No Shred of Evidence: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery (18 page)

When it did, it was going to be difficult to disentangle the other three women from the repercussions of what she had done.

There was not much he could do to change that fact.

And then, out of nowhere, came a new direction.

12

F
rom the vicarage Rutledge went into Padstow, intending to send his response to the Yard.

He worded it carefully, that response, for he didn’t want to hear later that it had been twisted out of context.

Inquiry proceeding. Have not located original statements to compare with later ones. Families have arranged for counsel. They are not without influence. Meanwhile, there is one piece of evidence that so far can’t be explained. Early resolution expected.

It also told the eager telegrapher nothing in the way of useful gossip. He had all but snatched the sheet from Rutledge’s hand, once he discovered the message was addressed to Scotland Yard.

Rutledge walked on to the harbor, looking out at the larger craft that had belonged to Harry Saunders. After studying it for a time, he engaged a boatman to take him out to it.

The wind off the estuary was strong, and Rutledge had had to remove his hat or else watch it sail away onto the water.

When he reached the
Sea Lion,
it was swinging at anchor, sleek in the watery sunlight with sails furled and covered with canvas, the paint in good condition, and everything tidily in its place. He went up the rope ladder dangling over the side, and swung himself onto the deck.

It was as if the owner had just walked away. Rutledge went over it with care, from the small cabin to the wheelhouse, and then down to where there was a good-size engine. From there he found his way into the bilge, but if someone had tried to damage this boat, Rutledge was unable to find any signs of it.

But why risk interfering with this boat, where you might well be seen from the harbor, when damaging the dinghy had served just as well? The summer visitors were gone from where it was kept, and there was only one cottage still occupied. Easy enough to wait until one man had left for the day, and you could take your time with the task. And the waterman who had taken Rutledge out to the
Sea
Lion
confirmed that the dinghy was the usual way Saunders reached the larger craft.

“Only once did he ever use one of us, and that was the first day, when he took ownership. He brought the dinghy back in three hours later, and soon after found a place to bring it ashore.” The waterman grinned, scratching a grizzled chin. “The bank overlooks the water, you know. He wouldn’t want to be seen playing truant, now would he?”

Rutledge agreed, and when he was taken back to the harbor, he paid the old man his fee, then crouched on the harbor wall just above him and asked a last question.

“Anyone else wanting to be taken out to her? Before Saunders had his accident, perhaps.”

The man shook his head. “Nay. If he wanted friends to come aboard, he rowed them out himself. But it wasn’t a boat for that sort of thing. There was never any gossip about that. A quiet sort, Saunders. Not one for carrying on. I’ll say that for him.”

“Did he ever bring a young woman here to see her?” He gestured to the boat.

“Nay. Not that I ever heard. And he’d be a fool to take her aboard, now wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t do much for
her
reputation, without a maid or a brother or the like to play chaperone.”

“You liked Saunders, I take it?”

“I did. He didn’t choose himself a fancy craft to lord it over the rest of us. He got one he could handle himself. And he never needed the lifeboat out to rescue him. As have some who shall not be named.”

“Any trouble in Padstow with someone tampering with boats?”

“Tampering? Never heard of any such foolishness.”

Rutledge thanked him again, rose, and with a last look out beyond the harbor at the mast of Saunders’s boat, walked back to where he’d left his motorcar.

One more detail dealt with. He toyed with the idea of running out to the cottage again, but it could tell him nothing more. And the dinghy couldn’t speak, confiding to him who had done such damage.

Pausing briefly at the salvage yard, he asked the owner to return the dinghy to its usual mooring. Constable Pendennis and the owner of the yard were now his witnesses to what had been done to it. Better to let the person who had made the holes wonder if they’d been discovered. Then he went to fetch his motorcar.

He needed to question Trevose again, but he knew that was not likely to give him a straightforward answer. The time would be better spent interviewing Sara Langley or Victoria herself. Preferably in that order.

Coming into the village, Rutledge noticed that people were collecting near the entrance to the police station, standing there staring, and there was a carriage pulled up just beyond, a small boy holding tightly to the reins and rubbing the nose of the horse.

