No Shred of Evidence: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery (27 page)

It would be necessary to confront her when he got back to the village.

It was late when he reached Wadebridge. Weary, hungry, and damp from a drizzling rain that had beset him some ten miles out, he stopped for a meal and found a room in a small inn. It was cramped, the wick on the lamp smoked, and the window refused to budge when he tried to open it. But he was too tired to care. He slept without dreams, for once, and in the morning, a gray, dismal beginning to the day, he set out for Boscastle.

It sat on the coast, a narrow inlet running in from the sea and protected by two stone arms. For years it was a haven for fishing boats, and for merchant ships bringing in coal and limestone, carrying away Cornish slate and any other cargo the locals wished to ship.

Buildings in local gray stone, sometimes brightly whitewashed, crowded down to the harbor, a pretty little town with a long history.

He drove down the road leading to the harbor, looking for a likely place where a woman like Miss Haverford might stay.

As he explored, Rutledge was acutely aware that he was close to the house on the cliff where Olivia Marlowe had lived and died. He fought against the memories, keeping his attention on the road. And then, far from the harbor, he saw a small sign advertising rooms and breakfast.

It was a low, pretty whitewashed house with vines over the door and a garden in front. Longer than it was tall, it boasted two doorways, one into a smaller section, the other part of the larger dwelling.

Rutledge stopped, pulling up in front of the house and getting out to walk to the main door.

He could see a curtain twitch in the smaller section, and he wondered if Margaret Haverford was peering out at him, wondering who the stranger in the motorcar might be—and if he represented a threat.

He lifted the knocker and let it fall against the plate. After a moment, a young woman opened the door to him. She was slim and pretty, blue eyes in a sun-browned face framed by fair hair fashionably styled.

“I saw your sign. I wondered if you had rooms for the night.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said with the slight hint of a Devon accent. “We’re full up just now. My sister has come to stay with me for a bit. But I could recommend another house down the road.”

He almost believed her. She appeared to be forthright and genuinely sorry she had nothing to offer him.

Instead of taking her at her word, he said, “I wonder if your sister’s name is Haverford.”

Her face changed. “I don’t know who you are, but I can tell you my sister’s name is not Haverford. Why you should think so is disturbing to me. Good day.”

She was about to shut the door in his face, but he set his boot in the opening and reached into his pocket for his identification. Holding it out to her, he said, “I’m not a casual caller. My business with Miss Haverford has to do with her own safety.”

“Anyone can forge such papers,” she said coldly, barely looking at it.

“That’s true. If you like, I’ll stop in the village and find the constable there. He can vouch for me.”

“He can vouch all he likes,” she said. “He’s no more acquainted with Inspectors from Scotland Yard than I am. Now remove your foot from my door and go away.”

“I will, if you will answer my questions. I’m looking for a woman who had stayed in the Fowey Hotel, in Fowey, under the name of Margaret Haverford. I have reason to believe that that isn’t her name. I also have reason to believe she’s in danger. Mr. Dunbar, who owned the cottages outside of Padstow, has been beaten to death. The vicar in the village of Heyl, Mr. Toup, was set upon and was lucky to survive. Harry Saunders is dead as well. I can’t protect her until I know her danger. I will leave now, and walk as far as the harbor. If the young woman I’m after is living in your house, she has already looked at me. She knows I’m a stranger. If she will come down to the harbor, or, if she still fears me, to the public inn I can see just above the harbor, I’ll be inside waiting. If what I know can help protect her and she in turn can help me find a killer, I hope she will come down and speak to me.”

With that he withdrew his boot, and before the door could close, he was already striding back to his motorcar.

He drove on to the harbor, and left his motorcar by one of the shops. For half an hour he walked down by the stables, as far as the first harbor wall, then retraced his steps, listening to the water by his side.

There was no young woman waiting for him.

He made his way to the inn, and found a quiet corner in the public room. It was dark, dark paneling and tables, lit only by a single shaft of sunlight coming in from the door.

