No Shred of Evidence: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery (5 page)

“This was a case where Good Samaritans are being punished for an act of courage. It’s unconscionable.”

“I’m sure it appears that way to you. But as a policeman, I’m expected to examine evidence and not my personal feelings to arrive at a conclusion.”

“Inspector Barrington assured me—”

Rutledge cut through his words. “I’m not Inspector Barrington. I can’t draw conclusions where I have not spoken to the witnesses and suspects. All of them. It will take time,” he repeated. “And you would be wise to await the outcome with whatever patience you can muster.”

With hundreds of years of aristocratic breeding behind him, Grenville swallowed his anger and said, “Of course. You must understand I am a father, and that I am responsible for the well-being of these friends of my daughter’s. After all, the incident occurred in my boat. It’s difficult to explain to the Gordons, the St. Iveses, and the Langleys that their daughters as well as mine are still being detained by the police.”

“Was it you who requested that Scotland Yard be asked to take over this inquiry?”

He could see that it was, although pressure from the other families must have been brought to bear quickly enough. After a moment, Grenville answered him. “Are you a father?”

Rutledge said, “I am not.”

“Then it will be impossible to explain to you what any of us felt when we learned of our daughters being put in that filthy gaol cell on a charge of attempted murder. Disbelief. Anger. A sense of helplessness.” Grenville’s voice was hard now, the courteous host vanished. “It was not something I will soon forget, the constable’s lad knocking on my door with such news. But I can tell you this much. I will not let this charge affect my daughter’s reputation or prospects in any way. Do you hear me?”

Without waiting for an answer, he walked past Rutledge and shut the library door behind him.

W
ith Hamish loud in his mind, Rutledge drove back to the village and went directly to Constable Pendennis’s office.

He was in, reading a newspaper, his feet on his desk. He swung them down smartly when he saw who had come in the door.

“Sir? Did you find the Trevose farm without any trouble?”

“Yes, thank you, and at Padstow Place I’ve spoken to the four young women who have been charged with attempted murder. A question came up in the course of those conversations. Have you brought up the Saunders boat?”

“Sir?” The constable stared at him blankly.

“The victim was in a dinghy that sank, throwing him into the water.”

“I know there was some mention of a second boat, but Mr. Saunders hasn’t regained consciousness.”

“And Inspector Barrington didn’t order that the boat be brought up to see why it sank?”

“Mr. Saunders’s father would have to request it, sir. And the thing is, I don’t know where to start looking.”

“Why would his permission be required?”

“Since his son is not able to speak for himself—” the constable began, but Rutledge cut him short.

“I will need to have it salvaged,” he said briskly. “Where can I find men to bring it up?”

“In Padstow, sir, I expect. Would you like me to see to it, sir?”

“Yes. At a guess, the dinghy should be somewhere between the village landing and the estate’s landing. Possibly closer to the latter. And request a constable from Padstow to help you question everyone in the village who has a window on the water, asking if they saw the dinghy in question and the victim standing in it as it sank.”

“That’s a large order, sir. I should think someone would have come forward by now if he’d seen any such thing.”

“Not if he—or she—felt such testimony to be unnecessary, that the case against the women was strong enough with the evidence given by Mr. Trevose. Which reminds me. There’s a brass knocker on the door of the Trevose farmhouse, and it’s a smaller version of the one on the door at Padstow Place. I’m curious about that.”

“I never noticed, sir. You might ask the Grenvilles. Or Trevose himself.”

“I’d rather not. Find someone who can tell us. Possibly the vicar. Does he live in the village, or is this one of several churches in his parish?”

Smaller parishes sometimes didn’t run to a cleric of their own but shared one with another smaller church, providing the living between them. This had increased since the war, or so he’d been told, with fewer clergymen to go around.

“You’ll be thinking of Mr. Toup. The vicar. The vicarage is at the bottom of the hill, this side of the church.”

“Then he may know if there’s any connection between the two families.”

“I’ve not heard of any bad blood.”

“Possibly not. But it could go back any number of generations.”

The constable nodded. But Rutledge thought he saw no point in the Londoner’s interest in family feuds.

