No Shred of Evidence: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery (17 page)

“You are a hard man to find,” the elder Saunders said, catching him up.

Letting the jibe go, he led the way to the tiny parlor, all the inn boasted in the way of privacy, and offered Saunders a seat.

“I’ll stand. My mission is brief. Why have you not brought those young women in to gaol, where they belong?”

“Do they?” Rutledge asked. “I haven’t completed my inquiry into the death of your son. The facts may alter before I’m finished.”

“How can they? My son’s death is directly connected to what happened to him at the hands of four women. Trevose has made it plain enough: attempted murder. And now that my son is dead, it’s murder.”

Rutledge asked with interest, “Do you know any of those who are accused of your son’s death? Victoria Grenville, for one. Do you know her?”

“I know her father; I may have met her from time to time. I can’t immediately recall when.”

“Elaine St. Ives.”

“The same, and to save you the trouble of asking, I have never to my knowledge met the other two.”

“Your son knew two of them. Were there any other young women in his life?”

“None. His mother or I would have known. We had high hopes. And he was young, the war hardly over. Time enough to wed.”

“Why did his boat sink, do you know?” The change of subject caught Saunders unaware.

“I have been sitting at his bedside for days. Hoping, praying for his safe return to us. There has been no time to think or do anything other than offer him what comfort we could. Do you have any idea what that’s like, sir? An only child, one’s son.” There was anguish in his eyes, and bitterness. “He was to follow me in the bank. And his son after him. And now there’s nothing. No future, nothing. A gravestone in the churchyard.”

“I am so sorry for your loss, sir, but as I must find out who is responsible, I must ask these questions. Among the answers will be information that will help me satisfy you and your wife about how your son died.” His voice was gentle. It was always difficult to interview the bereaved, but there was no one who knew the victim better.

“You know who is responsible. I don’t understand why you are still
investigating
.” His emphasis made it sound like an improper word.

“All the facts aren’t in. I have not found Inspector Barrington’s notes, and so I have had to begin at the beginning, as it were. Would you have me arrest the wrong person? Do you know, for instance, if all four of the women in that boat intended to see your son dead?”

“I can only surmise that they must have been in collusion. One wielded the oar. The others tried to hold his head under. It’s what Trevose has told us in his statement.”

“Elaine St. Ives was on the other side of the rowboat.”

“Yes, balancing the craft so that it didn’t overturn.”

“But not trying to murder anyone.”

“Come now, man, in a boat that small, she had to be aware of what was happening. And she did nothing to stop it.”

“Did your son have enemies, sir? Is there anyone who might have wished him ill?”

“Good God, Inspector, you have four examples before you now. How many others must you find?”

“Why were they enemies? These four examples. What transpired between your son and the young women, to make them turn to murder?”

It was clear from his shock that Saunders hadn’t thought about the four accused as anything other than his son’s killers. Why they should have been enemies hadn’t occurred to him.

“I must assume there was something between them. These four and my son.”

“Did he mention them at home? To you or to his mother? Was he interested in courting one of them? Victoria Grenville for one would have been a satisfactory match, if not a very fine one.”

“Harry had his own flat. He had his friends. He never spoke to me of women in his life. He had just come back from the war—he needed time to settle. To decide what to do with his future.”

He had been in Washington, in America, far from the battlefields. But it was clear that having their only child back with them had meant much to Mr. and Mrs. Saunders. It was they who needed time to get to know him again, and to feel safe with him at home again.

“Who were his particular friends?”

“One of them, Walter Poltruan, was killed in France. Ypres. The St. Ives boy came home in sad shape. Although I wouldn’t call him a particular friend. And there was Sandy Wade. His father’s the doctor in Rock. He himself lives in Padstow.”

“Can you tell me where?”

Saunders gave him the direction, then seemed to recollect what had brought him to the village. He turned and sat down very heavily in the nearest chair, uncomfortable by the looks of its straight back, as if he had outrun his strength. “I fail to understand why all this is necessary,” he said querulously. “You ask questions as if my son is responsible for his own death. Do you doubt what you have been told, Inspector? If you do, then explain to me, if you will, how my son has died.”

Rutledge took the chair opposite him, one in dark green upholstery that matched the drapes at the single window.

“Your son died of a bleeding in the brain, according to Dr. Carrick. I am not questioning that. What I can’t understand is why that dinghy sank under him. He was a good sailor, was he not?”

“Yes, from an early age. He would have gone into the Navy, if he’d had a choice, I think. He loved the water.”

“Experienced, then. And he kept his crafts seaworthy?”

“Of course he did. He understood that it was necessary. For that matter, he took pride in them. Every weekend he would find a little time to work on the
Sea Lion
. His mother often teased him about caring more for that boat than he did for either of us. It was not true, of course, but he would laugh and reassure her that he loved her as well.”

