No Shred of Evidence: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery (2 page)

Hays shook his head. “Scotland Yard asked that as well. But there was nothing. On the desk in his room or in the wardrobe.”

Barrington had had a reputation for keeping his notes in his head until he could see the inquiry clearly enough to put them down on paper.

So. Rutledge was on his own with only the meager file that Chief Superintendent Markham had handed him.

He began by saying to Hays, “That’s not a Cornish name, is it? Hays?”

“My mother’s family was Cornish. My grandfather came down to Padstow on a matter of business to do with shipping, and never left.”

“Well, then, perhaps you can give me a picture of what happened here last week?”

Hays shook his head. “I didn’t know anything about it until the pub opened that evening, and everyone was talking about it. How Bradford Trevose had seen the four women struggling to drown Harry Saunders. Trevose was walking home from market and heard the commotion out on the river. It seemed to him they were trying to shove Harry’s head beneath the water, but he was strong enough to withstand the worst and was on the point of climbing into the boat when one of the women struck him over the head with an oar.”

“And Trevose accused them of attempting to murder Saunders.”

“That’s right. If he hadn’t come along, they’d have succeeded, and it would have been a murder charge, right enough.”

“But why should four young women from Padstow Place wish to kill a villager?”

Hays shrugged. “Who can say what was in their heads? Several people came forward later to say the women had rowed upriver looking for him, with no luck, then spotted him on their way back and took him aboard. I don’t know the truth of that, but they did pass by the Place’s landing.”

When he had finished speaking to Hays, Rutledge asked to see Inspector Barrington’s belongings, but the innkeeper was right, a cursory search showed there was nothing in them related to the case. They still smelled faintly of Barrington’s favorite cigars.

Rutledge was shutting the valise again when Hays added, “The clothes he was wearing when he died went with the body to the undertaker’s, thence to London. I put his shaving gear and the like into the valise.”

Rutledge thanked him for his help, and went to look for the constable.

It was a typically Cornish village, scattered along the river and up the gently sloping land behind it. The church and churchyard were on higher ground, circled by a low wall of the same dark granite stone. Along the water were two pubs, The Cornishman and The Pilot, and behind them a row of shops. The police station was at the end of the row, perfectly situated between the water and the rest of the town to deal with whatever trouble might arise, from drunken Saturday nights to housebreaking.

Rutledge left his motorcar at the inn and set out on foot, walking along the water for some twenty yards before he came to the village landing. Boats bobbed in the tide as wind rippled the gray surface of the water. For a moment he studied the view, giving himself a sense of what lay upstream and down, then he turned toward the police station.

Pendennis was the name on the board outside. He was in, sitting at a table reading through several papers, a broad man with dark hair and sharp brown eyes. He looked up as Rutledge came through the station’s door, and with a scowl said, “If you’re representing one of the young ladies, I’ve nothing more to say to you. The matter is still under investigation.”

“My name is Rutledge. From Scotland Yard. I take it you’ve had a lively time with the lawyers.”

Constable Pendennis rose from behind his desk, and gave Rutledge a wry grin. “Beg pardon, sir. We’ve been beleaguered of late. The families of the young ladies are understandably upset. I expect I’d feel much the same in their shoes. Still, it’s rained solicitors and barristers for days. I’m heartily sick of the sight of them. I tell them that I have nothing new to give them, that I was awaiting word from the Yard, but they don’t listen. I’m very glad you’re here to take charge.”

Rutledge moved out the chair on the far side of the desk and said as he sat down, “Who are they? The accused?”

“Miss Grenville and Miss St. Ives, local families, and two visitors come for the weekend. So I’m told. A Miss Langley and a Miss Gordon.”

He had known a Grenville at school. But from Devon, as he remembered, not Cornwall.

“Tell me, do
you
believe these women are guilty of attempted murder?”