He left the constable to his duties and walked out to the landing. The Camel here was called by a different name, although he’d never known why. The River Heyl, he thought. Widening as it ran toward Padstow and the estuary. It had many tributaries, rising on the shoulder of Bodmin Moor and heading south before making a sharp turn to the west. Padstow, for many centuries a port, lay on the far side of the Little Petherick. Across the river was another small town, Rock, but where he stood, he looked out at trees and the fields beyond.

The landing was not large—it accommodated local craft, and a few fishing boats. The water was shallow in places where the bright yellow sand had clogged the river’s edges, but a channel ran through, enough for the boats to pass upstream some distance. The river itself was no more than thirty miles long.

He turned and looked up toward the church. The vicar, as visible as a crow in his black suit of clothes, was wandering through the dry grass, a sickle in one hand to cut through the taller clumps.

Rutledge started his way, but someone called to him, and he stopped.

“You’re the man from London.” It was a statement, not a query.

He turned. A man was just coming out of The Pilot. Over his head the sign, showing a figure holding his post at the ship’s wheel in what appeared to be a gale, moved slightly in the breeze from the river, and it creaked on rusted hinges.

“I am.” He waited for the other man to catch him up.

The landlord, or the barman, for he was wearing an apron. Of middle height, with glasses, and a bristling mustache, he looked more like a schoolmaster than a publican.

“Nasty business about young Saunders,” he said. “He comes into The Pilot from time to time. Nice enough lad. Keeps himself to himself for the most part, but never unfriendly.”

They stood in the middle of the street running down to the landing. It was a quiet time of afternoon, the shopping for dinner or tea done, men not yet home, children still in school. The bustle would start again in another hour.

“I understand his father owns the bank here and in Padstow.”

“And in Rock,” he said, gesturing toward the town on the far side of the river. Something in his manner indicated that he cared very little for his neighboring village, in spite of the broad sandy shoreline gleaming brightly in the late sun, that unusual—for Cornwall—yellow. “Came down from London a generation ago, and done very well for themselves.”

Rutledge waited. The man had hailed him, there must be something more on his mind than the family history of the Saunderses.

When nothing more was forthcoming, Rutledge asked, “Liked in Padstow and in this village, are they?”

“Not much socializing between them and us, but respected people.”

“Tell me about the son, Harry.”

“Already have. Didn’t see much of him, but he was never a troublemaker. Not one for airs and graces because he was at the bank.”

“I’ve been told he was in America for most of the war.”

“True enough.”

“And there was hard feeling that he had an easy four years—thanks to his father’s influence—compared to those who fought in the trenches or served at sea.”

“Wasn’t his choice to make, was it? Nor his father’s, I expect. Still, if a family has lost a son, it’s bitter to think that money made a difference.”

“Did Harry Saunders own a boat?”

“He did. Many of the lads take out their father’s, but he was given a trim little craft the summer before the war.”

“And it has a dinghy?”

“Of course it does,” the man replied, as if Rutledge had lost his wits.

“Had he taken it out on that Saturday?”

The man shook his head. “If he did, he didn’t put in here.”

Having exhausted all the questions he could think of, Rutledge said, “Was there something you wanted to tell me, Mr.—er—or ask me?”

“The name’s Penhale. You might stop in at The Pilot one evening. It can give you as good a meal as the inn, and better company.”

“Thank you, Mr. Penhale. I’ll do just that.”

He turned to walk on. He was almost out of hearing when Penhale called softly, “Bad blood between the Grenvilles and Trevose. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

Rutledge didn’t pause or look around. With a barely perceptible nod, he continued on his way.

It had taken the publican time to work up his courage to pass on that bit of news. Rutledge wondered why. Whether there was a reason he wanted the police to know. If he himself was on one side or the other—or was afraid to take sides but wanted his own back in some way.

He considered speaking to the constable about what he’d learned but decided against it. Instead, he made his way toward the church.

A signboard by the gate in the wall informed him that this was the church of St. Marina, and the vicar’s name was David Toup.