“And yet the dinghy foundered, throwing him into the water. Could he have swum ashore, if the four women hadn’t come up at that moment?”

“I don’t know. I—he was not a strong swimmer.”

“He could have drowned, within sight of shore?”

“Yes, yes, I expect so. But he didn’t. He was killed by that woman sitting in the bow, the one with the oar. She deliberately struck him in the head.”

“If she had wanted to kill him—if any of those four women had wanted Harry Saunders to die—why not simply let him drown when his boat sank?”

Saunders stared at him.

“They were four women. They might have failed to reach him in time. People would have praised them for trying, but your son would have been just as dead. It would have taken some time to find his body.”

The older man got to his feet as if he’d been stung.

“What sort of policeman are you, Inspector?” He seemed at a loss for words for a full three or four seconds, and then he said, “Have you been bribed, to find a way to prevent those four women from paying for what they have done? I will hear no more of this. I will not listen to you. I refuse to hear another word.”

And with that he made for the door like a hunted man, flinging it open and leaving it standing wide as he rushed through Reception and out to his motorcar. In his distress he had trouble cranking it, and he leaned his head on the bonnet for a moment, his eyes shut, too distraught to start his vehicle.

Rutledge, who had followed him out, said quietly, “Let me take you home. You can send for the motorcar later.”

Saunders raised his head. “I wouldn’t allow you to drive me anywhere.”

This time the motor caught, and he got behind the wheel, almost leaping forward as he mismanaged the clutch. And then he turned away and was gone, on his way to Padstow.

Rutledge watched him out of sight. There would be no help from that quarter, any more than there would be from Trevose. But Saunders, he thought, had better reasons for hating.

He turned and walked into the inn. The way the clerk behind the desk looked at him made him wonder if their voices had carried that far. But there was nothing he could do about it.

He had missed his lunch and would miss his dinner. He took the stairs two at a time, spent five minutes in his room trying to clear his mind. And then he turned and left the room, intending to drive to Padstow and interview Sandy Wade.

11

I
t was not difficult finding the house where Wade lived. It was on a street of small bungalows, many of them late Victorian.

No one answered his door, and so Rutledge waited for Wade to come home.

Two hours later, a young man with very fair hair and a slim build came down the street whistling to himself, and turned into the path to the door.

Rutledge got out, calling his name, and Wade turned, surprised.

“Do I know you?” he asked, frowning.

“Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard. I understand you were a close friend of Harry Saunders?”

“I was,” he answered warily.

Rutledge said, “I’d like to speak to you about him. His parents, understandably, are not able to talk to me.”

“I should think not,” Wade said. “Hard enough for me, to realize he’s dead. All right, come in.”

Rutledge followed him inside. The front room was comfortable, a mixture of older pieces, possibly from his parents’ attic, and newer pieces he must have purchased when he moved in.

He gestured to a chair, and sat down himself after a moment. “What is it you’d like to know?”

“About Harry. His war. His friends. His boats. What he was like as a person.”

“Kind, thoughtful. A good friend. He loved those boats. As for his war, he was always uncomfortable talking about it. He’d been in the States, and except for a harrowing experience going over when his ship was torpedoed, he saw no real fighting. Several friends we had in common died in France. I was wounded three times. When we sat around of an evening telling stories, he had little to say. But that wasn’t his fault—being sent to America. We were hoping the Yanks would come in sooner, but it took the sinking of a liner to bring that about. Harry was supposed to find ways to encourage them to think of England as an ally. Over a hundred years since Yorktown, barely that since the burning of Washington. But we had common interests, a common language, heritage. A good many American fliers came over to fight for the French. Well, you must know that. And more than a few Yanks went to Canada to join up. But a drop in the bucket to what we needed. He said once that he had had a letter from his mother describing the difficulty planning a decent meal, and he’s been dining out on the best beef available. It worried him.”

“Not enough to take his own life?”

“God, no, he did his duty. What was asked of him. He knew that. Hell, someone had to do it. It happened to be Saunders.”

“His friends?”

“We lost a good few, Harry and I,” Wade answered tersely.

“Was he thinking about marriage? Was there a particular young woman he fancied?”

“If there was, he didn’t tell me. He flirted sometimes with Victoria Grenville. He liked her, come to that. But he knew a banker couldn’t aspire that high.”

“Elaine St. Ives?”

“He was fond of her. She’s a very sweet girl. I’ve met her once or twice, when I was in the village. Harry liked her in a different way. Her brother had been badly wounded, her fiancé killed. Harry felt rather protective toward her.”

“There was someone he was seeing over the summer.”

Wade got up and walked to the window, standing with his back to the room. “I don’t know where you heard that. There was no one that I know of.”

