No Shred of Evidence: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery (26 page)

“Good God.” Rutledge was out of his chair, on his way to the door. “Was there a weapon found near him?”

“I don’t believe so, Inspector. But I’ve not seen the full report.”

Rutledge didn’t wait to hear him out. He was out the door, on his way to the harbor. He had no trouble finding the alley. The usual cluster of onlookers marked the place. As Rutledge came closer he could see that it was no more than a narrow space between the two buildings on either side, running up to the streets above and dark most of the day. He thought it might have been used by merchants hurrying to meet a ship sighted in the roads or fishermen’s families coming to meet the boats and help unload the catch.

The smell of sour beer greeted him before he’d turned into the opening. Halfway along a body lay propped against one wall. Carstairs was standing over it, talking to someone.

“Here!” A constable rushed toward him, to stop him.

“Rutledge, Scotland Yard,” he called, and went on into the dim shadows. The pavement was puddled, scattered windblown debris caught in cracks of the cobblestones and against the sides of the buildings rising overhead. A sad place to die.

Carstairs looked up as he approached. “I thought I told the constable to keep the alley clear, damn it.” And then he recognized Rutledge. “What the hell brings you here?”

“I was at the Dunbar cottage earlier, waiting for him. I thought he’d gone into Padstow and would be returning sooner rather than later. But he never came.”

“We’re waiting for Carrick, damn his eyes. He should have been here by now.”

“He’s got a surgery full of ill patients. What happened here?”

“See for yourself.”

Rutledge walked closer to the old man’s body and squatted for a better look.

At the same time Carstairs leaned over and lifted the man’s hat.

His face and head were bloody, his hands as well, where he had tried to defend himself. From the look of his coat, he’d died lying down, but had been propped up afterward to give the semblance of a drunken man slouched against the wall. It was filthy, and spattered with Dunbar’s blood, already dark and drawing flies.

“He’s been dead some time,” Rutledge commented, reaching out to touch his swollen face.

“He went to his bank yesterday just before it closed. We’ve determined that much. His pockets are empty now. But he’d taken out ten pounds.”

“At his age, someone could have robbed him without beating him like this,” Rutledge pointed out.

“I’ve asked for torches. But God knows what we’ll find in the filth underfoot here. Nothing of use, I’ll be bound.” His anger got the best of him. “Damn it, he was a harmless man who eked a living out of letting those cottages of his. Never any trouble, mind you. I’d run into him from time to time when he came into town, and he always had a good word. The weather was fine, his latest visitors were pleasant, he’d heard birdsong or seen a flower in bloom on his way in, or there was a new boat in. Something. Even if it was pounding rain, he thought it might be good for the crops.”

“Know anything about the people who came to let his cottages?”

“Families, mostly, or older couples looking for an inexpensive outing to Cornwall. Never any trouble, either. Paid up on time, lived quietly, came and went without fuss. No rowdiness or the like. We were never called out there for any reason that I remember. If you were desperate, he’d make you a loan. If you couldn’t pay it back, he’d wait patiently for it.”

Someone came just then with torches, and in their garish light, Dunbar’s injuries were even more ghastly.

Rutledge and the constable held the torches while Carstairs scoured the alley for clues of any kind. There appeared to be none. And then Carrick was there: he spent five minutes examining the body, and straightened up.

“I’ll know what killed him when I have him on the table. Hard to say what blows there were to the body. That one head wound,” he added, pointing where a flap of scalp had been torn loose, “is also a possible cause. Have him brought around.” He wiped his hands on his handkerchief. With a nod to Carstairs, but not to Rutledge, he was gone.

The constable’s torch swung in an arc as he stepped back to allow the doctor to pass. And that was when Rutledge saw it.

“Here—shine the light by Dunbar’s right hand.”

“Where?”

“Just by his thigh. On his right side.”

Carstairs turned to look as well as the constable, who steadied his torch on the spot Rutledge had indicated.

Something had been scraped into the scum that covered the pavement. It was hard to read—or even to be sure it was anything more than a dying man’s twitches.

Rutledge backed up against the wall beside Dunbar’s body, and tried to work out the scratches.

“
W,
” he said after a moment. “And I think that’s an
A. R
? And an
N.
Then something I can’t decipher.”

Carstairs said, “Let me try.” He took Rutledge’s place. “I don’t see any letters. You’re imagining—no wait, move the torch a bit—no, this way. Yes, that’s a
W,
I’d accept that.” He studied the ground beside Dunbar. “Good God, he must not have been dead when he was propped up against that wall.
WARN
—what’s the rest of it?”

