No Shred of Evidence: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery (16 page)

He half expected Pendennis to ask if he himself had done the damage to the boat, to protect the four women.

But the man said, “Will you take me there? It’s too far to go on my bicycle.”

“Yes, I will do that. Now, if you like.”

“Now would be convenient, sir.”

They lashed the bicycle to the motorcar after all, and the constable got in beside Rutledge. They traveled to the village in silence, and Rutledge wondered if the constable was mulling over what he’d been told.

Dropping the bicycle at the police station, they set out for Padstow and the salvage yard.

As they were nearing their destination, the constable spoke for the first time. “It was deliberate? You are sure of it? And it happened before the—incident—on the water?”

“See for yourself.”

He left the motorcar where he had before, and they walked down to the salvage yard. It was busy, and one or two of the men at work there glanced up as they passed, their boots crunching in the wet sand where a boat had been pulled into drydock. On their way there, Rutledge had said, “You were aware where Saunders kept the dinghy?”

“I was, sir. I expect other people knew.” And then he stopped, as if he wished he’d bitten his tongue.

They reached the dinghy where it had been stored in an out-of-the-way corner and together turned it over. Pendennis clambered aboard, and Rutledge stood back, letting him find the damage for himself. Watching as the constable thoroughly examined the bottom of the boat, Rutledge had a sense of being observed, and he turned his head to look. The owner of the yard was standing some thirty paces away, watching, along with one of his men. Rutledge nodded to him.

Pendennis hoisted himself out of the boat, then said, “Could we turn her over again, sir?”

Together they got it hull up, and Pendennis went to look for the narrow holes. “How come he didn’t see this before he took her out? Harry Saunders was a careful sailor, from all reports.”

“I don’t know the answer to that. The yard owner suggested that some sort of filler was used, something that would disintegrate after being in the water. Clay, possibly, or bits of paper or wax stuffed back in. Or perhaps he was in a hurry, or had other things on his mind, and so he saw what he believed must be there—an intact hull. See for yourself. Did you spot them when you first walked up to the dinghy and we turned it over the first time?”

“No, sir. I was thinking, when first you told me, that something like an axe was taken to the planks. This work wasn’t meant to be visible, was it? But it was enough to let the boat sink in due course.”

“Precisely. Why put holes in the fabric of a boat? A warning, that someone had been here, and had damaged it, someone who had it in for you? But these were well hidden, so that in the course of your afternoon out, or halfway round to the Padstow docks, where your larger craft is anchored, you either swim for it or drown?”

“The young ladies took the boat out for pleasure, because it was a fair day. So they say. But maybe not so, maybe they wanted to watch Saunders drown.”

“How could they possibly be sure when next he was to take the dinghy out? And how could they know, putting the holes where they did in the fabric, that he wouldn’t go down sooner, on his way to Padstow? They aren’t experts in this, Pendennis. Do you think they would know when to be lying in wait?”

He shook his head. “It would be hard to say, precisely, where he set out to go, and how long he would stay afloat.”

“Then it’s possible, isn’t it, that the sinking of this dinghy was by design, and that the encounter was happenstance. No one was watching that day. The accused had only to let him drown. After all, there was no one else on the river, and these young women could claim that they hadn’t been able to reach him before he went down. Why pull him over to their boat and then hit him with an oar?”

“It still doesn’t clear them.”

“No. I agree. But it puts enough doubt in the picture to make me reluctant to send them to Bodmin Gaol. They’d just come down from London. When would they have had time to do this much damage? Even if they knew where to find the boat.”

“I dunno, sir. But I expect you’re right.” He looked down again at the dinghy. “But if it wasn’t the accused, who had it in for Harry Saunders?”

“I’d like to know that myself, Constable. And with any luck, we will.”

Pendennis turned to study the yard. “I wish I’d seen this straightaway, sir. Before I went to see Mr. Grenville this morning.”

“At the moment, the fewer people who are aware of this dinghy, the better, until I can sort it out.”

“I see, sir.”

