No Shred of Evidence: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery (14 page)

If that were true, Rutledge thought as he reached the outskirts of the village, it would be difficult to convince Trevose to change his mind about his statement. The man had already found it easy to face the prospect of sending Victoria’s friends to the gallows along with her, if that was the only way he could manage to achieve his revenge.

Perhaps in his eyes, it was another young woman very much like them who had killed his brother. They were all guilty, because they could all have been in that room when the terrace door shut.

“Or perhaps,” Hamish put in, “the weight on yon mother’s soul would be all the heavier, if all the lasses hanged.”

Depend on a Scot, Rutledge thought wryly, with their long tradition of blood feuds, to see an advantage to showing no mercy to the other three women.

The question was, did Trevose love his brother that much? Or was he intent on assuaging his own guilt at whatever cost?

H
e was not ready to step into the brightly lit dining room for his dinner.

Instead, he walked down to the village landing. He had it to himself, and there was a quiet broken only by the whisper of the water running there beyond where he stood. The moon was just rising, turning the water to silver and pewter. Rock, across the river, was a scattering of lamplight marking the houses there.

Against his will he thought about Olivia Marlowe, who had died in the moonlight, preferring that to what lay ahead if she chose to live.

Lines of her poetry came unbidden into his head.

The night is quiet, the moon

A brightness on the horizon.

And I am here, waiting.

Love, come to me

In the moonlight,

And leave war behind.

Written for the man she loved above all others. He had envied that love. Envied the trust and joy and peace it brought her, even though it was beyond the pale in this life. He had been grieving for Jean, and Olivia Marlowe had touched him deeply, just as the O. A. Manning poems had touched him in France, long before he had known who O. A. Manning was.

The headland where she was buried wasn’t visible from where he stood, but he knew it was there, he knew that he could get into his motorcar and drive there, and stand outside the house and as the moon rose, remember.

And Meredith Channing held him in thrall as well, though she had chosen her husband over him. As it should be, as he knew it must be. For both their sakes, he must learn to let her go.

He walked down to the landing’s edge and watched the water below it, dark in the shadows, and still swift and swollen with the rain. One more step, two, and he would find his own peace and rest.

He had never felt quite so alone . . .

O
ver his dinner that night, Rutledge wondered if he’d made a devil’s bargain with Toup over the name of the woman who had sometimes come to St. Marina’s with Harry Saunders. He couldn’t force the vicar to give him the information he’d asked for. Not until he could show that it was essential to closing the inquiry. But he was distinctly uneasy.

The vicar had said that she was staying in Rock. Then why attend services in Padstow at all? It would make sense for her to attend here in Heyl, if she crossed the Camel.

The other problem on his mind was the dinghy.

It wasn’t Trevose who had put those holes in the bottom of the dinghy. Of that much he was fairly certain. What purpose would it have served? He couldn’t have predicted where or when the dinghy would sink. It had been sheer luck that someone else had been out on the water that day. But someone had wanted Harry Saunders to die. And he, Rutledge, was going to have to find out who it was, before he could either clear the names of the four accused, or condemn them.

A niggling suspicion crept into his mind as he finished his tea.

Had Victoria, despite her protests about her relationship with Harry Saunders, been jealous enough of the other woman to tamper with his boat? On the theory that if she couldn’t have him, no one else would? Was this the motive that had eluded him?

Did she know enough about boats to have done the work?

The one small piece of evidence in favor of that possibility was her reluctance to go to his aid when the dinghy was sinking. And dropping the oar on his head had been her reaction to the chance that he would be saved by her friends. After all, it would be difficult to find another opportunity to kill him.

Rutledge reached into his pocket and took out the small square of cloth he’d found in the sand.

Whom did it belong to? Victoria, as she was trying to put holes in the bottom of the dinghy? Or had it caught on a nail as a summer visitor strolled down to the water to watch a sunset or moonrise, a gust of wind whipping the delicate fabric against the rough planking of the landing? Too much could be read into bits of evidence. Wishful thinking on a detective’s part, hoping to find truth in what was actually irrelevant.