“He didn’t finish it. He tried. I can’t make out the next line.
B
?
P
?
F
? The rest is unintelligible.”

“He lived alone. I don’t know that he had any immediate family. You said you were there at the cottage this morning. Anything wrong?”

“Nothing as far as I could see. No one came to the door.”

“Hmmmm.” It was more a grunt than a response. “Why were you there?”

“We’d spoken, Dunbar and I. Earlier. It was where Saunders kept his boat.”

Carstairs gestured. “That’s not an
R.
I’m not sure what it is, but I don’t believe he was about to write
Rutledge
.”

“No.” Rutledge moved away from the wall. “I will leave you to deal with this. If there’s anything I can do, you have only to ask.”

Carstairs smiled. It was more like a grimace in the torchlight. Curled lips over clenched teeth. “I think we can manage.”

With a nod, Rutledge left. He was eager to be away from that dank, dim, claustrophobic alley with the smell of urine and beer and death. And he didn’t want to be there when—if—Carstairs recognized the similarities between the two beatings, Dunbar and the vicar.

Besides, with Dunbar dead and the police occupied with his murder, there was no one to prevent him from letting himself into the cottage, to look for anything that might be useful. Or anything to do with a
P,
a
B,
or an
F.

Rutledge stopped short at the mouth of the alley, and turned. “Carstairs. Has anyone reported the theft of a Hobby Horse costume?”

“A what?” Carstairs stared at him as if he’d run mad. Padstow’s Hobby Horse festival was in the spring. “Can’t you see I have a murder inquiry on my hands?”

“The attack on the vicar of St. Marina’s. I have reason to believe whoever it was, he was wearing a disguise.”

Carstairs took several steps toward him. “Funny, that. A fortnight ago I think it was, two lads on their way home from school saw a man pull what appeared to be one out of a dustbin. One was my sergeant’s son, that’s how I got wind of it. They reported it, mainly because I think they’d have liked to be the ones who saw it first. Nothing came of it. Still. Vicar would have recognized the costume for what it was.”

“Yes, of course. The point of it would have been to hide the face of his attacker. Do you think the lads could identify the man they saw?”

“I doubt it. A fortnight ago? At the time they could hardly agree on what he looked like. They were more interested in the possibility of recovering the costume for themselves. The black cloth is cheap and doesn’t last long as a rule, although the masks are often passed down. My sergeant did question the householder to be sure he’d disposed of it, and he had. Something about a crack in the mask. If you want my opinion, it’s a jealous man looking to improve his own costume by copying the discarded one. Ah, there are the men with the stretchers. And about time, damn it.”

Rutledge thanked him, and made way for the stretcher bearers.

He walked briskly back to his motorcar, his mind busy with the initials. Whatever had driven the dying man, he had fought to stay alive long enough to leave a message. Not a clue to his killer, but a warning to someone.

For whom?

He ran through a mental list of everyone he’d met in Heyl village.

All right, he thought, if not whom, then why?

And he had no better answer for that.

The one name he couldn’t check against the three initials was that of the young woman who had, according to Carstairs, lived in that middle cottage, just above the boat landing where the dinghy was usually beached.

Did Dunbar know his killer? Or did he know what it was his killer wanted? Two very different questions.

Rutledge turned the crank, got in, and drove sedately out of Padstow, following the gray walls and the dry leaves blowing in the light wind. As soon as he reached the main road out toward the headland, he picked up speed, moving as fast as he felt he safely could.

But it was already too late.

He could smell the smoke long before he reached the cottages, but he put that down to people clearing out their gardens before winter set in. It wasn’t until he had rounded the last bend in the road that he saw the flames.

Dunbar’s cottage was already engulfed. There was no hope of saving it. What’s more, the flying sparks had caught in the roof of the next cottage. He could see smoke there now.

But it wasn’t a spark that sent up a column of smoke. That cottage too had been set alight.

The old wood burned fast and well.

He got out and ran to see if anyone was around. If somewhere the arsonist waited to watch the end of his handiwork. With Hamish raging in the back of his mind, he searched even under the landing, anywhere a man—or woman—might hide.

But there was no one on that lonely strand of beach other than Rutledge himself and the distressed seagulls overhead. Nor had he met anyone on the road here. Or found footsteps he could identify with any certainty. Dunbar’s? Someone else’s?