His first thought was that in his absence Pendennis had managed to bring in the accused.

He threaded his way through the crowd and left the motorcar at the inn, then ran lightly back to the station. Heads turned again as he approached, eyes wide with curiosity and alarm.

Making his way to the door of the station, he stepped inside. “What’s happened?” he called to the constable. “Why are there so many people outside there?”

From where he was standing in the passage, Pendennis pointed toward the single cell at the end of the corridor. “The doctor’s with him now. One of the Terlew lads, taking the cow back to pasture, found him when one of the dogs began scratching at the underbrush around an old stone. He was lying there. It doesn’t look good.”

“He?” Rutledge asked, rapidly readjusting his first concern. “Who is it?”

“Vicar.”

“But I saw him. Not an hour or more ago. He was on his way to call on a parishioner.” The man had been upset. “What is it? His heart?”

Pendennis shook his head. “He was set upon. Savagely beaten.”

“The
vicar
?” Rutledge asked. “By whom?”

“Nobody knows. Doctor says he won’t be telling us anytime soon. He’s unconscious still. And having trouble breathing. Broken ribs, Doctor says. It’s a good thing the lad didn’t try to move him. And his mother didn’t know what to do. She sent the lad to me, and a half dozen of us went out and brought him back on a stretcher. He’s lost a lot of blood, Doctor says. Some of it internally.”

Rutledge thanked him, and walked on down to the cell. Dr. Carrick was working on the man lying still on the prisoner’s cot. His shirt was off, and the doctor, with the help of another man, was wrapping his ribs with tape. Then the doctor moved to one side, to look at a leg, and Rutledge saw the vicar’s face.

It was bloody, swollen, unrecognizable. Rutledge drew in a breath. He had seldom seen such a savage beating.

The leg was broken. They began to splint it while Toup was still unconscious, then moved on to an arm. But it wasn’t broken, just badly bruised, a muscle torn.

Rutledge waited until Dr. Carrick straightened his back, looking down at his patient while taking a break.

“Who did this, do you know?” Rutledge asked quietly. “Has he spoken?”

Carrick shook his head. “Not even when the boy found him. He’s not said a word that anyone knows of. He ought to be dead. He’s a frail man to begin with.”

“How many, do you think? How many did it take to do this?”

“No idea. But I’d start looking, if I were you. He wasn’t robbed. And he was wearing his collar. Whoever it was knew he was a priest. Whoever it was is dangerous.”

“Quite,” Rutledge said grimly, and turned to leave.

Carrick stopped him. “He couldn’t have crawled far. If he could crawl at all. You might find the weapon there. If you don’t, then I’d put a curfew on this village.”

With Pendennis at his side, Rutledge went out to speak to the growing crowd of onlookers gathered around the entrance to the station.

He was bombarded with questions about the vicar’s condition.

“Dr. Carrick is still examining him. His injuries are quite severe. I want to see your hands. Hold them up, all of you.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the men in the crowd did just that, and people turned to look at the hands thrust forward.

Rutledge examined them one at a time, but he found no bruising, only the calloused palms of men who worked for a living.

“Very good. Now I want volunteers to fan out in groups of three or four, searching for whoever did this. He may be armed with something, we don’t know yet. But he will have bloody hands, blood on his clothes. If he’s already washed them, or changed his clothing, examine his knuckles for bruising, and his tools for blood. If he’s suspicious at all, bring him to me and let me question him. You know the countryside; you’re the ones who will find a hiding place I might overlook or speak to someone who has noticed a stranger. If it isn’t a stranger, it’s one of you. Knock on every door. Look at any male over the age of twelve. Be certain you’ve missed no one, the man in the byre, the lad bringing in the cows for milking, the farmer working in the field. Ask if anyone has been behaving strangely. But hear this, and I will brook no argument about it. If you find him—or them—you will bring whoever it is to me. Whole, and untouched. I want to see if the vicar fought back. I want to see the evidence for myself. And if you batter this suspect, I will have no proof of anything but your stupidity. I want this man, I want him badly. But Vicar would tell you that he must be taken into custody and tried. And I agree with that. Let a judge decide his fate, not set him free because of what one of us has done. Do I make myself clear?”