Hamish, in the back of his mind, was telling him that he had not allowed the other four women to escape questioning. Why hadn’t he insisted that the vicar tell him the name of the fifth?

“Yon lass,” he said, referring to Kate. “You do na’ believe she’s guilty, but you were verra’ cold wi’ her. Was it because of the ither?”

He knew what Hamish was suggesting, that he had been giving Kate no quarter because she was Jean’s cousin, and he must not be seen favoring her.

He didn’t think he had been harsh with her. He had tried to walk the narrow line between friendship and duty, bearing in mind too how Kate had once felt about him.

“But does she feel the same way now?” Hamish asked.

He didn’t know. It was not a subject he could broach.

He remembered her distress when he’d asked if she would help him find out the truth—she had seen it as a betrayal of her friendship with the others. He should not have put her in that position, even to conceal his real interest—asking her about the bit of cloth he’d found. And yet he was faced with the very real possibility that all four women would be taken to Bodmin and put in cells in the women’s prison there. He had managed so far to keep them safe from that horror—but it had only been the holes in the dinghy that had saved them after Saunders died of his wound.

He was tired, he told himself, and Hamish always found him vulnerable then.

K
ate Gordon’s father arrived with the morning post. He had had to leave a meeting in Dartmouth, and he was in a foul temper.

His driver, a corporal, walked into the inn just as Rutledge was finishing his breakfast, seeking a room.

Passing through Reception, Rutledge stopped at the sight of the uniform, and said, “Good morning. Inspector Rutledge. I take it that Major Gordon has come down to Cornwall?”

“He has that,” the corporal replied, his mouth twisting in a grimace. “Corporal Dixon, sir. I’m to collect him tomorrow morning at ten. Sharp. I can only hope he’s in a better temper. I swear I could smell sulfur in the air, most of the way.”

“I doubt he will be in a better mood.”

He gave Gordon half an hour to greet his daughter before arriving himself at Padstow Place.

The maid who opened the door was visibly rattled, and even from where he stood, Rutledge could hear raised voices.

“I can find my way,” he said to the maid, and walked purposefully toward the library.

He opened the door to find Gordon standing by the hearth, St. Ives by the window with his back turned, and Grenville at the table, leaning forward with his hands flat on the surface, his expression as hard as Gordon’s was furious.

“And I say no jumped-up Inspector from Scotland Yard is going to dictate to me about my daughter’s movements.”

“If you take her away from here, all four of them will be put in—”

Absorbed in their confrontation, neither had looked toward the door. Grenville did now, breaking off and clearly intending to tell whoever had opened it to get out.

Instead, he straightened up and waited.

Gordon, looking in his turn at the interruption, frowned. “Inspector,” he said after a moment, and then, “What’s to prevent me from removing my daughter from Cornwall?”

“Good morning, sir. Mr. Grenville will tell you that we have gone to great lengths to see to it that the accused have remained here in this house. The few hours they spent in the small cell in the village were shocking. By all means, take Miss Gordon back to London with you. I can’t stop you. But when she leaves this house, a warrant will be issued for her immediate arrest, and when she is taken into custody, she will be transferred to the nearest prison that can accommodate her. And her friends will be sent there as well, where they’ll remain until this case comes to trial. Neither Mr. Grenville nor I will be able to do anything about that.”

“This is ridiculous nonsense, and you know it. Kate is no more a felon than I am. It’s time this farce is finished and she’s allowed to return to her family.”

“Hardly a farce, Major. Harry Saunders has died of his head wound. The charge is now murder. There will be an inquest shortly. I expect the accused will be remanded to prison to await trial. Trevose’s testimony and the blow to Saunders’s head will see to that. Men have been convicted on less. Your best hope was Harry Saunders living to give
his
evidence.”

“I don’t see why the statement of a farmer is more trustworthy than that of my daughter. Or Grenville’s for that matter,” Gordon fumed.

He was a soldier, accustomed to instant respect and men at the ready to carry out his orders.

