No Shred of Evidence: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery (33 page)

“It will be all right. He won’t come near Mrs. Grenville.”

Grenville was difficult to persuade, but Rutledge was fairly certain that Worth would be watching. A raiding party would be spotted, and it was Kate who would suffer.

They left in the afternoon, he and Mrs. Grenville. And her husband’s revolver went with them in Rutledge’s pocket.

He had a feeling that Grenville would break his promise and try to follow, but he hoped that he himself had had a sufficient head start to finish the business before the cavalry arrived.

Mrs. Grenville was quiet as he drove to Wadebridge and then turned back toward the sea. He had some difficulty finding the road to the quarry, abandoned and overgrown as it was. By that time, they were only two miles away from their destination, and it was quite dark.

“It will go as planned. As long as you don’t speak. Cry, scream, but don’t speak.”

She nodded, and he thought she was too tense to reply.

The quarry was larger than he’d expected and deeper. Even in the dark he could see how raw the land was for some distance around it, bare of anything but scrub growth that had fought its way back through soil pounded down by wagons and horses, and the feet of men. Grenville had not remembered it well.

The quarry itself was a great black hole. He could see nothing below.

Mrs. Grenville spoke, keeping her voice low. “It goes down in descending circles, you know; as each level was removed, the next was narrower and lower. Like giant steps. I haven’t seen it myself, but I remember now that Stephen came here once. For a lark. It would be easy to fall, I think. I can’t imagine how unstable those stones must be, and in the dark. He has the advantage, doesn’t he?” There was resignation in the words.

“He thinks he has. It’s what matters.”

“Yes. You must be right.”

They sat there. Rutledge found himself considering all the things that lived in the Cornish night, and he wondered if a man like Worth was superstitious.

A voice came out of the dark, echoing oddly.

“Did you bring a torch? Shine it on her face.”

“The battery is too low. I’ll switch on the headlamps instead.”

He did, the large, powerful beams lighting the night and making him blink.

Mrs. Grenville had thrown up her arm, as if the glare was too much.

“Bring her to the pit’s edge.”

“Not until I see that your hostage is all right.”

A torch shone down into the pit. Rutledge could just make out the figure of Kate Gordon standing on one of the lower levels. It appeared her hands were tied behind her back.

But the torchlight had not come from the pit.
Where the hell was Worth?

“Kate?” Rutledge called, getting out of the motorcar. He had pocketed the revolver. “Are you all right?”

“I am. Take care, Ian.” As she spoke, the torch flicked off.

It was a warning, and he took it seriously.

“I will not leave her down there. She must come up. Or the trade is off.”

“I’ll kill her then.”

“No, you won’t. You don’t have what you were after. Bring her up.” His voice was hard.

The torch came on again. And with her hands still tied behind her, Kate Gordon started to walk.

Rutledge held his breath. It was dangerous, she could stumble and fall at any moment. She had no way to protect herself. But she moved slowly, resolutely. A stone spun out from under her foot and went down. It was a moment before Rutledge heard it splash in the darkness below where rainwater must have pooled in the depths.

He watched, powerless to help her. But it was the only way to get her out of there. If he went down to guide her, he left Mrs. Grenville alone. And down in that pit, he was an easy target. It wouldn’t take Worth long to discover the impersonation.

He couldn’t imagine the courage it was taking. He walked to the rim of the pit, and it was then that he realized that Kate Gordon was blindfolded. He began to talk to her. She reached the slope that led to the next level. Keeping his voice steady and his eyes on her, he guided her with words, and she listened as he warned her of obstacles, told her how far she had come, encouraged her away from the precipitous edge without frightening her, using the only weapon he had to keep her safe.

It seemed to take forever, that walk. But she must have been able to see under the blindfold—a little—to follow the shining path of the torch light.

One foot in front of the next, slowly, painfully, she came nearer. And he prayed that the cavalry would keep its distance until she was out of danger.

In the motorcar behind him, he heard Mrs. Grenville gasp as Kate’s footing nearly failed her, and she lurched too close to the edge. She froze there, and Rutledge talked her into moving again, praising her, warning her, and cursing in his mind the man who had put her through this.