The ceiling collapsed on Dunbar’s cottage as the beams burned through, the roof following in a crescendo of sparks and flame and smoke.

Helplessly he watched, and the second cottage was not far behind now. The ceiling fell in with almost a human shriek as the beams went.

It took more than half an hour for the cottages to be reduced to smoldering, blackened rubble, where flames shot up here and there as they found something new to feed on.

Warn . . . warn who? The question ran over and over in his mind.

When it was finished, he went back to his motorcar, reversed it, and left. There was nothing to be done, and Carstairs would discover what had happened soon enough. Someone in Padstow must surely have seen the column of black smoke by now. If he, Rutledge, reported it in Padstow, there would be questions to do with his presence so soon after the fires had begun. To do with why he had gone directly from the alley where Dunbar’s body still lay to those cottages on the strand. And he didn’t have time to explain.

Better to let sleeping dogs lie.

He set out in the direction of Padstow, was relieved to pass it by without encountering anyone else on the road, not even a police constable headed for the cottages. When he reached the village, he stopped briefly at the inn to pack what he needed. And then with a fresh Thermos of tea, he was on his way to Wadebridge, and from there he took the road south.

He didn’t think he would find what he was looking for in Fowey, but it was the only clue he had.

And at the moment, any clue would be better than what he possessed now.

With only Hamish for company, he began his long drive through the darkness of Cornwall.

17

I
t was very late when he arrived in Fowey. He’d had to stop for petrol and again for his dinner, and the great white bulk of the hotel, gleaming in the starlight, was dark.

He pulled into the drive that ran down to the hotel, got out, stretched his tired shoulders, and then walked around to the door that led into Reception.

No one was there, but he found the bell sitting next to the lamp and rang it.

After a time, a drowsy clerk came out of the inner regions and asked if he was looking for a room. It was asked in a dubious tone of voice, as if the hotel was full up. But when Rutledge told him that he was, the man nodded and went to pull the ledger out of a drawer and set it up where Rutledge could sign his name.

“The kitchen is closed, the staff working there lives down in the village, I’m afraid. But I could manage a cup of tea.”

“Thank you. I’ll be all right.”

The man looked on the board for keys and selected one. “It doesn’t face the water, that’s extra,” he said tentatively.

“Then I’ll have one with a view,” Rutledge said.

That key was put back and another chosen, then Rutledge was being led to the stairs and a room that was well aired and of a good size.

He took the key from the clerk, thanked him, and went to the windows. The hotel was high on the hillside above the town. He looked down on rooftops and gardens all the way to the church tower, and beyond that lay the water. At the far end it opened to the sea, and in the upper reaches it was nearly hidden from view by trees closing in on the banks. Across the way were other houses, most of them dark, but the ambient light glimmered on the water.

He took in a deep breath of sea air, then went to bed.

The problem that faced him over breakfast in the lovely dining room with its open windows, the white curtains catching the slight breeze, was how to approach the question he needed to ask. The hotel was well filled even at this time of year. How many guests had there been over the last one or two years?

“A needle in a haystack” was Hamish’s comment.

When breakfast was over, he asked to speak to the manager and was taken to a small but handsome office down the passage.

The manager was an older man, middle height, thin, and already balding. He welcomed Rutledge with a smile, asking what he could do for him.

“It’s a police matter,” he began. “There was a young woman who rented a cottage just outside Padstow over the summer. She left in September, and the forwarding address in London that she gave to the local vicar has been sold. I have no reason to believe that this young woman is in any way involved in anything untoward, but there has been a death in Padstow, and I have a strong feeling that she might be in danger now.”

“What makes you believe she is here in Fowey?”

“There was a cutting from a magazine. It featured Fowey and this hotel.”

“But that was a year ago, if I’m right in assuming which magazine carried that particular piece.”

“Perhaps she was here then. I am hoping you can give me a name.”

“You don’t even know her name?” the manager—the small sign on his desk identified him as Tolworthy—asked in astonishment. “How on earth do you expect to find someone whose name you don’t know and whose whereabouts are so uncertain?”

“I was hoping you could help me.”

“Dozens of people come to this hotel each week. Many of them to stay, others are here for luncheon or dinner. How can I possibly know which one you mean?”

“I have a feeling she’s from London, that there was some misunderstanding over the address. She is quiet, keeps to herself, makes few friends, and prefers her solitude. I’ve been told she’s dark rather than fair, and quite attractive. She is careful to give away little information about herself, and I expect she stays only a short time if other guests become inquisitive about her.”

