Todd, Charles by A Matter of Justice Page A

breakfast? If so, you'd do better speaking to the cook than to Mr. Hunter."
    "It's to do with last evening."
    She raised her brows at that, and without another word disappeared through the door into the lounge.
    It was twenty minutes before the manager arrived, freshly shaven and dressed for morning services.
    Rutledge introduced himself, and said, "It's a confidential matter."
    "About one of our guests?" Hunter was a quiet man with weak eyes, peering at Rutledge as if he couldn't see him clearly. There were scars around them, and Rutledge guessed he'd been gassed in the war. "I hope there's nothing amiss."
    "Do you keep a list of those who dine here each evening?"
    Hunter said, "Not as such. We have a list of those we're expecting, and which table they prefer. And of course a copy of the accounts paid by each party. The cook keeps a record of orders."
    "Were you here last evening?"
    "Yes, I was. Saturday evenings are generally busy." He glanced at the elderly couple. "Er—perhaps we should continue this conversation in my office."
    Rutledge followed him there. Hunter kept his quarters Spartan. There were accounts on a cabinet beside his desk, ledgers on the shelves behind it, and a half dozen letters on his blotter. Nothing personal decorated the desk's top, the cabinet, or the shelves. The only incongruous piece was the glass figure of a donkey, about three inches high, standing on the square table by the door.
    Hunter sat down and reached for a large magnifying glass that he kept in his drawer. With it poised in one hand, he asked, "Who is it you are enquiring about?"
    "Harold Quarles."
    Hunter put down the glass. "Ah. I can tell you he didn't dine with us last evening." He frowned. "Were you told otherwise?"
    "We aren't sure where he took his dinner. The hotel was the most logical place to begin. "
    "Yes, certainly. Er, perhaps his wife or staff might be more useful than I?"
    "They have no idea where he went when he left the house. Except to dine somewhere close by."
    "And you haven't seen Mr. Quarles to ask him?"
    "He's not at home at present."
    Rutledge got a straight look. "What exactly is it you're asking me, Mr. Rutledge?"
    Rutledge smiled. "It's no matter. If he wasn't here, he wasn't here." He rose. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Hunter."
    "I saw Mr. Quarles last evening. But not here. Not at the hotel." Rutledge stopped. "At what time?"
    "It was close on to ten-thirty. Most of our dinner guests had left, and I stepped outside to take a breath of fresh air. I was looking up the High Street—in the opposite direction from Hallowfields, you see— and I heard raised voices. That's not usual in Cambury, but it was a Saturday night, and sometimes the men who frequent The Black Pudding go home in rowdy spirits. I stood there for a moment, in the event there was trouble, but nothing happened. No one else spoke, there was nothing more to disturb the night. As I was about to go inside, I heard footsteps coming briskly from Minton Street, and I saw Harold Quarles turning the corner into the High."
    "Minton Street?"
    "It's just past us, where you see the stationer's on the corner."
    "Where does Minton Street lead?"
    "There are mostly houses in that direction."
    "No other place to dine, except in a private home?"
    "That's right."
    "And Mr. Quarles continued to walk past the hotel, as far as you know?"
    Hunter said, "I had shut the door before he reached the hotel. I'm not on good terms with the man."
    "Indeed?"
    "He was drunk and disorderly in the dining room last spring. There was a scene, and I had to ask him to leave. It was embarrassing to me and to the hotel—and should have been to him as well. I haven't spoken to him since."
    Padgett had said nothing about Hunter's encounter. He hadn't named the manager at all.
    "Yes, I see that it would be uncomfortable. And so you have no way of knowing where Quarles went from Minton Street?"
    "None." It was firmly spoken, his eyes holding Rutledge's.
    "And he was alone? On