“Are you lying to me?”

Wade turned. “Why should I lie?” He took a deep breath. “I don’t think Harry was ready to marry. His father wanted him to follow him in the bank, but Harry wasn’t sure about that. They nearly had words a time or two.”

“What did he want to do?”

Wade shrugged eloquently. “I don’t think he knew. A good many of us came home restless, uncertain about the future. My father wanted me to follow him into medicine. But I’ve seen enough torn bodies to last me a lifetime. A dozen lifetimes.” He gestured to the room around them. “A bequest from my grandmother. It gives me breathing space until I know where I’d fit in.”

“Why do you think his boat sank under him?”

“That’s a mystery,” Wade declared. “But I’ve also been told that he was already in the boat with the women. That he’d joined them in their outing on the Camel.”

“Where was he going that Saturday afternoon? Do you know?”

“I don’t, and that’s the truth. He’d said something on Thursday about intending to call on a friend. He said it was past time.”

“Who was this friend?”

“He didn’t tell me. Afterward I wondered if he meant Miss Grenville. After I’d heard he was in their boat.”

But Saunders hadn’t been in the Grenville boat, according to the four women.

“Could it have been George St. Ives?” He’d been on the terrace that afternoon, but had not returned his sister’s wave.

“St. Ives? I doubt it. He’s made it fairly clear he doesn’t want to see anyone from the past. But Harry knew him better than I did. He might not have taken no for an answer.”

And it was a fine day. Saunders might have hoped to find St. Ives in the garden, or even on the terrace. A casual encounter.
Just passing, and I saw you there . . .
Easier than calling at the house and being turned away.

Speculation, but entirely possible.

“Where were you that afternoon?”

Wade grinned sheepishly. “Under the weather. I’d got drunk the night before at a bachelor’s party.”

“Was Harry at the party?”

Wade shook his head. “Across the river, in Rock. This was a man I’d gon
e
to school with. I don’t usually drink that much, but we got onto the war, and it was tempting to forget. Although it doesn’t help, does it? Trying to forget. Were you in France? You must have been. You have the bearing of an officer.”

Rutledge smiled grimly. “The Somme.”

“Then I don’t need to tell you why I drank more than I should.”

But Rutledge had never turned to alcohol. He’d been afraid to, having seen too many drunken men still wearing parts of their uniforms mixed with civilian clothes, stumbling along the streets, mumbling to themselves, oblivious of any of the staring people trying to avoid them.

As if he’d heard the words, Wade said, “I was rather ashamed of myself in the morning, and the hangover didn’t do much for my self-esteem either. I expect that was the third time I’d sought to forget in a bottle. In two years. I’ve been ashamed of that too.”

“Why won’t anyone tell me about the young woman Harry Saunders escorted to services at St. Marina’s?”

Wade looked away. “Possibly,” he said, “because she doesn’t exist.”

“But she does. Mr. Toup, the vicar, has already warned me off the subject.”

Wade rose. “Then perhaps he knows best. Thank you for coming, Inspector. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I have an engagement for the evening.”

And he was politely ushered out of the house.

Who was this mystery woman? She existed, although no one would talk about her. And did she have anything to do with Saunders’s death? She had only been in Cornwall for the summer. A few months at best.

He was back to his theory of jealousy. Although he still found it impossible to picture Victoria Grenville working so carefully to make the holes in Harry Saunders’s boat. She would have been more likely to take an axe to it.

Hamish, who had been quiet for some time, said, “Aye. But she wielded yon oar with devastating results. And she hadna’ wished to rescue the lad in the first place.”

If it came down to the fact that Victoria had deliberately killed Saunders, and it could be proven beyond a doubt, where did that leave Kate and the other two women?

The question bedeviled him all the way back to the village.

B
efore going to bed, Rutledge made another search for Barrington’s notes, but he was coming to the conclusion that the man hadn’t been here long enough to put down on paper any of the observations and information he’d collected. But original interviews were missing as well, and that was far more troubling.

Come to that, he thought wryly, he himself had only jotted down whatever he thought pertinent, but it was a start, enough to write his report when the time came.

He lay in the comfortable bed, an arm beneath his head, staring at the ceiling and trying to shut out the voice of Hamish MacLeod.

How important was the damage to the dinghy to this particular case? Had any other boats in the vicinity suffered like damage? Was it a pattern of vandalism that pointed in an entirely different direction?

Or if it was specific to the dinghy, was it a first attempt to kill Harry Saunders? And because he had been too busy—or the weather had been too unpromising—to take out a boat, nothing had happened. But when the dinghy did go down, it wasn’t out at sea, and there was rescue at hand. Had one of the occupants of the Grenville rowing boat realized that another, far more desperate attempt must be made? And that would point strongly to Victoria Grenville. She was rather headstrong, but would she be that concerned if Harry Saunders’s attentions had turned in another direction? Or if she thought he had flirted with her to cover the true direction his affections had taken?