Pendennis sighed. “I don’t know what to say, sir, and that’s the truth. Nor did Mr. Barrington, as far as that goes. Brad Trevose swears to what he saw. He tells me that if he hadn’t leapt into the water, cold as it was, and swum to the rowboat, Harry Saunders would be a dead man. There were witnesses down by the village landing as well, drawn by the cries of the women, but they were too far away to see what Trevose saw. They could tell there was a man clinging to the side of the boat, they could see two of the women leaning over that side. But whether they were intent on saving the man or killing him, there was no way to know.”

“And so the entire case rests on Trevose’s statement.”

“That’s right, sir. But he’s a man of good reputation, sound as they come. Why would he lie about what happened?”

“Good point. Where are the women now?”

“Not here in the station’s only cell, sir,” he exclaimed, as if Rutledge had suggested they might be in the castle dungeon, chained to the wall. “It’s not for the likes of them. Mr. Grenville, Miss Victoria’s father, has taken them into custody and kept them at the house. Padstow Place. He’s the local magistrate, sir. I thought he could be depended upon to keep his word.”

“And rightly so. Why was Scotland Yard called in?”

“The families of the young ladies felt that the Yard was necessary, to get at the truth. I don’t know which of their fathers it was. Any one of them might have done it, for they are all wealthy enough and respected enough for the Chief Constable to give them his ear.”

“Do you have the statements taken after the incident?”

“I gave them to Inspector Barrington, sir. He wanted to read them before each personal interview.”

“I have found nothing in his belongings about this case, and London had very little information as well.”

The constable’s expression was bleak. “Then I don’t know what to tell you, sir. Except that he didn’t seem well when he arrived. The Inspector. He said it was only a spot of indigestion from an undercooked pasty he’d bought in St. Austell when the train stopped there.”

Then where had Barrington put those statements—and any other information he might have come by, in his short tenure as the Yard’s man on the scene?

“I’ll start at the beginning, while a search is made for his papers. If need be, we can ask all the participants to give us a new statement.”

Pendennis was skeptical. “It’s not been done before. At least, not here. And they’ll have had time to think. Not the same as taking it down while they’re still uncertain.”

“We might not have much choice in the matter. Very well, I’ll start with the farmer. Trevose. Where can I find him?”

He was given directions and set out on foot.

The farm was tucked below the headland, the house upright and whitewashed, standing like a Neolithic stone on the landscape.

A line of washing hung to one side of the kitchen door, and Rutledge could just see the edge of a sheet flapping in the onshore wind. He had forgot how windy Cornwall could be, especially where the toe of Land’s End jutted out into the Atlantic. Even this far north and this far inland, it shaped the trees and the people.

There was an ornate brass knocker on the black-painted door, and as he lifted it, Rutledge wondered who had chosen to put it there, Trevose or his wife.

An older woman came to the door, her white hair setting off a wind-browned face and startling blue eyes.

“Who is it?” she asked, looking up at Rutledge. She came barely to his chest, diminutive and yet oddly forceful, as if by right.

“Mr. Trevose, please. Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard.”

She nodded. “They said someone was coming down from London. Step in, then.” He followed her into the front room of the house, where the horsehair furniture covered in a dark green fabric boasted antimacassars crocheted in intricate floral designs, like arbors full of roses. The carpet on the floor was worn but of good quality, and a low fire burned on the hearth, making the room feel slightly stuffy.

The woman offered Rutledge a seat and disappeared into the back regions of the house.

A few minutes later, Trevose walked in. He was dressed in corduroys and a flannel shirt, a well-set-up man of medium height with dark hair just showing flecks of gray at the temples. Rutledge thought he might have been quite handsome in his youth. He was still a striking man in his late thirties.

“Inspector Rutledge, is it?” He didn’t offer to shake hands, instead crossing the room to sit in the chair on the other side of the hearth. “They said someone would be coming down to replace Inspector Barrington.”

“And as I am new to the inquiry, I felt it would be best to start from the beginning and form my own opinions,” Rutledge answered pleasantly, neatly skirting the issue of the missing statements.

“Well, it’s all in what I wrote down for Constable Pendennis. But I’ve no objection to going over it again.”

He told his story briskly, and apparently objectively, withholding nothing.

