No Shred of Evidence: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery (8 page)

She moved her gaze from the hearth to Rutledge’s face. “They discovered his body the next morning. On the rocky shore. Quite dead. I believed it to be my fault. Even now I do. But everyone said it was his for showing me such a dangerous place, and he must have had designs on my virtue, taking me out there in the dusk. But it was I who went out there, and he followed me only to keep me from falling. To protect my good name, it was called a tragic accident, and the footman’s family was told of his death.”

He wasn’t sure where she was going with her story, but he could see that she was still haunted by it. And so he waited in silence.

“When I was married and came here to live at Padstow Place, I didn’t know that the footman’s family lived on a farm nearby. I was out riding one day and I encountered Mr. Trevose. He looked me up and down in a rude way and told me that he could now see why his brother felt I was worth dying for. It shook me, Mr. Rutledge, and I thought I was going to be ill. I was already pregnant with Stephen, and I said nothing to my husband or anyone else. When I came in from my ride, they saw how pale I was and they put me to bed and called a doctor. He ordered me to give up my rides. And of course I did, but not because I was pregnant. I have seen Mr. Trevose many times since that day—in church, of course, and around the village—but we have never spoken since. It was as if that day hadn’t happened. But it had. And now I’m afraid he’s found a way at last to pay me back for his brother’s death.”

“Who knows about this encounter?”

“No one. I told no one, not even my husband. I expect Mr. Trevose has said nothing about it either. There has been no gossip. If there had been, it would have come to my attention sooner or later.”

He regarded her, wondering if she was telling the truth or was willing to sacrifice herself to save her daughter. After all, she’d lost her son. Victoria was the only child left to her.

“You realize that you have given me information that I shall have to investigate before I can discredit Mr. Trevose’s statements. There will be no easy way to do this, and your name will eventually come out. I can’t protect you and get at the truth at the same time.”

“I wouldn’t have told you any of this if I hadn’t been prepared to accept the consequences.”

“How, for instance, did Mr. Trevose learn your part in his brother’s death? If it was treated as an accident?”

“I don’t know,” she told him frankly. “I’ve wondered. My best guess is that one of the staff wrote to him or his parents and told them what had occurred. At the time I hadn’t met my husband; I had no connection to this part of Cornwall. I expect Mr. Trevose was as surprised to learn I was to be mistress here as I was to learn that his family’s farm was nearby.”

“Are you sure that there was nothing between you and this footman?”

“Paul. His name was Paul. I had seen him, of course I had, and he was simply one of the staff.”

“What was he doing in that part of the house, when you were looking for a place to hide?”

“I don’t know. He was carrying a tray with a glass on it. Someone had asked for something to drink. It was thought that he’d stepped outside on the terrace for some air. The house was stuffy, closed up on a stormy evening.”

“You reported his death. How could you have known it had happened, if you hadn’t been present?”

“It was said that I heard a cry, saw the door swinging open, and realized that someone had fallen. That I had initially thought it was one of the players. The doctor came and gave me a sedative. He asked me what had happened, and I was so frightened I also told him I believed it was one of my friends. He passed that on to the police.”

“And did Paul try to force himself on you?”

“Good God, no, he was laughing and saying that no one would think to look for me on the terrace, and if I stood close to the doors, my gown wouldn’t get wet. He was a footman, but he was a human being. He thought it great fun to help me.” She covered her face with her hands for a moment, then dropped them to look at him. “We hadn’t heard the wind, it had come up with the end of the storm. And out in the bay, cut off from land, the Mount got the brunt of it. Certainly the sea was very rough. They couldn’t bring in the police or retrieve the body until later in the day. The fear was, it might wash away before anything could be done about it.”

“And you believe this is why Mr. Trevose has accused your daughter and her friends of harming Harry Saunders?”

“Of course I do,” she said impatiently. “What other reason could there be? Do you honestly think, for one moment, that those four young women are capable of trying to murder a perfectly respectable young man?”

“Your daughter tells me he has been running into her too often to be by chance. That he has feelings for her. Or at the very least, is infatuated.”