But Rutledge wasn’t sure he did. Still, the constable appeared to be satisfied.

“I’ll drive you back to Heyl.”

The constable took one final look at the dinghy, as if still convincing himself of what he’d seen there, then followed Rutledge back to the motorcar.

“Know anything about the summer visitors who come here to let cottages?” Rutledge asked as he went to turn the crank.

“No, sir. They generally stay in the vicinity of Padstow. I know of them, and that’s about it. Over the years I doubt I’ve seen four or five in the village.”

“And the young woman who sometimes accompanied Saunders to St. Marina’s for Sunday service?”

“Was she from one of them?” Pendennis had opened the motorcar’s door and he stopped, staring at Rutledge. “I thought she was from Padstow. That he might have brought her down to the village to keep her out of his father’s or mother’s eye.” He shrugged. “They strike me as rather—” He groped for the right word, and failed. “He’s an only son. An only child. They would be particular about the company he kept.”

“Did you ever meet her?”

“Lord, no, he wouldn’t be likely to introduce us, would he?” Pendennis got in and shut the door. “Pretty little thing. Struck me as rather possessive, all the same. The way she’d hold his arm, as if afraid to let go.” Then the thought occurred to him. “You’re not saying that she had anything to do with the damage to the boat. Where was the cottage she was staying in?”

“Do you think she was strong enough to do that kind of work?” Rutledge countered.

“There’s that. But a jealous woman?” He shook his head. “They’re a force to be reckoned with, they are.”

“Keep this to yourself,” Rutledge warned again. “I haven’t even spoken to Grenville about it.”

That seemed to please the constable, and in a way appeared to assuage some of the sting of being told out of hand that there would be no formal arrest warrant.

They were nearly to the village. “Will you keep me informed of any progress?” Pendennis asked.

“I will. What will you tell Mr. and Mrs. Saunders?”

There was a deep sigh as the constable considered. “I dunno, sir. They won’t be happy, whatever I tell them.”

R
utledge waited until he had seen Constable Pendennis enter the police station and shut the door. Then he turned back the way they had just come.

It had been a risk, telling the constable so much about the boat. But one that it had been necessary to take.

Now that there was a murder charge, the families of the accused would send a phalanx of lawyers back to Heyl, intent on making certain the daughters they represented were protected. It would stir up animosity in some quarters, and if there was any inkling that there might be more to the case than they knew, the Londoners would muddy the waters for the police. He had seen it before.

But there was nothing he could do about it now. The one good thing, he told himself, was that the families would be as eager to keep the press out of Cornwall as he was. Unless or until it was in their best interests to look for public support.

He left the motorcar in what was fast becoming its accustomed place, and walked past the first two cottages, staring out at the river as it broadened toward the Doom Bar. And then, as casually as he could, he turned and walked back toward the only cottage that was still occupied.

Before he could knock, the white-haired man he’d spoken to before opened the door with a smile.

“I thought you might be back. Thinking of letting one of them, are you?” He gestured toward the vacant cottages, then invited Rutledge in, offering him a chair.

“It’s possible,” he agreed. “Tell me, what sort of neighbors would I have, if I chose to spend the summer here? It’s rather isolated. I wouldn’t want to find myself with people I wouldn’t care for.”

“Mostly families from London,” the man said. “I think I told you. A young couple in that first cottage. Celebrating a second wedding anniversary, I was told. They spent most of their first summer here just walking, the two of them. I expect he’d been in the war, and they were getting to know each other again. I think they like being alone out here. Or perhaps he needs to get away from the city’s bustle.”

“What does he do there? If he can spend his summers here?”

“He’s writing a book, his wife told me. I thought it might be a memoir of the war, but she said it was about Africa. He grew up there, it seems. Lots of famous people in the book, she said, and he knew them all.”

“And in the second house?”

“A pair of spinster sisters.”

“Then they’ll be coming back?”

“No. They left a note saying that they wouldn’t be returning.”

“And the young woman? Where did she live?”

“A young woman?” He shook his head. “Do you mean the wife?”