For once Hamish was silent. He seemed to be holding his own breath as well.

And Rutledge was grateful for the respite.

She was nearly at the top now. Another twenty feet and she would be off the ascending levels and away from the edge of the pit.

And then the torch went dark, stranding her there, and the voice said, “That’s enough.”

“Stay where you are, Kate. You’re safe there. It will be all right,” Rutledge told her. “Twenty feet more, that’s all, and you’re almost within reach. But don’t move. Not yet.”

The headlamps didn’t reach her where she stood, but he could see her shoulders slump as she realized it was nearly over.

“You have what you want. Give me what I came for.”

Rutledge went back to the motorcar and pretended to pull Mrs. Grenville roughly from it. “Struggle,” he commanded in a fierce whisper, and she did, her fists pounding his chest and shoulders before he turned her sharply toward his best estimate of the source of the voice, and made her march beside him.

At Rutledge’s urging, she kept up the struggle, for all the world a frightened woman who was resisting being traded for the girl on the pit’s edge.

“When I say drop, go down,” he told her softly.

She didn’t speak. But he knew she had heard him.

He walked only as far as the light of the headlamps reached. There he stopped.

“If you want her, come and get her. She will run if I let her go.”

“With pleasure.”

Rutledge could hear footsteps in the darkness, crunching over the rubble, and then he realized that Worth was moving away, not toward him but toward Kate.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, his voice cutting the silence.

Worth had reached Kate, taken her arm, and pulled her in front of him, as a shield.

Mrs. Grenville said quietly, “I think—he’s holding her at gunpoint now.”

He had seen it as well. Rutledge swore again, but he had prepared for that too.

They moved toward him, the dark outline of the man Rutledge had never seen, and the slim figure of the girl who had climbed out of the pit alone and without anything but her own bravery to help her.

They were still out of revolver range.

And then Rutledge saw a single flash of light somewhere on slightly higher ground behind Worth, where the land sloped upward before falling away again.

He heard a sharp intake of breath beside him, and then Mrs. Grenville began to struggle against the light grip he had on her arm.

“No, no,” she cried, her voice muffled by her shoulder. And before he could stop her, she broke free. He whirled and caught her up, and he saw the anger blazing in her eyes beneath the hat. This time there was no pretense. She struggled fiercely, and he had all he could do not to hurt her.

“Let me go,” she said then, and as he realized what she was about to do, he let her break away again, and run headlong into the darkness, away from Worth and from Rutledge. Just as Mrs. Worth would have done.

He heard the man swear, his voice wild and furious. And then he dropped Kate’s arm and started after Mrs. Grenville, raising his revolver.

Too late, Rutledge realized that in the darkness beyond the headlamps, she had misjudged her distances. She was nearer Worth now than he was, and in range while he was not.

Rutledge shouted a warning, already racing to intercept Worth, to bring himself into range, but the man was quickly gaining on Mrs. Grenville.

Raising the borrowed revolver, Rutledge fired, praying that it aimed true, and watched the shot kick up a tiny spout of earth ten feet short of the other man, barely diverting him from his target.

He wasn’t going to be in time—

And Worth was steadying his own gun hand.

Rutledge fired a second time, had the satisfaction of seeing Worth duck. And in that instant, when the man’s stride was off, a large-bore rifle fired, echoing through the darkness, and Worth dropped like a stone.

Shoving the revolver into his pocket, Rutledge changed direction and ran toward Kate, stranded near the rim of the quarry, still blindfolded and fighting her bonds.

“I’m here,” he said, reaching for the blindfold, and then pulling her into his arms.

As he half led, half carried her to the motorcar, she twisted to see what had become of Worth.

“Don’t look,” he ordered, and she turned her face away.

Mrs. Grenville had stopped where she was, staring in the direction the shot had come from.

And then she turned and walked awkwardly back toward the motorcar as Rutledge freed Kate’s hands.

She was laughing and crying in the same breath now, clinging to Rutledge, her face pressed against his chest as he held her.

“I didn’t think I could make it,” she said shakily, her voice muffled. “But I did, didn’t I?”