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “Harry Saunders? She hasn’t—” She stopped herself in midsentence. “Would you find that so strange, Mr. Rutledge? She’s a lovely girl. And he’s unmarried.”

“Would you or your husband be willing to entertain his suit, if he came to you to ask for your daughter’s hand?”

Her eyes gave her away before she could answer him. There was no snobbery—she really believed that the heiress to Padstow Place could do much better than a banker’s son. “We would treat his suit with every courtesy,” she said.

“Victoria is no longer a young girl. I’m surprised she isn’t married already.”

Mrs. Grenville shook her head. “The war. Were you in it, Mr. Rutledge? Yes, of course you were. Most of her friends never came back. Or if they did, they’re like George St. Ives, so badly wounded that they can’t expect to enjoy a normal life. I don’t think Victoria or Kate, Sara or Elaine, having seen their world change so drastically, are as eager to marry as they might have been in 1914 when all the world was a happy place.”

Rising, she said, “I’ve kept you long enough. But I felt I had no right to say nothing when Mr. Trevose is apparently so willing to see my daughter and her guests charged with such a crime as attempted murder. Can you find your own way out? Or would you like for me to summon the maid?”

“I can find my own way, Mrs. Grenville.” He started toward the door. “I am grateful for your confidence. But I will use it as I think best. I suggest you tell your husband what you’ve told me. Before it becomes public knowledge.”

“I will choose my own time, Inspector.”

He left her standing there in the middle of the room, just as he’d first seen her.

He wouldn’t have been surprised to run into Grenville or Major Gordon as he found his way to the house door and made a dash through the rain for his motorcar.

Once clear of the house, he considered what he’d just been told.

Was it true? Or was there a great deal more that hadn’t been said? Either way, he came to the decision that he would say nothing until he was ready. If Trevose was out for revenge, then let him think he was successful for the time being. It would keep him out of further mischief.

And it wouldn’t go amiss to ask Sergeant Gibson to look into the death of Paul Trevose at St. Michael’s Mount. Meanwhile, he must find out more about the Trevose family.

And the best place for that might be the vicar, David Toup.

He drove through the village to the vicarage, where rivulets of water had turned the drive into a muddy glue. He could hear his rear tires spin as he made his way up the slight rise to the front of the house, and then picked his way through the puddles to the door. Someone had put a hemp mat there, and he wiped his feet as best he could before knocking.

Toup himself came to the door.

“Mr. Rutledge. Come in, man, and bring the ark with you.”

Laughing, Rutledge stepped inside and Toup closed the door quickly.

“You’ll be wanting to dry a bit by the looks of you. Come into the study and stand by the fire.”

Rutledge followed him down the passage and into another dark Victorian room. The wallpaper was a medium blue with sailing ships plowing their way through the sea.

Toup saw him looking at it, and said ruefully, “The former vicar was from a seafaring family. I find myself seasick at the sight of them. I was about to eat my lunch. There’s plenty, won’t you join me?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Then we’ll adjourn to the kitchen if you please, unless it’s a matter of my services that brings you here.”

“Just your memory,” Rutledge answered, and followed him to the rear of the house to the large kitchen. Here the walls were painted a soft green, with a plain deal table and chairs set under the windows.

“I often take my meals here. There’s fresh bread and eggs and cheese and so on. I can make a dish I learned to cook in France.”

“By all means.”

Toup busied himself at the counter, then checked the ancient cookstove before putting the kettle on for tea. “My housekeeper’s day off, and I’m sure she’s elated to be warm at home instead of trudging back down the lane to her house. Talk to me if you will, I can do two things at once.”

Rutledge had considered his approach. “I’ve learned quite a bit about the Grenvilles and the St. Iveses. Even the Gordons and the Langleys. I know next to nothing about Trevose. Is his an old family?”

“Yes, they’ve been here for centuries. On the same land. They’ve produced some fine soldiers over the years. And even finer farmers.”

“There’s an older woman who came to the door.”

