Todd, Charles by A Matter of Justice Read Free Book Online Page B

to sleep, but finally he took himself off to bed, with a small whiskey and the voice of Hamish MacLeod for company.
    When someone knocked at Maitland's door shortly after midnight, Rutledge came awake with a start. He fumbled for his dressing gown and slippers, then went to answer the summons.
    At first sight of the grim-faced uniformed constable standing on the doorstep, he thought, Oh, dear God, Edgar insisted on driving all the way—and there's been a crash. And then the next thought, Pray God they aren't hurt badly!
    He could feel the presence of Hamish, stark and loud in his ears as he said, "Good evening, Constable. Not bad news, I hope!"
    And waited to hear the worst.
    But the middle-aged man standing there in the quiet night air asked, "Mr. Rutledge, sir?"
    "Yes, I'm Rutledge. What is it, man?"
    "There's been a telephone call from London. Chief Superintendent Bowles, sir. He says you're the nearest man to the scene and would you return his call at the Yard straightaway."
    Relief washed over him.
    "Let me find my shoes and a coat."
    He went back up the stairs to the guest room, leaving the constable standing in the hall, waiting for him.
    When Chief Superintendent Bowles wanted a man, it paid to be prompt. Throwing his coat on over his pajamas and thrusting his bare feet into the shoes he'd worn for the wedding, he wasted no time wondering about the summons. Closest to the scene generally meant that Bowles had little choice in the matter of which man to send and was putting speed before preference.
    He helped the constable lash his bicycle to the boot of the motorcar rather than the rear seat, unwilling in the dark to risk finding Hamish in what always seemed to be his accustomed place, just behind Rutledge's shoulder. It was a silent drive down to Dunster; the air was warm and heavy, the stars vanished. The only sign of life they saw was a hare bounding off into the high grass by the road.
    The constable commented as they reached the town's outskirts, "Easier coming down by motorcar than peddling up as I did on that confounded bicycle."
    Dunster's streets were quiet, the police station's lights almost blinding as Rutledge stepped through the door. It was five minutes after the connection was made before Bowles's voice came booming down the line. "In Somerset, are you?"
    "Yes, sir. I took several days' leave," he reminded the chief superintendent. "For a friend's wedding. I'll be back in London on Monday."
    "Indeed. Well, there's a change in plan. You're to go at once to Cambury. It's just south of Glastonbury, I'm told. The local man is on the scene already, and he's handing the case over to us. You're the closest inspector I've got to Cambury. By my reckoning you can be there in three hours or less."
    "Why is he asking for our help at this early stage?"
    "A man's been killed. Name of Quarles. His place of business is in Leadenhall Street here in London. His country house is in Somerset, and apparently he'd come down for the weekend. Ghastly business, I can't think why anyone would wish to do such a thing, but there you are. They're expecting you, see that you don't dally!"
    "No, sir—"
    But Bowles had cut the connection and the line was dead.

6
    Rutledge closed up Maitland's house, left a note for Edgar regarding the sheets the laundress wouldn't be able to collect with the door locked, then took his luggage out to his motorcar. He thought ruefully that evening dress and casual attire would hardly be what Cambury was expecting, but it was all he had with him.
    A lowlying mist had crept in on the heels of the warm air, wreathing the night in a soft veil that threw the light from his headlamps back in his face and from time to time made the road seem to vanish into a white void.
    He was given directions to Cambury by the police in Dunster and found that the road was fairly good most of the distance. "It's a village that's outgrown itself," the constable had said, "and much like Dunster in its own way. Though we have