by Charles Todd
“It won’t come to that.” But he could see in his mind’s eye a picture of Elaine St. Ives standing in the dock, in tears as she was being cross-questioned by the prosecutor. Any trial would be held in Padstow, where the Saunders name carried weight.
“You canna’ be sure. And there’s the Gordon lass.”
He didn’t want to think about Kate, charged with a murder. They would hold her and the others in gaol if Harry Saunders died. And he, Rutledge, would be responsible in a way, if he couldn’t uncover a clearer answer to what had occurred there in the rowboat.
Kate didn’t resemble Jean at all. They were very different in so many ways. Kate, if anything, was the plainer of the two, although very attractive. And added to that was her spirit, a natural openness and caring for others that was apparent after a few minutes in her company.
All of them would find prison life devastating. Even if their names were cleared, there would be a shadow over them for the rest of their lives.
But what he didn’t know—couldn’t know now, couldn’t ask—was how Kate felt about him.
The last time he had seen her in that fall of 1914, when he was on his way to enlist in the Army, he had realized that this friendly, lively woman who had tried to help him understand Jean’s mercurial temperament had been in love with him herself. And hidden it so well that he had had no idea how long or even how deeply she’d felt that way.
And he would not hurt her if he could help it.
He owed that much to Kate and to Jean.
By the time he reached the village, the cloud over the sun had become a dark bank, and the temperature had dropped to more seasonal levels as well.
He went to the inn and began a more thorough search of Inspector Barrington’s belongings.
Barrington had not come for a very long stay. Two changes of clothing, nightclothes, extra pairs of shoes, an umbrella, shaving gear, a box of stationery that yielded a letter to his wife he’d begun but never finished, and his return ticket to London stuck inside a book he’d been reading on the journey down to Cornwall. Nothing in the shoes, nothing in pockets or between the folds of shirts. No loose sheets of paper, no small leather-bound notebook.
Rutledge took out the unfinished letter and read it. He hadn’t wished to, but it represented the only contact with Barrington left to him.
My love,
I’ve arrived safely and set about the inquiry, but I fear Chief Superintendent Markham is wrong about dealing with this business quickly. I haven’t visited the injured man yet—he hasn’t regained his senses. But I’ve spoken to a number of the people involved. They don’t seem to agree on many of the details. He may be better able to tell me with greater accuracy exactly what occurred.
It appears that I shall miss the Matthews’ anniversary party, worst luck. You must go and wish them well for me. Twenty-five years of marriage. Wonderful indeed.
And it had stopped there, as if he had put it aside and expected to come back to it later.
His wife would be glad of it.
If the statements weren’t in his valise, where were they? And why would anyone wish to take them? Everyone knew who the victim was, everyone knew by this time that Trevose had made the accusation against the four young women. There would be no surprises in the interviews as far as he, Rutledge, could judge.
But of course the room would have been cleaned daily. Perhaps Barrington had hidden the papers to keep prying eyes from reading them and gossiping about what he or she had seen.
He set about searching the wardrobe from top to bottom, and then the room, even lifting the mattress from the bed and searching in the hems of the floor-length curtains before pulling up each corner of the carpet.
Nothing. He looked behind the three pictures on the wall, went through the washstand.
Sitting down on the bed again, Rutledge admitted defeat.
If they were here, the statements and any notes that had been made about the interviews, if they were still in Inspector Barrington’s possession at the time of his death, why would the constable lie about not finding them?
It didn’t matter, he told himself. He had already talked to the principals, with the exception of Harry Saunders, and he probably knew as much now as Barrington had uncovered before his untimely death.
But it rankled. A policeman’s notes were the Yard’s business and no one else’s, until he appeared in a courtroom.
What could Barrington have uncovered that might change the outcome of this case?
Or to put it another way, he thought, what had someone feared he’d uncovered?
Still, it was more likely that someone had been curious enough to take them, and didn’t know just how to restore them to luggage now locked away for London to collect.
He spent half an hour interviewing the staff, but no one professed to knowing anything about Inspector Barrington’s papers.