“That’s Bronwyn, the housekeeper. She was Trevose’s mother’s housekeeper as well. I have no idea how old she is, but my guess would be seventy. I may be wrong.”

He was busy chopping onions, their sharp tang filling the room.

“Did Trevose have any brothers or sisters?”

Finishing the onions, Toup cracked a brown egg into a bowl. The yolk was a rich yellow. “There were three children, I believe. A sister who died of some childhood ailment, and a brother who was killed in an accident when he was sixteen, seventeen.”

“What sort of accident?”

“It was before my time. And I’ve never asked. You don’t, sometimes. In my first church I asked a woman about her dead son, only to learn he’d been hanged for murder. What I’ve told you I’ve discovered in the course of many conversations. Or seeing a name on a tombstone or in the church records.”

“Then Trevose is not married?”

“No. I can’t say ‘never’ because I don’t know. But he’s been alone save for the housekeeper ever since I took over the church.”

He had finished beating the eggs, added bits of cheese and onion and a handful of breakfast bacon he took from the pantry. The teakettle boiled, and he set it to one side and put a large iron skillet in its place.

“And when did you come here?”

“Twenty-seven years ago. Straight out of seminary.”

“And the Saunders family. Any children other than Harry?” He knew the answer but was interested in how the vicar would reply.

“The apple of their eyes, Harry. Someone told me that Mrs. Saunders had suffered several miscarriages before he was born.”

“You told me that his family had come down from London in the past. Where is she from?”

“London. While the elder Saunders was there in training, he met her and brought her home with him.”

“Love at first sight.”

“Or so many people claim.”

“And the Grenvilles?”

“I would say it was a love match. They are certainly well suited and seem to go on well together. And if you’re about to ask where she’s from, it’s Plymouth. She’s a distant cousin or something.”

He remembered that Mrs. Grenville had told him the events in St. Michael’s Mount had occurred before she met her husband.

“So they’ve known each other most of their lives.”

Toup had scrambled the eggs and bacon and onion together, then turned them out on thick slices of a light brown bread. “I should think they must have done. But you never know.”

Setting that on the table, he made the tea, brought out plates and utensils, cups and saucers, then began to cut the eggs in half, offering one half to Rutledge.

It was very good.

They were silent for a time, enjoying the meal, and then Rutledge asked, “Tell me, do you believe the young women were attempting to save Saunders? Or Trevose, that they were intending to kill him?”

Toup stirred uneasily. “I’m not a policeman, and it’s not for me to judge.”

Rutledge said, “I can appreciate your feelings. But you know all the participants in this tragedy. You must lean one way or the other.”

Toup got to his feet and began to look in one of the cupboards. He brought out a small poppy seed cake and set it on a plate.

“I would be happier if Trevose is wrong. Victoria Grenville and her friends are young, with a life ahead of them. They did wonders in the war, the four of them, although they seldom speak of it. In addition to their duties offering tea to troops leaving for the Front and the wounded coming home, they gave their time generously. Raising money for widows and orphans, organizing families to knit and put together packets of things like paper and pencils, needles and cotton thread, shaving soap and razors to send to the troops, rolling bandages for hospitals, collecting warm clothes for fatherless children, encouraging people to write to soldiers and seamen . . . The list is amazing, when you think about it.”

“The war has been over for two years. How do they occupy themselves now?”

“Ah.” He picked up the plates and carried them to the sink as they finished their meal. “It was Miss Langley who said something about that to me after a visit that included attending a church service here. ‘I’ve lost too many people I love,’ she told me. ‘I won’t be hurt ever again by loving someone.’ I found it very sad.” Looking out the window he added, “I do believe the rain is letting up. My root crops will rot before they can be dug if it doesn’t stop soon. Carrots and beets and parsnips and the like.”

He was adroitly changing the subject. Rutledge let it go.

Ten minutes later, he thanked the vicar for his lunch and said good-bye, stepping out into a lighter rain. The wind had dropped as well.

Driving back into the village, he found himself wondering if Kate felt the same way about her future. He rather hoped, for her sake, that she didn’t.