But the other young woman had left Cornwall, and apparently nothing had come of any relationship with Saunders over the summer.

Then why was everyone unwilling to talk about her?

He could think of several reasons—she was married, in which case he couldn’t quite see Harry Saunders, with his upbringing, dallying with her. She was someone of importance, seeking a summer away from her usual life and duties. But he didn’t know of any royal princesses, English or European, who might choose a desolate coast of Cornwall as a retreat from their routines. There was one other circumstance that might account for someone needing a few weeks of quiet and rest to regain her strength: a severe illness. That could explain the reluctance to talk about her.

Rutledge didn’t know of any current cases of Spanish flu to account for that as a possibility. Tuberculosis? He remembered something he’d been told, that the young woman in question had clung to Harry Saunders and seemed reluctant to meet or chat with other people. For fear, in her still delicate state, of picking up a chill or other infection?

“Ye havna’ considered a young widow,” Hamish suggested from a corner of the room.

“No one has mentioned that she wore black. But it would mean that the square of cloth I found wouldn’t have belonged to her. That’s worth looking into.”

The next morning he went to speak to the vicar again.

Toup was just leaving the vicarage, and he said at once, as he opened the door to Rutledge, “Can it wait? I’ve promised a parishioner I’d call.”

“I’ve come to ask a question. It won’t take very long.”

Wary, the vicar studied him. “What is it?” he asked after a moment.

“The young woman who came to services with Harry Saunders. Was she a widow?”

“Good God, what put that into your head? You’re making much out of nothing. She was a summer visitor, no more than that, and Harry was kind enough to escort her to services a time or two. My own duties prevented me from fetching her myself.”

But it had been more than a time or two.

“Had she been ill?”

Exasperated, the vicar said, “All right, if you must know, she had lost her mother in rather sad circumstances, and she thought a change of scene might help her in her bereavement. Is there anything criminal in that? I’d been asked to respect her privacy. She wasn’t up to social calls, nor was she eager to entertain. She just wanted to escape from a houseful of memories for a little while. Now I must go.”

“Then how did Harry meet her?”

“We can’t discuss this matter on the doorstep. It’s unseemly.” He led Rutledge into the parlor, offered him a seat, but stood himself by the hearth, as if this would of necessity not take much longer. “The cottage she let for the summer is where he kept his boat. The small one, the dinghy.”

If Harry had simply done her a kindness, it would explain why he had asked his friends not to talk about her or speculate on an attachment. Certainly he wouldn’t have wished his parents to get wind of someone in particular. And it probably explained why they had come to services here, and not in Padstow, where she would have been an object of interest in the company of an eligible young bachelor. Or even encountered his parents.

“I am concerned because the dinghy that belonged to Saunders, the one kept just below that cottage, had been seriously tampered with, enough so that the next time he took it out, it sank under him. That was when Victoria Grenville and her friends claim to have tried to rescue him.”

The vicar’s exasperation disappeared in a look of sheer alarm. “But my cousin left just before the first of September. Thereabouts. Harry has been out in the dinghy since then. I’ve seen him myself. Who could have done such a thing?
Why?
”

“Would Victoria Grenville have done something like that out of sheer jealousy?”

“My God, I can’t imagine that she would even have
thought
of such an act. She’s always had her pick of beaux.”

“Precisely my point. If Harry had been among them, and then a stranger had tried to take him away from her, she might have wanted to teach him a lesson. Not knowing how dangerous it could be.” But he thought she would have known. From the start.

“No, no, this is ridiculous, Inspector. And it would do immeasurable harm even to speculate on such a suggestion.” Toup was as agitated as Rutledge had ever seen him. “It was all a dreadful accident. It must have been, Trevose notwithstanding.” He turned. “Really, I must attend to my parishioner. I refuse even to give these speculations my attention.”

He was ushering Rutledge out the door, distracted and upset. “I must be on my way,” he said again, closing the door behind them. And with a nod, he was gone.

Rutledge watched him walk away.

Something was unsettling the vicar. He didn’t know what it was.

He wondered if the living at St. Marina was in the gift of the Grenville family. If that was the case, it was likely that Toup was torn between his duty to the law and his concern for the family that had brought him here.

Rutledge could see this inquiry ending with Victoria being tried as a murderess. A clever KC could connect her to the dinghy’s holes, and when that attempt to kill Saunders had failed, when her friends had happened on the scene and wanted to rush to Saunders’s aid, it could be claimed that she had resorted to the oar. Right or wrong, it could easily happen.