Sitting down, he ordered a pint, and when it came, left it untouched. But he had paid for an hour at this table, and he was willing to wait.

Hamish, alive in his mind, gave him no peace. He tried to ignore the voice, forcing himself to relax and to expect nothing.

The hour was nearly up when he heard the outer door opening. A middle-aged man walked in with a white-and-brown-spotted terrier at his heels. He crossed to the bar, sat down in what must have been his accustomed place to the far right, and the dog waited until he was settled before leaping up to lie quietly in its master’s lap.

The barkeep nodded to him and disappeared. A few minutes later he returned with a pasty on a white plate, and set it before the man, then drew him an ale.

The man began to eat, and the little dog never stirred.

“Anything wrong with your glass?” the barkeep asked, coming across to Rutledge.

“I wasn’t thirsty after all,” he said pleasantly, but reached for it.

The barkeep turned and walked away.

The outer door opened again, and this time the woman who owned the bed-and-breakfast walked in.

He was surprised to see her, but said nothing as she strode purposefully across the room and took the chair opposite him.

“Who are you? Really? Newspaper? Private detective?” She kept her voice low.

“I’ve told you. I’m from Scotland Yard. I have nothing to gain from coming here, and no one to report to except for Chief Superintendent Markham in London.”

“There’s no telephone in this village. There’s no way I can find out if you’re lying or not.”

He took a deep breath. “I knew Olivia Marlowe.” It was not quite the truth, but he thought, watching her, that the name meant something. “I investigated her death, and that of her brother, for Scotland Yard. You may remember the story. It was the summer after the war.”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“She was a great poet.”

The woman said nothing. After a moment, she added, “The woman in my cottage is, in fact, my sister. She’s not the person you’re looking for. And you don’t even have that woman’s name right.”

“It’s the name she used in the Fowey Hotel up to a fortnight ago. I don’t know what she called herself in Padstow. But I do know she’s frightened.”

“Why on earth should she be frightened?”

He shook his head. “I know only that she’s hiding from something. Or someone. And she may well be in danger. Someone has killed Frank Dunbar and set up the circumstances for Harry Saunders’s death. Someone nearly killed the vicar, Mr. Toup. And she had a connection with all three. I can’t think of anyone else who does.”

“Surely you don’t believe
she’s
a murderer!”

“Not at all. But she can probably tell me who the murderer is. I found you easily enough. If he does, then you too are in danger, and your sister with you. If he thinks you are keeping her from him, he will kill you as well. Who is he? A father? A lover? A husband? That’s what I’ve worked out, sitting here.”

He could watch her struggle with her own fears—that she would betray this woman—that she would be dragged deeper into her friend’s troubles.

“She isn’t here,” she said again.

“What name was she using, if not Haverford? Dunbar, as he lay dying after that savage beating, tried to scratch her name in the muck of that filthy alley where he was cornered. He wrote the single word
warn
and then managed only an initial after it. I couldn’t be sure what that initial was.” He took a chance. “Neither could the policeman with me. But I believe it was an
E.
”

He’d guessed wrong. The woman rose. “You’re lying. She didn’t use a name beginning with
E,
not in Padstow. I’m going to the police.”

He rose with her. “Then I’ll come with you. I have nothing to fear from the police.” He tossed coins on the table beside his untouched glass, and followed her to the inn door. They went out into the sunlight blinking at its sharpness.

“If the name was not an
E,
it began with a
P,
or a
B,
or even an
F.
But the maid in Fowey told me that the initial on the red leather case was an
E.
”

She bit her lip at that. Walking briskly, she led him to the tiny police station. But the constable wasn’t in. She backed out of the room, undecided, uncertain what to do now.

“You’re going to have to trust someone. It might as well be the Yard. At least I can protect you.”

