My good God!”
Rutledge waited, saying nothing.
After a moment, Greer went on, “You suspect Nelson of having done such a thing? But how could he know the harness existed? He lives in Manchester.” Greer stirred uneasily, as if thinking that should it benefit Nelson to kill one of the objectors to his project, why not make it a clean sweep and kill both?
He reached for the telephone on his desk and asked to be connected to Manchester, and the firm of one R. S. Nelson.
They waited, and in due course, Nelson was brought to the telephone at the other end.
There was a brief conversation, as if Nelson thought Greer was calling to change his position. Then Greer said, “No, I just wanted to ask if you’d spoken to Harold Quarles after you left me on Saturday evening?”
There was a reply at the other end.
Greer said, “No reason in particular. I could see that he was not going to budge. I wondered if you’d felt otherwise.”
After a moment, grimacing, he said, “Well, if you must know, Quarles was murdered that night. And the police are here asking if you or I know anything about that, as apparently we’re the last people to have seen him alive.”
He listened, then said, “I see. I’ll wish you a good day.”
Hanging up the receiver with some force, Greer said, “He informed me he had no need to turn to murder to see his business prosper, and he’d judged Quarles as the sort who resisted change for the sake of resisting. And he accepted that, because, and I quote, ‘I grew up in the north myself, and know a stubborn bastard when I see one.’ ”
He spoke the words with distaste. “I had no desire to work with that man on Saturday evening, and even less desire to do it now. If you will excuse me, I’m late at my office, and I think there’s nothing more I can do to help the police in their inquiry.” He stood up, dismissing them.
Rutledge said, “Thank you for your time. You’ll still be required to make a statement about events of that evening. If you will give Inspector Padgett the direction of Mr. Nelson in Manchester, he’ll ask the police there to take his.”
That seemed to please Greer and make up for the unpleasantness of having to present himself at the police station.
He followed them out, and as he closed the gate behind them, he said, “I never liked Harold Quarles, and I’ve made no pretense of anything else. But I don’t resort to murder to settle my differences. I would not have willingly invited the man to dine, most certainly not on a social occasion. Because he doesn’t entertain at Hallowfields, it was left to me to invite both men here. I can tell you that my wife didn’t join us. It was not that sort of evening.”
He nodded and left them standing there.
“Pompous ass,” said Padgett, watching Greer walk up the street.
“But he filled in that hour for us. What’s left is to find out who argued with Quarles before he reached the corner of the High Street, where Hunter tells us he was alone.”
“You believe him then?” Padgett asked. “And Nelson as well?”
“It doesn’t appear to be a motive strong enough for what happened at the tithe barn. I hardly see this man Nelson killing someone he had never met before just to rid himself of an obstacle to the site for his factory. Do you?”
“No,” Padgett returned grudgingly. “But by God, I’ll see to it we have both statements in our hands.”
They had reached the High Street themselves now, and in the distance Greer was just walking through a door. “His place of business?”
Rutledge asked.
“Yes. Beyond Nemesis, in fact. You know, it could have been Stephenson who spoke to Quarles on the street. Or Brunswick. But probably not the baker, Jones. He would have been home at that hour, not prowling the streets. But my men tell me that sometimes Stephenson is restless and walks about at night.”
“We’ll have to ask him—”
Rutledge broke off. The rector, Samuel Heller, was coming toward them, distress in his face.
When he reached Rutledge he said, “You misled me.”
“In what way, Mr. Heller?”
“You told me that Mr. Quarles was dead. But not the manner in which he was found. My housekeeper informed me this morning. Is it true? And if so, why did you keep it from me?”
“It was a police decision,” Rutledge replied. “I didn’t want that part of Quarles’s death to be public knowledge until I was ready.”
“And so we all have learned such terrible news with our morning tea, and from a servant! It’s not proper.”
“Would it have made any difference in what you told me?” Rutledge asked. “As I remember, you were not eager to judge others.”
Heller had the grace to flush. “And I would still tell you the same thing. But this is—I don’t know—I can hardly find the word for it.
Blasphemous. Yes. Blasphemous suits it best. To use that angel in such a fashion. What drives another human being to that sort of barbarity?”
“If you remember, I warned you to beware of a confession that might mean someone is looking for absolution for what he’d done.”
“Yes, Mr. Rutledge, you warned me, and I have been on my guard.
But no one has come to confess. Though I have heard from Dr. O’Neil that Mr. Stephenson from the bookshop might have need of my coun-seling. Apparently he’s distraught, working himself up into an illness.”
“Any idea why?” Rutledge asked.