He raced toward the farm, watching the scene play out like a drama on a stage. Masters was close now to what appeared to be a blue gown, and he was reaching out, trying to drag it nearer, then trying to right the figure as it began to lash out wildly.
It was a woman, and she wasn’t trying to cling to her rescuers, she was struggling to free herself. Rutledge, out of breath, got to the water’s edge just as Masters succeeded in dragging the woman to shallower depths.
It was Betty Richards, the elderly woman who had served Quarles, and in his name tried to destroy the bakery.
Her hair was down, gray streaked and straggling, half covering her face, and she was crying, trails of tears spreading into the muddy stream running from her hair and into her eyes.
Masters, his breathing tumultuous, was shaking her, demanding to know in broken sentences what the hell she thought she was doing.
Rutledge said, “She was trying to drown herself, man. Get her inside and fetch some blankets. Tea as well, and towels to dry her hair.”
Masters let her go, turning to Rutledge. “What are you doing here?
I thought you’d found your killer.”
“In more ways than one.” He reached out and put a hand on Betty’s shoulder, comforting her as best he could.
“There was nothing else I could do,” she said, sobbing into the wet skirt she held to her face. “I had nowhere else to go, nothing left.”
Rutledge asked sharply, “Did Mrs. Quarles give you notice?”
She tried to shake her head but her hair was a heavy mass down her back. “It was Mrs. Downing. She said they’d be cutting back staff now, and I’d not be needed any longer. Mr. Archer told her I could take care of his rooms. But she said it would be up to Mrs. Quarles, and I mustn’t hold out any hope.”
Rutledge swore. Hadn’t they read the will? Hadn’t they seen the bequest to this poor wretch?
As if in answer, Betty said, “Mrs. Downing never liked it that I wasn’t under her. But I wasn’t and never was meant to be. She was told that from the start.”
Mrs. Masters had come with blankets and they wrapped Betty in them as water ran from her clothes and she began to shiver. Rutledge let Mrs. Masters take over, guiding Betty toward her kitchen, making soothing noises.
Masters said, “I never liked that woman.”
“Betty?”
“Not Betty, I hardly knew her. No, Mrs. Downing. She creeps around the house, listening at doors and spreading gossip. I don’t know how Mrs. Quarles can stand her.”
“I don’t think she sees that side of her housekeeper. Will Betty be all right with your wife?” He watched Mrs. Masters close the kitchen door behind them.
“She’ll see that Betty is taken care of. I’ve half a mind to take her on myself, to get her out of Mrs. Downing’s clutches. But I don’t need more staff.”
“Then you might spread a little gossip of your own. Harold Quarles left a sizeable bequest to that housemaid. She’ll never want for anything again.”
“Why on earth should he do that?”
“I don’t know. But I think Mrs. Downing might. I’ll have a word with her.”
Rutledge walked back the way he’d come, and leaving the motorcar where it was, he went on to the house and knocked again at the door.
Mrs. Downing opened it to him, and he stepped inside before she could prevent him.
“Has there been a reading of the will?” he asked, and her eyes flickered.
“It was read privately. The staff wasn’t invited to hear. Afterward, we were told by Mrs. Quarles how we were to be provided for.”
“Was nothing said to you about a bequest to the woman who had served Mr. Quarles by taking care of his rooms?”
“Not to me. I wasn’t told anything at all.”
“But you overheard something, didn’t you? When Mrs. Quarles spoke privately to Betty.”
“She never did—”
Rutledge said, “Bring her down here to me. I want to speak to Mrs.
Quarles.”
“I can’t—”
But he ignored her and called Mrs. Quarles’s name. She came to the top of the stairs, her face flushed with her anger. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Come down here, or I’ll come up there.”
Without a word, she came down the stairs and walked past him to the small sitting room. He followed.
“What is it you want?” She stood there, cold and straight, as if nothing more could touch her.
“There was a bequest in your husband’s will. To the housemaid who looked after him. Betty Richards.”
“What business is that of yours?”
“She was never told, after the will was read. I want to know why.”
“I didn’t think it was an appropriate bequest. She’s not capable of handling that much money—”
“Tell me the truth. Or I’ll see to it that you’re taken into Cambury police station for theft.”
“It’s not theft,” she retorted. “It’s my husband’s money—”
“And he left it to that woman.”
“That woman, as you put it, is his widowed sister. He kept her here as a maid, and let the world think he was kind to take her on. But he did it to keep the rest of us out of his rooms and his affairs. He knew he could trust her. She’s not fit to be my son’s aunt, and I won’t have her in this house any longer.”
“Then give her the money he left to her, and let her go.”
“For all I care, she can starve. She’s a Quarles and I hate them all!”
She went past him out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
Any sympathy he’d felt for her had vanished. He pulled open the door and called to Mrs. Downing.
“You’ll pack Betty Richard’s things and send them to Cambury to the house of Miss O’Hara. She’ll be staying there until someone from the solicitor’s office can be summoned. I want them there within the hour, do you hear me?”
Mrs. Downing said, “I’ll see to it—”
But he was out the door. As he looked back at the house on his way to his motorcar, he saw a face staring at him from the window. A boy, he realized, in Harold Quarles’s rooms.
It was Marcus Quarles, a bewildered, frightened expression on his face.
Rutledge drove to the Home Farm and asked Tom Masters and his wife to send Betty Richards to Cambury as soon as she’d recovered.
“She’s sleeping now, poor thing,” Mrs. Masters told him. “Let her rest. It will be soon enough to take her there tomorrow.”
“You may find yourself in trouble if you take her in,” he warned.
“I’ll go ahead and tell Miss O’Hara that she’s to have a guest.”
Miss O’Hara frowned when he told her. “I’m not a boardinghouse.
But if you insist, then I’ll keep her safe.”
“She won’t be staying long. You’ll be hearing from Mr. Hurley. A solicitor. He’ll have instructions for her.”
“Yes, well, that may be. You owe me another dinner, then.”
Rutledge smiled. “I’ll remember.”
He didn’t stop at the police station. He had nothing to say to Inspector Padgett. But on his way to speak to Miss O’Hara, he’d noticed the board outside St. Martin’s Church.
Someone had covered the name of MICHAEL BRUNSWICK, ORGANIST.
In London, Rutledge went directly to the house of Davis Penrith.
He said to the man as he was shown into the study, “You have lied to me more times than I care to count. About your father. About Quarles. About Evering. I know about South Africa now. Almost the entire story.”
“You can’t possibly know.”
“About Evering burning alive? About the wounded who were shot?
About the fact that you never turned Quarles in to the authorities?”
“I had no proof!”
“Of course you did. You knew how many wounded there were, or you’d have never walked across the veldt alone to find help. You and Quarles would have left that train together to find help, because there was nothing the Boers wanted from it then. But he stayed behind. I want to know why.”