diamond in the rough, as they say. If he hadn't managed that, they'd have turned their back on him. You know the nobs, they sometimes like brutal honesty. Makes them feel superior."
"But he must have also had the ability to make money for his clients, or they wouldn't have kept him very long. Rough diamond or not."
"I expect that's true." Padgett stood up with an air of duty done. "I'm asleep on my feet. I'm going home. You'll want at least an hour or two of sleep yourself."
Rutledge put away his notebook. "I'll be back here by twelve o'clock."
"Make that one."
They walked out together, and Padgett turned the other way, with a wave of the hand.
9
Rutledge could see The Unicorn from where he stood. It was a small hotel graced by a pedimented door and narrow balconies at the windows of the floors above. A drive led to the yard behind. He turned in there and went through the quiet side passage that opened into Reception.
At the large mahogany desk set in one corner, a young man was busy with a sheaf of papers, tallying the figures in the last columns. He put his work aside as he heard Rutledge's footsteps approaching and greeted him with a smile.
"Are you the guest Constable Daniels told us to expect?"
"I am."
The clerk turned the book around for his signature. "We're pleased to have you here, Inspector. The constable mentioned that there'd been a spot of trouble up at Hallowfields."
"Yes," Rutledge answered, signing his name and pocketing the key. The clerk was on the point of asking more questions, but Rutledge cut him short with a pleasant thank-you and turned away, picking up his valise as he crossed to the stairway.
The hotel had probably been a family home at some time, possibly a town house or a dowager house. The curving stairs to one side of Reception were elegant, with beautifully carved balustrades. Giving radiant light from above was an oval skylight set with a stained glass medallion of a unicorn, his head in the lap of a young woman in a blue gown, her long fair hair falling down her back in cascading tendrils. As romantic as any pre-Raphaelite painting, it must have given the house and subsequently the hotel its name.
His room was down the passage on the first floor and overlooked the High Street. Long windows opened into a pair of those narrow balconies Rutledge had noticed from the police station, the sun already warm on the railings. He was pleased to see that he'd been given such large accommodations, with those two double windows, their starched white curtains ruffled by the early morning breeze. He needn't fight claustrophobia as well as Padgett.
Hamish said, "Given to the puir policeman no doot to curry favor with them at Hallowfields?"
"Absolutely," Rutledge returned with a smile. "Which suggests the hotel is where he came to dine last night."
Hamish chuckled. "Aye, ye'll be sharing the scullery maid's quarters when the word is out he's deid and ye're no' likely to drop a good word in his ear about The Unicorn."
It was true—policemen on the premises more often than not were kept out of sight as far as possible, to prevent disturbing hotel guests. Which signified that word of the murder had not preceded Rutledge to the hotel, only the news that Quarles had business with him.
He sighed as he considered the comfortable bed, then set his valise inside the armoire and went down to ask about breakfast.
The dining room was nearly empty.
There was an elderly couple in a corner eating in silence, as if missing their morning newspapers here in the wilds of Somerset. There was a distinct air of having said all that needed to be said to each other over the years and a determination not to be the first to break into speech, even to ask for the salt.
And a balding man of perhaps forty-five sat alone by the window, his head in a book.
Rutledge ate his meal and then asked to speak to The Unicorn's manager. The elderly woman waiting tables inquired bluntly, "Was there anything wrong with your
"But he must have also had the ability to make money for his clients, or they wouldn't have kept him very long. Rough diamond or not."
"I expect that's true." Padgett stood up with an air of duty done. "I'm asleep on my feet. I'm going home. You'll want at least an hour or two of sleep yourself."
Rutledge put away his notebook. "I'll be back here by twelve o'clock."
"Make that one."
They walked out together, and Padgett turned the other way, with a wave of the hand.
9
Rutledge could see The Unicorn from where he stood. It was a small hotel graced by a pedimented door and narrow balconies at the windows of the floors above. A drive led to the yard behind. He turned in there and went through the quiet side passage that opened into Reception.
At the large mahogany desk set in one corner, a young man was busy with a sheaf of papers, tallying the figures in the last columns. He put his work aside as he heard Rutledge's footsteps approaching and greeted him with a smile.
"Are you the guest Constable Daniels told us to expect?"
"I am."
The clerk turned the book around for his signature. "We're pleased to have you here, Inspector. The constable mentioned that there'd been a spot of trouble up at Hallowfields."
"Yes," Rutledge answered, signing his name and pocketing the key. The clerk was on the point of asking more questions, but Rutledge cut him short with a pleasant thank-you and turned away, picking up his valise as he crossed to the stairway.
The hotel had probably been a family home at some time, possibly a town house or a dowager house. The curving stairs to one side of Reception were elegant, with beautifully carved balustrades. Giving radiant light from above was an oval skylight set with a stained glass medallion of a unicorn, his head in the lap of a young woman in a blue gown, her long fair hair falling down her back in cascading tendrils. As romantic as any pre-Raphaelite painting, it must have given the house and subsequently the hotel its name.
His room was down the passage on the first floor and overlooked the High Street. Long windows opened into a pair of those narrow balconies Rutledge had noticed from the police station, the sun already warm on the railings. He was pleased to see that he'd been given such large accommodations, with those two double windows, their starched white curtains ruffled by the early morning breeze. He needn't fight claustrophobia as well as Padgett.
Hamish said, "Given to the puir policeman no doot to curry favor with them at Hallowfields?"
"Absolutely," Rutledge returned with a smile. "Which suggests the hotel is where he came to dine last night."
Hamish chuckled. "Aye, ye'll be sharing the scullery maid's quarters when the word is out he's deid and ye're no' likely to drop a good word in his ear about The Unicorn."
It was true—policemen on the premises more often than not were kept out of sight as far as possible, to prevent disturbing hotel guests. Which signified that word of the murder had not preceded Rutledge to the hotel, only the news that Quarles had business with him.
He sighed as he considered the comfortable bed, then set his valise inside the armoire and went down to ask about breakfast.
The dining room was nearly empty.
There was an elderly couple in a corner eating in silence, as if missing their morning newspapers here in the wilds of Somerset. There was a distinct air of having said all that needed to be said to each other over the years and a determination not to be the first to break into speech, even to ask for the salt.
And a balding man of perhaps forty-five sat alone by the window, his head in a book.
Rutledge ate his meal and then asked to speak to The Unicorn's manager. The elderly woman waiting tables inquired bluntly, "Was there anything wrong with your
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