“I was leaving the village on the river path when I saw the boat from Padstow Place. It was late in the year to be taking it out, and I saw there were four young women in it. That’s when I realized that two were half out of the boat, and my first thought was they’d taken a little dog with them and it had gone into the water. I stopped, and that’s when I saw that it was not a dog, it was a man’s head. His arms came up, as if trying to reach for the side of the boat, and the women were trying to push him away, back down again. That’s when the one in the bow dragged out an oar and hit the man over the head with it. I tore off my coat and kicked off my shoes, then jumped in. I’m a strong swimmer, even in cold water, and I reached the boat, swung myself into the well, and at that point, two of the women helped me pull the man into the bottom. I didn’t recognize him at first, I was too busy trying to pump the water out of him. Then I turned him over to see what damage that oar had done, and I could see he was unconscious, a bloody great gash across the top of his head. If I hadn’t been there, he’d have drowned. There’s no doubt about it. He couldn’t have fought to save himself, and they had only to hold his head under for a minute longer, and he’d have been a dead man.”

“Was the boat lying within sight of the village?”

“It was, and there were people on the landing, drawn to all the shouting. But at that distance, I doubt they could tell what was happening. Although there was no doubt about that oar.”

“What did the women say to you when the man, Harry Saunders, was breathing and you could pay attention to them?”

“One said, ‘Thank God, you’ve come,’ or words to that effect. But I made no bones about what I’d seen. I told them flat out that I knew they had tried to kill Saunders.”

“What was their response?”

“They began to deny it, speaking all at once. But I know what I saw.”

“What did you do then?”

“Both Saunders and I were wet to the skin, and two of the women were wet from the struggle by the side of the boat. I took the oars from them and pulled for the village landing. There were men waiting who took Saunders to the doctor, and I called for the constable. But he was already on his way, and I explained what I’d seen. He took the young women into custody and sent a boy to Padstow Place to let them know what had happened.”

“Did you know these young women?”

For the first time Trevose hesitated. “One of them is the daughter of the house. Victoria Grenville. Two were visitors, or so I was told. The fourth is Miss St. Ives, who lives just up the way from the Place.”

“The constable took them into custody. What did you do then?”

“I went to one of the pubs, where I stripped and dressed again in borrowed clothes while mine were drying in the kitchen. I walked down to the police station and Constable Pendennis took my statement. When that was done, I went home.”

“Did you see the young women again?”

“I did not. I presumed they were in the cell in the back. Although Grenville himself came down while I was still there at the station and told me what he thought of me for accusing his daughter of attempted murder. It was either knock him down or go, and so I went out the door and didn’t look back.”

“Is he a man of temper? Grenville?”

“Not as a rule,” Trevose said after a moment.

“And this is his only daughter?”

“That’s right.”

“Is there anything you’d like to add?” Rutledge asked.

“No. I did my duty as I saw it. There’s an end to it.”

“But why would Victoria Grenville, much less her three friends, want to kill this man Saunders?”

“I have no idea,” Trevose answered with more force than he’d intended. Moderating his voice, he added, “You’ll be asking them, I’m sure.”

“In the course of my investigations, yes,” Rutledge said. He rose. “Thank you, Mr. Trevose. I’ll be back in touch, if I have any further questions.”

“I’ll be here,” Trevose told him. “Or about the farm. Mrs. Penwith will tell you.”

The woman kept house for him, then. Rutledge had thought she might be this man’s mother or some other relation.

He left the farm, walking back to the village across the fields, his mind busy with what he’d learned from Trevose.

Had the man been overly quick to judge the situation? But if he hadn’t feared the worst, he would never have swum out to the boat. And possibly, whether the women had tried to kill Saunders or not, he could well have drowned simply because they were not strong enough to lift a fully clothed, wet man into the boat.

But what was Harry Saunders doing out there in the first place? Had he been in the boat with the women?

When he reached the river, Rutledge stopped to consider it. Somewhere very close to this spot, Trevose must have witnessed the struggle with Harry Saunders. He could see the village some distance away, where Trevose had come from. And it was clear enough that the farmer had been the only person who could have seen the events and rescued Harry Saunders.