“I understood there was a young woman who spent much of the past summer here. Alone or with her family.”

“You must be thinking about another cottage for let.” He rose. “Now I’ve a few repairs to make, if you’ll pardon me for rushing you off.”

“Do you own the cottages? Or do you act for the person who does?”

“That needn’t concern you, sir, if you’ll forgive me for saying so. If it’s too soon to decide, as you say.”

Rutledge stood and allowed himself to be ushered toward the door. “Tell me about the spinsters.”

“Two women in their sixties, I believe. Two sisters. Former schoolmistresses, I should think.”

Rutledge thanked him, and left.

It was odd, he thought, walking back to the motorcar, that the man knew so many details about the young couple, but almost nothing about the spinsters. They might have chosen to keep themselves to themselves. Or he could be lying, and they didn’t exist.

But why lie?

He went into Padstow with an eye to finding an estate agent who could tell him more about the cottages and even provide the names of the people who had let the first two during the past summer.

An hour later, Rutledge found what he was after. The cheerful man behind the desk smiled and said, ‘”You must mean Frank Dunbar’s cottages. I wouldn’t mind taking him on as a client, but he manages quite well on his own. Puts advertisements in London newspapers in the early spring, and usually has someone in both houses by the start of May. He never lets the third. Prefers to live there himself despite the money he would make.”

“Do you know anything about the people who let his cottages?”

“Nothing at all.”

“What sort of advertisements does he run?”

“Very simple ones.
Out-of-the-way private cottages on the River Camel, looking for quiet people seeking a peaceful summer
. That sort of thing. The truth is, I think I could get far more money for them. Artists, writers. People like that are willing to pay well for privacy and inspiration.”

“I thought artists preferred the light along the southern coast.”

The man shrugged. “Those who want to be noticed, yes. It’s the famous ones seeking privacy I’d like to attract.”

Leaving the office and returning to his motorcar, Rutledge wondered who precisely this young woman was. The vicar’s cousin? Someone who cared for Harry Saunders and had been disappointed in love? Or someone more sinister? She might well have been from Padstow or even Rock, not the cottages.

The vicar had protected her. She had clung to Saunders, but he had not always stayed for services. Hardly the behavior of a lover. Dunbar was adamant that she had not let one of his cottages.

Then what was her connection to the damaged dinghy? Had she been back since September, openly or secretly? Or was she across the river in Rock, and had never left Cornwall?

Rutledge would have given much to know the answer to that.

I
n his room Rutledge wrote a letter to Sergeant Gibson, querying what he might know about the death of a young footman on St. Michael’s Mount, and what he might know about Trevose and the Saunders family. Then he went to find Corporal Dixon and asked him to post the letter for him in London.

“Dull reports,” he said with a shrug, making light of their importance. This was Major Gordon’s driver, after all. “But necessary, or I’ll have someone from the Yard breathing down my back.”

Dixon laughed. “Better you than me.”

Passing Reception, Rutledge was given a note asking him to call on Constable Pendennis as soon as he returned to Heyl village. Rutledge walked on to the police station. Pendennis was just eating his lunch, a large meat pasty. Flakes of crust were caught on his chin as he looked up.

Swallowing with the help of a bottle of Cornish cider, he said, “A telegram for you. Came just after I’d walked in the door. Where have you been?”

“Wandering around Padstow,” Rutledge answered. “I needed to think.” He took the telegram the constable was holding out and quickly realized that it was from the Yard. Markham wanting to know what progress he was making. Sergeant Gibson had sent it, indicating that Markham had asked a rhetorical question and this was interpreted as a need for information soonest.

Rutledge folded the sheet, returned it to the envelope, and put them in his pocket. “The Yard,” he said briefly as Pendennis stared up at him, waiting to hear the contents.

There was no telegraph office closer than Padstow.

“I’ll respond tomorrow.” With a nod, he left the station and walked back to the inn.

He was just stepping into Reception when a motorcar very like his own pulled up at the door, and someone called his name.

Rutledge turned to see Harry Saunders’s father getting out.