Jones sighed. “He still makes trouble for me, even in death. I’m grateful Mrs. Quarles took him away from here to bury him. Else I’d fear to walk through the churchyard of a night.”
“Inspector Padgett is satisfied that we’ve found Quarles’s killer.
He’ll be taken into custody sometime this morning.”
“Who is it?”
“You’ll hear soon enough. The evidence points strongly to Michael Brunswick.”
“Another family Quarles destroyed. Ah well. I’m sorry for him.
He’s a man haunted by disappointment. But I never saw him as a murderer.”
“Inspector Padgett believed Brunswick could have killed his wife.”
“There was a lot of talk at the time. No one paid much attention to it. Thank you for telling me about what happened here.”
Rutledge left the baker and walked on to the police station. Padgett had just returned from his meeting with the Chief Constable.
“He agrees, there’s enough evidence to make an arrest. We’ll see what the lawyers can make of it now. I expect you’re wanted back in London. I’ll deal with Brunswick. He’s at the church, playing the organ. I spoke to Rector on my way in, and he told me. He wants to be present. I think he’s afraid Brunswick will do something foolish. I don’t see it that way.”
Rutledge went there himself and stood in the open door at the side of St. Martin’s, listening to the music for a time. Brunswick was practicing an oratorio, struggling with it, going over and over the more complicated sections until he got it right and locked into his memory.
It was a long and frustrating session. When he’d finished, he launched into a hymn he knew well, and the difference in the two pieces was telling. Brunswick had ability but not the soaring skill that great musi-cians strove for.
Hearing voices approaching, Rutledge went back to the hotel to fetch his valise. Coming down the stairs again, he stopped by Reception.
Hunter was there to bid him farewell and a safe journey.
Half an hour after he’d driven out of Cambury, the telephone in the small parlor beyond the stairs began to ring.
The staff was busy with the noonday meal, and no one heard it.
It was an uneventful drive to the city. Rutledge arrived late and went directly to his flat.
The next morning, he called on Davis Penrith at his home.
“We’ve found your former partner’s murderer. He was taken into custody yesterday and charged. The inquest will find enough evidence to bind him over for trial.”
Penrith’s face was still. “Who is he?”
“The organist at St. Martin’s. He believed his late wife had an affair with Quarles. She killed herself.”
Penrith searched for something to say. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“There’s one small matter to clear up with you.”
Penrith smiled wryly. “I told you my father was curate in Hampshire. Only for five years, before moving on to Sussex. My mother was alive then, it was a happy time. The living in Sussex was cramped and wretched. I tend not to think of it if I don’t have to. I hope it didn’t cause you any trouble.”
“None at all,” Rutledge answered blandly.
“Well, then, thank you for telling me about this man Brunswick.
I’m glad the matter is cleared up, for the sake of Mrs. Quarles and Marcus.”
Penrith prepared to show Rutledge out, walking to the study door.
“Actually, that wasn’t the matter I wished to bring up.”
Surprised, Penrith stopped, his hand on the knob.
“I can’t think of anything else that needs to be clarified. I made my statement. You’ll find it at the Yard.”
“Thank you. No, what I wanted to clarify are several names I have here on my list. Mr. Butler is dead, I believe. Mr. Willard and Mr.
Hester, Mr. Morgan and Mr. Simpleton, and Mr. MacDonald were investors in the Cumberline fiasco.”
Wary, Penrith said, “Where did you find those names?”
“They were in a box marked CUMBERLINE in Harold Quarles’s study.”
He could see the anger and frustration in Penrith’s face. “Indeed.
And what else of interest did you find in his study?”
“Very little. We’ve managed to look at these seven men and determine that they had no reason to attack and kill Mr. Quarles.”
“No, of course they wouldn’t. They are men of some reputation, they value their privacy, and they aren’t likely to wait almost two years for a paltry revenge.”
“If you consider murder paltry.”
“That’s not what I meant. I’m sure they would have preferred taking the matter to court, ruining us, and making Harold Quarles and myself laughingstocks. They are ruthless businessmen. It’s the way they settle matters such as Cumberline. But they saw that in taking our firm to court, their own business practices might come under scrutiny. I can tell you that these men lost no more than they could afford to lose. They knew from the start that it was a risky investment, but they also had Cecil Rhodes in their sights, and their greed won over their common sense.”
“Was this other investor, a man named Evering—”
Penrith must have been prepared for the question, but it still nearly splintered his carefully preserved calm. “Evering was one of Harold’s clients. He made the decision to include the man.”
“Was Cumberline the reason you broke with Quarles?”
Penrith fiddled with the fob on his watch chain. “All right, yes. It 280
char les todd
was. I thought Cumberline was risky from the start. I thought Quarles was taking a direction we’d never taken before with the firm. I thought his judgment was failing him. But he had his reasons for offering Cumberline, he said, and it would do us no harm. Financially, he was right, though it was a close-run thing. I felt that the good name of the firm—and more important, the good will of James, Quarles and Penrith—was tarnished.”
“What was his reason, did he ever tell you?”
“Not in so many words. Most of these men had made their money in the war, cutting corners, shoddy goods, whatever turned a penny.
He said the poor sods in the trenches didn’t count for anything, if a shilling could be made from their suffering. And it was the same greed that made Cumberline so attractive to such men.”
“Was Evering also profiting from the war?”
“I have no idea. You’d have to ask Quarles. And he’s dead.” Penrith took out his watch. “I really must go. I have matters to attend to in my office.”
He held the door for Rutledge, and there was nothing for it but to thank Penrith and leave.
Rutledge drove to the Yard, and reported to Chief Superintendent Bowles, who appeared to be less than happy to hear there was a successful conclusion to the inquiry.
It was two hours later when Sergeant Gibson came to his office and said, “The Penrith in South Africa was born in Hampshire, his father lost his living there and went on to Sussex, where he didn’t prosper.
His son joined the army for lack of funds for a proper education, and served his time without distinction save for one heroic act—”
“—when the train was attacked. What else?”
“That’s the lot. He never went back to Sussex. Instead he made his way in the City, and most recently set up his own investment firm after leaving James, Quarles and Penrith.”
“And Quarles?”
“Almost the same story. Survived the attack, was badly injured, and didn’t go back to his unit until they were ready to sail. He was from Yorkshire, but like Penrith, settled in London. Both men served their time, and that was that.”
“All right, leave your report on my desk. A wild-goose chase.”