There was a growl of agreement. And then the men in the crowd began counting themselves off in groups of four or five, debating among themselves just where each would search. Rutledge watched them sort themselves out. Pendennis circulated among them, coordinating the search. Some of them might have been Chapel men, but they all knew Toup, and they were all for finding who had done this to him. Then with a nod toward Rutledge, they set off.

He had little hope of their finding the person or persons who had attacked the vicar, but these men could search a wider area faster than he could, and search it more thoroughly. It was the only chance he had.

One of the women still standing there in front of him said, “What can we do?”

“Sandwiches,” another put in. “And tea. They’ll be hungry and dry when they get back.”

“The Pilot,” another said. “They’ll be coming in there first.”

And a dozen of the women hurried away to see to it.

The rest began to move on, whispering among themselves as they went, dismay still there in their faces.

“Even the most desperate criminal wouldn’t have attacked Vicar,” the constable was saying. “He’d have given them whatever they wanted.”

Then who had?

Rutledge turned to Pendennis. “Show me where he was found.”

They set out on foot, and soon began to pick out across the scrubland and the fields small groups of men searching.

“They won’t find anybody,” Pendennis said, echoing his own thought.

“Probably not. But a search had to be made. Did Toup have any enemies?”

“ ’Course not. He was Vicar.”

“Then who would attack him?”

“How do I know? A prisoner, escaped from Bodmin Moor?”

“It would only serve to give him away. No.”

“If Vicar knew him, and could tell me where he was?”

It was possible. And just now, there was nothing else to go on.

The stone where the vicar had been found looked to be the stump of an ancient cross, or even part of an ancient circle. It was some twenty feet off the narrow path where cattle followed the same route day in and day out to their pasture. Out of the way, no house to overlook the spot.

There was blood at the base of the rough plinth. Toup had bled quite a bit before he was discovered. To one side lay his gold pince-nez, one of the lenses missing. Casting about, Rutledge found the lens some four or five feet away. Collecting both pieces, he put them into his pocket.

The constable swore under his breath. “Bastard,” he said, more loudly.

Rutledge continued to search for anything that might have been used for a weapon, but in the high grass, already trampled nearer the stone where men had come to bring in the unconscious man, there was nothing large enough except for more stones. And such a beating would have required something more easily grasped than a stone.

He widened his circle, and about five yards away he found a ragged scrap of dusty cloth caught in a thornbush about shoulder high. It was black, and he thought at first it had been torn from the vicar’s coat or trousers, but when he looked at it more closely, he saw that it was a thin, very cheap cotton. How long had it been there, hooked by the thorn? The black dye was slightly faded, beginning to brown. But that was not a good indication of anything but the age of the fabric.

He gently pulled it free and put it in his pocket. Another bit of cloth, he thought wryly, and just as useless.

He widened his search again. And at last, nearer the path some twenty feet farther on, he found what he was seeking.

It was a cudgel, about five feet long and nearly two inches thick, rough wood smoothed by time. The sort of thing a countryman or a walker might use to make the going easier. It had been broken, but not in two, some splinters still holding the halves together. And there was blood all over one end of it.

He hadn’t used his hands. Whoever he was.

And he’d had no choice but to rid himself of this, flinging it as far away as he could in his haste to be gone.

Rutledge crouched beside it, studying it. He could see where it must have struck the stone where the vicar had been discovered. Toup must have stumbled toward it in the first seconds of the attack, desperate to escape the sudden, brutal blows. He couldn’t have gone far with that broken leg, Rutledge thought. That must surely have been the last blow.

“Over here,” he called to the constable.

Pendennis came at a trot, then looked down at the cudgel. “Almighty God,” he said under his breath. “Who could do such a thing to an unarmed man? A man of the cloth?”

The questions weren’t asked of Rutledge. Pendennis turned, made it as far as a small clump of grass five feet away, and bent over, vomiting.

Rutledge gave him time to recover, then picked up the cudgel.