Ignoring him, she walked away from the station, then suddenly swung around to face him. “All right. The man is—was—her husband. She’s been granted a judicial separation. That means that he will have no contact with her whatsoever. They remain married in name only. There are no—rights—attached to that. He has refused to accept the judgment. He came back from the war a changed man. He abused her, he terrorized her, he accused her of having affairs and lovers while he was away. They married while he was on leave in 1916. A month before the Somme. She loved him, she prayed for him to return. When he did, some months later, she was appalled. Her uncle managed the separation early in 1918, but he couldn’t protect her. No one could. For nearly two years, she’s moved every few weeks, and if she’s lucky, she can stay in one place for a month or more. But in the end she has to leave, before people begin asking questions, before they come too close, before he can find her again.”

He listened to the ring of truth in this woman’s voice. And it fit. Everything she told him fit.

“Has he killed before?”

“No—that’s to say, I don’t think so. But he has harmed others, trying to find her. And they have refused to press charges, because they’re afraid she’ll be forced to appear, to testify. And so she has avoided her friends, trusting to strangers instead. She stayed longest in Padstow, because she felt safe in that cottage. But he must have traced her there. If what you tell me is true.”

“Why stay in Cornwall now, why not go somewhere else?”

“Padstow was as far away as she could get without leaving England. Fowey, because she didn’t think he would believe she stayed in the Duchy. Here because she was exhausted and needed rest.”

“He will find you.”

“No, I don’t believe he will. We went to school together, she and I. For five years, long ago. He would have no reason to know who I am or where I live now.”

“I found you,” he said again. “I found the Fowey Hotel, and then the maid who remembered that red leather case. Also the driver who took her to meet the train.”

In exasperation, she said, “I’ve told her several times. She won’t part with it. She absolutely refuses. It was her mother’s case. Her name was Emily.”

“What matters is, what are we to do now?” He kept his voice level, not pushing, merely asking.

“I expect I shall have to take you to see her.” She looked away. “I don’t trust you. I warned her not to speak to you.”

He said nothing, leaving her to make up her mind.

After a moment, she said, “Oh, very well. This way.”

They walked away from the village, up one of the valleys, the road twisting as it rose. A few minutes later she stopped in front of a small stone cottage, painted a pleasing yellow. It must, he thought, have only two rooms. The garden in front was dormant for the most part, but he could see the bare stalks of a climbing rose reaching up to travel across the doorway.

“My late husband left me this cottage. There’s no way to trace it back to her. If anyone does track her here, I’ll know where to look for the person who betrayed her.” Her voice was fierce.

“You haven’t told me your name.”

“And I won’t. Good day, Inspector. Don’t bother to stop at the cottage to say good-bye.” She strode off, head down, hands thrust in the pockets of her tweed jacket.

He could feel someone watching him from the little house. He stayed where he was, waiting, only moving to take off his hat, so that she could see him better. And finally the door opened. No one came out to welcome him, but he understood that it was an invitation to enter.

He had to duck his head under the lintel, and he found the tiny front room inside rather claustrophobic. There was a hearth, bare beams in the ceiling, and furnishings from another era. But it was a comfortable room, nonetheless.

Standing in the middle of it, her hands clasped together, was a slim dark woman whose worried eyes seemed to bore into him, as if trying to read the man before her.

Her voice when she spoke was low and husky. “Inspector Rutledge?”

He could understand, meeting her, why Harry Saunders had willingly escorted her wherever she needed to go, why the vicar protected her nearly at the cost of his life, and why Frank Dunbar had died for her.

“I’ll be glad to show you my identification. I was sent to Cornwall—to Padstow—when Harry Saunders was injured in a boating accident. I learned of you quite by chance. Even then, I was more concerned about the inquiry into Saunders—”

She stopped him. “Is it true that Harry is dead?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Moving for the first time, she gestured to a chair, then sat down in the only other one in the room. “How did he die?”

He told her.

“And finding the holes in the dinghy was your first connection with the cottages?”

“No. I came there to see where he kept the dinghy. I discovered the holes quite by accident.”

“And Mr. Dunbar?”

“He was severely beaten in a dark, dingy alley. As he was dying, he tried to warn you.” He told her what he’d seen.