It was quiet in the churchyard. There were a number of recent graves, and some rather handsome Celtic crosses for such a small church. It was of the same Cornish granite as the village, with a swaybacked slate roof that appeared to be sinking into the nave. The tower looked to have been built in three stages, rising well above the church, and with slender pinnacles to give it even greater height at the battlemented top.

He could hear the vicar, still at work on the far side of the church. Glancing at the stones, some of them sagging with age into the hummocky ground and one or two of Cornish slate, he made his way around the apse.

The vicar was in his shirtsleeves now, and a fair pile of grass in a barrow showed his progress. A tallish, thin man with graying streaks in his hair, he wore a pince-nez, and the golden chain was looped around a button of his vest, already tangled with the chain of his watch.

At his feet were six or eight hens, waiting expectantly for the seeds and insects falling to the wayside as he worked. They stretched their necks in alarm and turned to stare at Rutledge. The vicar straightened, sickle in hand, tossed a clump of dry grass into the barrow, and said, “If I don’t keep at it, the seeds soon take over. Welcome to St. Marina. You must be the man they were expecting to come down from London.”

“Inspector Rutledge,” he responded and held out his hand. The vicar looked ruefully at his own, then dusted them on the seat of his trousers before taking it.

“So sad about your colleague. Inspector Barrington. I was called straightaway, but he was gone before I could reach him. I did what I could. I will say, and I think Dr. Carrick will bear me out, that he didn’t suffer. Dead before he reached the floor, apparently. Did he have a history of trouble with his heart?”

“Not to my knowledge, no.”

“Yes, well, sometimes the first attack is also the last.” He took a deep breath. “And another tragedy, young Saunders. I’m told he’s still unconscious. I can’t judge whether that’s a good sign or a bad one. How can I help you, Mr. Rutledge?”

“How well do you know the four young women who are accused of trying to kill Saunders?”

“I’ve known Miss Grenville and Miss St. Ives since they were christened. Miss Gordon and Miss Langley have been visitors from time to time. It’s my understanding they met in London.”

“Any problems with them? The visitors or the two local women?”

“Good heavens, no. Always well behaved, as they were brought up to be. During the influenza epidemic, Miss Grenville came down to nurse her father through his illness, and before it was over, nursed half the staff as well. Fearless, she was. I did what I could, but there was the village to see to. It was rather severe here, the Spanish flu.”

“How long has she known Harry Saunders?”

Toup was surprised by the question. “Let’s move out of this wind, shall we? There are benches in the church porch. As for Miss Grenville and Mr. Saunders, they were acquainted, of course. He grew up in Padstow and was often here with his father, learning his trade. He began as a clerk in the summer of 1914, sadly enough, then enlisted. It’s possible they met in London a time or two before he went to Washington.”

He led the way, and they could distinctly feel the wind drop as they stepped into the covered porch.

“And Miss St. Ives?”

“She was engaged to Stephen Grenville, of course, but I’m sure she and Saunders met, as young people do.”

“She was young to be engaged before the war.”

“Well, yes, but it had been understood since they were twelve that they would marry. Inseparable.”

“And the other two?”

Toup shook his head. “I can’t tell you if they’d ever met or not. I had heard rumors that Miss Langley and George St. Ives had met in London.” He smiled. “Matchmaking women in the Temperance Society that meets at the vicarage on Thursdays. How they found out I don’t know. Women seem to have a sixth sense about these things.”

“And Miss Gordon?”

“I think perhaps she’s the more levelheaded of the four. Charming girl, but she’s also intelligent and capable.”

“Then why should she conspire to help murder a man she barely knew?”

“Ah. I’ve heard the stories going round, you know. That Saunders had gone out with them, there was a quarrel, and he went overboard. Whether by accident or design I can’t say.”

“Why should he have gone out with the group?”

“He was in the water, fully clothed. An indication in most minds that he must have been in the boat at the start.”

“The four women tell me that he was in his own boat, but it sank as he was heading toward them. They were trying to fish him out of the water. Apparently he wasn’t a strong swimmer, or he’d have been able to pull himself into the rowing boat.”