Tolworthy blinked. “She just left!”

“What? You know who she is?”

“She had been here through September and into October, giving out that she had been ill for some time and had come here where it was quiet, to recover. But she said she was from Leicestershire. The address she gave when she arrived was most certainly Leicester. And I recall a comment she made about the cathedral there.”

The vicar had said she was from Norfolk.

“Where did she go from here? Has anyone else come to ask for her?”

“I have no idea where she went. And you are the first to inquire about her.”

It must be the same woman, Rutledge thought. Chary with information about herself, moving on when she became wary . . . leaving no forwarding address behind, and lying about her home.

“Will you tell me her name?”

Tolworthy opened a drawer and took out an oak filing box, sorting through the cards inside until he found what he wanted.

“Margaret Eleanor Avery Haverford.”

His heart sank. Where was the
P
or the
B
or the
F
?

Hamish said, “If she has given a false address, why not a false name?”

And Rutledge realized that Hamish was right. Why lie about one if not the other?

“When did she leave?”

“A fortnight ago.”

“Was she traveling alone?”

“Yes, she told me her parents had died in the influenza epidemic. But she seemed to be quite accustomed to traveling by herself. She managed her arrival here and her departure with equal assurance.”

Because she had learned to manage both. But for how long had she been doing this? And what was she running from?

“I have told you that she has committed no crime. But I know very little about her. Were there any problems during her stay here in Fowey? Any indication that she might not be the person she claims to be?”

“Not Miss Haverford. I would find that very hard to believe, Inspector. I have spoken to her on numerous occasions. She is a fine young woman.”

And yet she had very likely lied about her name and her place of residence.

“As you say. I’m worried for her safety, nonetheless. And if you are concealing anything from me, I want to know.”

“May I see your identification, sir?”

Rutledge handed it to him.

“Yes, Scotland Yard. She did not trust me with her plans. I’m sorry. And that is the truth, Inspector.”

“Would it be possible to speak to the maid who took care of her?”

Tolworthy took out his watch. “She will be off duty in ten minutes. Her name is Maisy, and she’s a local girl. If you would care to wait, I shall send her to you.”

Rutledge thanked him, and sat there in the small office, outwardly waiting patiently, but worried and frustrated beneath it.

Maisy was a small, dark girl with a round face and kind eyes. She came into the manager’s office with some trepidation, and Rutledge set about putting her at ease.

“Hallo,” he said with a smile. “Come in and sit down, Maisy.”

“I’d rather stand, sir, if it’s all the same to you, sir.”

“As you like. You’re in no trouble, you know. The problem is, I’m worried about Miss Haverford. Something has happened in Padstow, and I’m afraid it could bring her to harm. And she’s unaware of it. I need to find her and warn her.”

The girl’s eyes were round. “Miss Haverford, sir? But she’s never been to Cornwall before. She told me so.”

The truth—or another lie?

Persisting, he said, “That may be so, but it doesn’t mean that she has no relatives in Cornwall. Or friends.”

Relaxing a little, she said, nodding, “I hadn’t thought of that. She never spoke to me about her family. She seemed sad, when I asked about them. Her parents were dead. That dreadful Spanish flu, and she has been ill herself. She’d never had a strong constitution, she said. Anemia, she told me.”

Rutledge let the maid talk.

“I’m worried that she might not have enough money with her,” he said. “Do you think she will be all right?”

“She had lovely clothes, sir. Quite lovely. I shouldn’t think that money was a problem.”

He had meant the question differently, but this was more information to store away.

“What was she like?”

“Very quiet, but very kind. When my mother had the toothache, she let me take the morning off to carry her to the dentist. And she never told Mr. Tolworthy. She said it wasn’t necessary.” Her color flamed. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“That’s between you and Miss Haverford,” he said easily. “I see no reason to tell him. Did you notice anything unusual about her?”

“She was quite pretty, and I asked if she had a young man. She blushed at that, and told me that she was still in mourning for her parents and couldn’t think about her future for a bit. Not till she was back in Leicester. She had the nicest luggage, Miss Haverford did. A dark set, except for her hand case. It was a very handsome red leather, and it had an initial on it. An
E,
set out in gold. She told me it’ud belonged to her mother as a girl.”

Not a
B
or
P
or
F
. An
E.
It could well have been. Rutledge felt his depression lifting.