“Because at the moment, he’s an impartial witness. If there
was
an attempt to kill Saunders, there would be collusion among the women in that boat to deny it.”

“Is this some sort of retribution for Jean’s breaking off of your engagement?”

Stung, Rutledge could hear Hamish raging in the back of his mind, but he forced himself to say calmly, “You’re understandably angry, sir, and I will overlook that remark. As I was not there in that rowing boat, I can’t tell you what actually happened. And therefore I must depend on the evidence in the case, not any regard I may have for your daughter.”

“What’s more,” Grenville interjected, “I will not allow you to jeopardize
my
daughter’s well-being by countenancing your removal of Kate from this house. If Rutledge can’t stop you, I can. As magistrate, I have some authority here.”

St. Ives turned to face the room. “You’re outnumbered in this, Gordon, and I expect Langley will side with us as well. Face it. This is one stronghold you can’t charge and overthrow with cavalry and foot.”

Gordon controlled his temper with an effort. “This Saunders. Why is that name familiar to me?”

“His father is connected with our local bank.”

“I’m not acquainted with your local banker. During the war, was he an officer seconded to the military attaché at the embassy in Washington?”

“He was.”

“I knew the attaché. He spoke highly of the lieutenant. I am sorry to hear he’s dead. Nevertheless, I will have Kate out of here before London gets wind of this and the story is spread all over the newspapers that she’s an accomplice to
murder
.”

“I understand your feelings, sir,” Rutledge said. “But the story will reach the newspapers sooner if Kate and the others are locked up in Bodmin. They are safer here, and a good deal more comfortable.”

“Bodmin? While they await their trial? You can’t be serious, man.”

“Where else can they go? Four female prisoners? Neither Padstow nor Wadebridge is able to take them.”

There was a knock at the door, and Grenville called, “What is it?” in a tone of voice that clearly indicated his displeasure at being disturbed a second time.

The maid stood on the threshold.

“Constable Pendennis is here, sir. For the Inspector.”

“Show him in,” Grenville ordered, and after a moment Pendennis walked into the room, his face as expressionless as he could contrive to make it.

He’d taken in the situation at a glance. The three men waiting for him to speak were glaring at him. Turning to Rutledge, he said, “Mr. Saunders’s solicitor was just at the police station, sir. And he informed me that Mr. and Mrs. Saunders are pressing for the four young ladies to be bound over for trial. As Mr. Grenville is the magistrate, he will be required to hear the charges.”

Gordon was the first to recover. “I am sorry for the loss of his son. I have already said so. But victimizing my daughter will not bring the lad back.” He turned on Rutledge.

“And you, sir, will see to it that this matter is concluded before there is any further persecution of my daughter.”

S
till smarting from Gordon’s dressing-down, Rutledge kept his temper and asked to speak to Elaine St. Ives.

Grenville took him to the drawing room, and he waited there for Elaine to come down.

When the door opened, he was surprised to see Mrs. Grenville stepping into the room and quietly closing the door behind her.

“I have heard the shouting from the library. I gather there is no good news.”

“Pendennis has come to relate the Saunderses’ insistence on having the accused returned to gaol. Your husband will have to deal with it. I left Pendennis in the library.”

“Daniel in the lion’s den,” she said ruefully. “Will he succeed in taking them to Bodmin?”

“I doubt it.”

“Would it do any good if I were to call on Mr. and Mrs. Saunders?”

“At the moment, they’re blinded to everything but their own grief. I think it best to wait.”

She said, with sadness in her voice, “We are all parents. And I know what it is to lose an only son. Do
you
think those four women are guilty of intentionally killing Harry Saunders?”

She had not invited him to sit down. He thought it was a measure of her distress that she had forgot her manners.

“As a policeman it’s my duty to find out the truth. Not to judge.”

“You’ve interviewed them, Mr. Rutledge. You must know that they aren’t criminals.”

He understood what she wanted from him: some relief from the worry that was tearing her apart. But there was no way he could offer her that.