Glancing at Mrs. Grenville, he smiled. “You were marvelous,” he said to her. Then he turned to the woman in his arms. “He didn’t hurt you, did he? Tell me, Kate.”

He could feel her shaking her head. “No. He kept his word. Twenty-four hours.” And then Mrs. Grenville was taking Kate from him and folding her into her arms.

Rutledge turned away, walking back to where Worth lay. Out of the darkness a figure materialized, and he froze, hand on his revolver, until he saw that it was Grenville.

He was holding up a rifle. “My grandfather’s elephant gun. From his game hunting in Africa. He used it until he was eighty, God save him.”

They stared down at the remains of a man whom Rutledge had never met, whose face was one he didn’t recognize at all. Whose name he was not certain even now that he knew.

He had never seen him before. Their only contact had been at a distance, or secondhand as he looked down on what this man had done to someone else.

“Now you will please tell me the whole story?” Grenville demanded harshly.

“What he did to Kate was unconscionable. He’s better off dead,” Rutledge said coldly. “But I will tell you that he has killed, several times over. He would have been hanged, if he’d lived. It was this man who savaged the vicar, among others.”

Grenville said contemptuously, “Leave him. I will send someone from Boscastle or Tintagel to bring him in.”

“We can’t. It isn’t finished.” He bent down and took the revolver from Worth’s hand, passing it to Grenville. “Evidence,” he said.

“You’re surely not going to hold an inquest,” Grenville said sharply. “He’s dead, man, let it be.”

“It has to be finished.” He rubbed his face, feeling the day’s growth of beard rough against his hand. “Boscastle isn’t that far. Find the constable there, and send him back for Worth. Tell him—” He stopped, forcing his tired mind to think, trying to ignore Hamish, trying to find a way to reason with Grenville.

“Tell the constable in Boscastle that you have found the man who nearly killed those two women last night. Tell him you believe this is the same man who put holes in the Saunders’s boat, and who attacked the vicar of St. Marina’s. That he may well be the same man who murdered Frank Dunbar in an alley in Padstow. We have no proof, but it’s likely. We tracked him here and tried to take him alive, but he was armed, and we had no choice but to shoot. He was too dangerous to lose in the darkness.”

“What’s his name? And what made him kill?”

“God knows. We don’t.” Rutledge frowned. “The war. Blame it on the war if you must. As for his name, let the constable search his pockets and find that out.”

“Why were we following him?”

“I spotted a stranger near your house, and I wanted to question him. Someone had been moving around the village at night, and I was suspicious. I asked your help because you’re familiar with the countryside. And Mr. and Mrs. Daniels can tell the police that he was prowling about the rectory several nights ago, trying to get at the vicar again.”

“Is that true?” In the darkness, Rutledge nodded. “Who is Dunbar?”

“Inspector Carstairs’s case,” he told Grenville. “We’ve unwittingly solved it for him.”

“It might just work.”

“Some cottages were burned down. On the outskirts of Padstow. Dunbar owned them. Perhaps our man had been hiding out there. There’s no one left who can contradict that.” He turned to look back toward the motorcar, where the two women were waiting. “It has to work. Miss Gordon has suffered enough. It will not serve justice to have her give evidence at an inquest. It will not serve to have Mrs. Worth describe what her husband has done to her. But much of our evidence is circumstantial, of course. And I shall have to give the Chief Constable an explanation for much of what has happened, one he will accept.”

“Very well,” Grenville said after a moment. “I’ll find the dead man’s motor and drive on to Boscastle. St. Ives has already taken the horses and the elephant gun back to the Place.” He grinned at Rutledge’s surprise. “Cross-country. It was the only way to get here before you did. And I can trust St. Ives. You will see the women safely home.”

“No, I should go to Boscastle. It’s best. Someone will remember me. I was there only a day or so ago.”

Grenville shook his head vehemently. “All the more reason for me to go alone. You’ve reported these crimes to me. I’m dealing with it. If you go, you’ll be expected to answer more questions than may be comfortable.”

It was true.

“Then be careful. It matters too much.”

“I will.”

They walked together toward the motorcar, and Rutledge passed the borrowed revolver to Grenville, who pocketed it with a nod.