They talked for another ten minutes, and then he let Maisy return to her duties. He had garnered very little from her chatter, except for the initial on that case. And yet he had the strongest feeling he’d found his quarry.

He was leaving the office himself when Maisy came hurrying back down the passage toward him. “I’ve thought of something else. She had a car come for her. From the village. The driver might know where she went.”

He thanked her again, and then as an afterthought, he added, “Don’t talk about her to anyone else, Maisy. Will you promise me that? Someone else could come looking for her, and he might not seem dangerous, but he could well be. Keep that in mind. Or a woman, for that matter. I am afraid for her. I can’t tell you why, it’s police business. But you must trust me on that.”

She promised, and hurried away to her duties.

He walked down the path between houses and back gardens, all the way to the gray stone church dedicated to St. Finnbar. It took him a matter of minutes on the main street of the village to find someone who owned a motorcar for hire.

When Rutledge knocked at the door to rooms above a shop, he heard boots bounding down the stairs, and a young man with the bearing of a soldier opened the door to him.

“Need transport, do you? I’m going to need a sign made. You’re the third person this week who came knocking. Word does get about.” He was dark, his face a weather-beaten red and his hands large and square. Rutledge was wondering where he’d got the money to buy a motorcar when he added cheekily, “You’ll want to know if it’s mine. It’s his.” He gestured up the stairs. “I was his batman in the war, and I take care of him still. He lets me use the motor to keep it running well. You can go up if you like. But he’s been gassed. Talking is hard for him.”

And now Rutledge could hear the harsh, rasping breath of burned-out lungs.

“That won’t be necessary. I’m looking for someone. My cousin. I came to Fowey to spend a few days with her, but she moved on a fortnight ago, before she got my letter. It’s still waiting on the desk in Reception, and she’s elsewhere. Mr. Tolworthy is busy, and he sent me to you meanwhile. Miss Haverford.”

“The pretty lady with all the luggage? I drove her to the train. She told me she was off to Plymouth, but she must have changed her mind, because she caught the train north instead. I was afraid she might not have understood the stationmaster—he’s Cornish, and damned if I can understand him half the time. So I asked. She went to Bodmin, to change for Boscastle.”

“Damn,” Rutledge said under his breath, and it was heartfelt. How far could he follow this woman across Cornwall? Seeing the surprise on the driver’s face, he went on, “I was just in Bodmin myself. We probably crossed paths without realizing it.”

He was about to turn away, when another thought occurred to him. “Who else has come to hire a motorcar?”

“Two ladies wishing to be driven out in the countryside for a picnic. And an elderly gentleman wanting to be driven to his brother’s house.”

He thanked the young man and turned back toward the church. It was a warm climb for this time of year, back up to the hotel, but the sea lay at his feet, dazzlingly blue, and he could see the ferry leaving for Bodinnick across the way.

He told no one what he’d learned, shaking his head when Tolworthy asked if Maisy had been helpful.

“She did her best,” he said, “but Miss Haverford was not one to talk, she said.”

“Yes, that’s a true description of her. Are you leaving us, now?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Tolworthy nodded. “I hope you find her, and she’s come to no harm. Do return, Mr. Rutledge, when you have time to enjoy the hotel and Fowey.”

Rutledge drove up the steep little road leading out of town, and was soon on his way north once more. He debated with himself, and in the end, he decided to go on to Boscastle. It was not all that far from Padstow. But he found it interesting that Miss Haverford—or whatever her name truly was—would hop, skip, and jump across Cornwall, when it would seem wiser, if she was afraid, to go to Derby or Cheshire or even Kent.

Hamish said, “It’s no’ logic, it’s safety. Who would think she stayed in Cornwall sae long, if she was afraid of being discovered?”

And what was she afraid of? Who hunted her—or to put it another way, who did she think hunted her?

But Harry Saunders had escorted her to church, and he was dead. The vicar believed he knew who she was, and he had nearly died at someone’s hands. Dunbar had rented the cottage to her, and he too had been murdered. The cottages themselves burned to the ground.

If his speculations were correct, there was someone who would not stop at murder to find her.

But what about Victoria Grenville and the charges against her and her friends? She could have nothing to do with these other events, not locked away in Padstow Place. Still, she had been close by when Harry Saunders’s luck had run out and his dinghy had sunk.

Did that mean that she hadn’t tried to kill Saunders? That it had all been an accident, as the four women tried to pull him aboard the rowing boat? Had Trevose lied? Or had he told the truth?