Rutledge had almost forgot her. She was a pale figure on the fringe of the group of servants, a tired woman folding the sheets, feeling her years, wondering what was to become of her.
Rutledge turned back to The Unicorn’s yard and retrieved his motorcar. As he did, a few drops of rain splashed the windscreen, leaving dusty blotches.
By the time he reached Hallowfields, it was coming down in earnest, and a rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. He dashed through the rain to the door and knocked loudly. The footman who answered seemed not to know what to do about the policeman on the steps, and Rutledge said, “I’m here to see one of the maids. Take me to the servants’ hall, if you please.”
The man stepped back and let him enter. Rutledge walked briskly toward the door leading to the servants’ stairs and found the staff gathered in Mrs. Downing’s sitting room, listening to the Sunday evening reading from the Bible. Heads turned as he stood in the doorway.
Mrs. Downing said, “We’re at prayers.”
“I’ll wait in the passage.”
He shut the door and walked a dozen steps away, listening to the soft murmur of voices. After five minutes or so, Mrs. Downing came out of her sitting room, her face severe.
“What is it this time?”
“I’d like to speak to Betty. The woman who took care of Mr. Quarles’s—”
“Yes. I know who she is. Give me a minute.”
She went back into her parlor and dismissed the staff, keeping Betty with her. When they had gone about their duties, she herself left the room and held the door open for Rutledge to enter.
Betty was waiting, apprehension in her face.
Rutledge asked her to sit down, then told her they had very likely found her employer’s murderer. It would be only a matter of days before it was official.
Her hands clenched in her lap, she said, “Who is it?”
“I’m not at liberty to tell you that. But it isn’t Hugh Jones, the baker.”
He could read her emotions as they flitted across her face. Surprise. Bewilderment. Shame.
“They were talking in the servants’ hall,” she said. “The man who brings the milk told the scullery maid that he’d confessed.”
“Mr. Jones gave the police a statement. It wasn’t a confession. He won’t be arrested.”
“Why are you telling me this? And not the others?”
“Because I think you know. Did you go to the bakery in the middle of the night? Was it you who destroyed everything you could lay hands to?”
Tears filled her eyes but didn’t fall. “He’s been good to me. M—Mr.
Quarles. No one else cared, but I did. I wanted to punish whoever had killed him. I wanted to make him as wretched as I was.”
“You succeeded in making Mr. Jones wretched. He didn’t deserve it.”
“But they talk, the servants. I hear them. His daughter had come home, and he was distraught. Everyone said he was the only one who could have put Mr. Quarles up in that wicker cage. They said he’d done it to show that Mr. Quarles was no angel, that he’d tormented the Jones family until they couldn’t stand it any longer.”
“Yes, I know. The police nearly made that same mistake. But it wasn’t true. You owe him an apology, and restitution.”
“How can I pay for what I’ve done? I only have my wages.” She was gripping her hands together until the knuckles were white.
And then she looked at Rutledge. “He said terrible things about Mr. Quarles when he sent his daughter away. What does he owe for that?”
“You aren’t Mr. Quarles’s defender. He has a wife and a son to protect his good name.”
“His wife hated him as much as the rest did. But the boy, Marcus, is a good child. He would have made his father proud. It’s hard to think of him fatherless. If they hang this man you’ve decided killed Mr. Quarles, I’d like to be there.”
“Why do you think his wife turned against him? It was a happy marriage for some time, or so I was led to believe.”
“And so it was. I was never told what it is she holds against him. But she said once, when she didn’t know I was there, if she knew a way, she’d wash the very blood out of Master Marcus’s veins if it would do any good. Mr. Archer called that a cruel thing to say, but she answered him sharply. ‘You can’t imagine what cruelty is, Charles. I can’t sleep at night for remembering what was done.’ ”
“You’ve known Mr. Quarles for some years. What was his wife talking about?”
“He was a hard man, but not half the things said about him are true. I think she wanted an excuse to live with Mr. Archer, to make it right in her own eyes. I think she believed he’d feel better about living under her roof if he thought she was married to a monster.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “He was good to me. That’s all I know. No one else ever was.”
T he next morning, as Rutledge was packing his valise, he was summoned to the telephone.
It was Sergeant Gibson. “I’ve had a bit of luck, sir. Remember the constable you spoke with on Saturday, when you left me a message?”
“Yes, I do.” The lion’s head and a small boy charging his mates a few farthings to look at it.
“That was Constable Wainwright, sir. Over the weekend he spoke to his father about fighting the Boers. His father saw a good deal of action. And he remembers Private Penrith. Described him as a fair, slender chap, a quiet one keeping to himself for the most part. Said he was reminded of the young Prince of Wales, sir. This was in Cape Town, just before Corporal Wainwright was to sail home. Penrith was quite the hero, according to Wainwright. He walked miles back to a depot for help, after the Boers ambushed the train he was taking north. There was talk of a medal, but Penrith himself quashed that idea. He says he was too late, all the men were dead by the time rescue reached them. He blamed himself.”
“He was the sole survivor?”
“According to Wainwright’s account, yes, sir. He was knocked about when the train came to a screeching halt, and dazed. But his 276
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rifle had been fired, though he couldn’t remember much about the action.”
“Hardly a record to be ashamed of.”
“No, sir. Shall I go on looking at Mr. Penrith’s military career?”
“No. Yes. When did he leave the army? And where else did he serve? Did Corporal Wainwright mention one Harold Quarles?”
“I don’t believe he did, sir.”
“Include him in your search. And, Gibson, I want to be sure who and what this Davis Penrith is. One source has told me his father lived in Hampshire, another that his father lived in Sussex. I want that cleared up.”
“Yes, sir. I believe one Davis Penrith came in this morning to make his statement about a journey to Scotland. Is this the same man, sir?”
“It is.”
“Wouldn’t it be simpler to send a constable around to ask him these questions?”
Rutledge said, “He’s already answered one of them. But not to my satisfaction.”
Sergeant Gibson said neutrally, “Indeed, sir.”
Rutledge broke the connection, absently rubbing his jaw with his fingers.
So Penrith was apparently all he claimed to be. No one, however, had so far explained the confusion between Hampshire and Sussex.
But it might be nothing more mysterious than being born in one county and growing up in the other.
For the moment he put Penrith out of his mind and went in search of Hugh Jones.
The bakery was still closed on this Monday morning, but it was ready for use as soon as fresh supplies arrived. Jones said, as Rutledge came through the door, “I managed to bake bread this morning for my regular customers. Only twenty loaves, but a start. It was all the flour I had.”
“I think I’ve found the person who did this damage. An elderly maid at Hallowfields. She’d served Quarles, seen only his best side, apparently, and she was told that you had killed him. Hence the vandalism.”