Hamish kept him awake until nearly four o’clock in the morning.
And just before dawn the rain came down in a hard shower that turned into a steady downpour. When Rutledge looked out his window, the pavement was wet, water running in rivulets down the street in front of the inn, and those who were out this early hurried along with their heads bent and their umbrellas losing the battle with the elements.
The salvage people had promised to be there by eight o’clock, but they didn’t come. He understood, it was not the best of weather to search for and raise a boat, even one as small as the dinghy the four women had described.
After breakfast he went out to the motorcar and set out to find the landing where Victoria Grenville and her friends had taken the rowboat onto the river.
Twice he drove down a rutted lane that led into a tenant’s farmyard and had to search out a place where he could reverse. On the third try, he was luckier, and soon rounded a bend to see the small wooden jetty where a rowing boat was tied up.
He was surprised to see it there, swinging with the tide. He had thought it might be impounded as evidence. But very likely Grenville had prevailed and had it brought back. There was a canvas stretched over it to keep out the rain. He got out, pulled his umbrella from the boot, and walked onto the jetty. It was not quite twenty feet in length, a row of wooden pilings with planks nailed across to form a surface. From the look of it, he thought it had been there since well before the war. Some of the planks had been warped by weather and time, giving it an uneven appearance, although it was sturdy enough to take his weight without creaking.
He stood looking down at the boat, but it could tell him very little. It was large enough to accommodate the four women, and riverworthy if not seaworthy, with high sides and a blunt stern.
It would have been difficult to drag a grown man over the side and into the boat, most especially one whose clothing was already waterlogged.
But that was assuming the women were telling the truth.
Leaving the jetty, he looked for a place where the bicycles could have been left, but with the rain there was no way of being certain which stand of stunted scrub they had chosen.
He walked on along the shoreline for a time, damp sand clinging to his boots. In the distance, through another heavy shower, he could just make out the village landing and the pinnacles of the church tower. Beyond, the color of the water changed as the Little Petherick flowed into the Camel. Padstow was a blur downriver.
He soon picked up a rough track that followed the riverbank, and realized he must be off Grenville land. Several turnings that led inland must go to farms, he thought, a shortcut across the fields. The Trevose farm as well? Where exactly had Trevose been going that afternoon?
About here, then, was where Trevose had been walking.
He moved on, about halfway, he judged, between the Grenville landing and the village. The river was wide enough for the rowboat to be in the channel, and if the tide was full, a strong swimmer c
ould make it to the boat in a matter of minutes.
If the women were intent on killing Saunders, they had only to let him go as soon as they heard Trevose shout. Saunders would have been pulled away from the boat by the current and drawn under. Trevose would have had to dive to find him, and even then it might have been too late, especially if the man had been stunned by the oar.
Why hadn’t they?
Were they so intent on what they were doing that they wanted to finish it? Or were they holding on as best they could until help arrived?
Turning back the way he’d come, he found it hard to believe that Kate Gordon would be a party to murder.
Hamish, surprising him, taking advantage of Rutledge’s change in mood, said in a voice loud enough to be heard over the rain beating down on the umbrella, “Ye canna’ know she’s the same person. It’s been six years.”
“People don’t change that much. I can’t believe Kate would.” He broke off. There was a man standing by the jetty, watching him. He held a shotgun, broken, over his arm.
Had he answered Hamish aloud? Or had his words been caught by the wind or smothered by the rain?
He walked on, and when he was close enough, the man said, “This your motorcar?” His Cornish accent was so heavy Rutledge found it hard to translate what he was saying into plain English.
“Yes, mine,” he replied.
The man waited until Rutledge was nearer, then added, “This is private land. You have no business driving in here.”
“My name is Rutledge. Scotland Yard. I believe you’ll find that Mr. Grenville will have no problem with my being on his land.”
“That’s as may be. I saw you down the home farm. Will he give permission to interfere there as well?”
“Hardly interfering,” Rutledge said, stopping just out of range of the shotgun. “I’d like very much to know why you’re armed.”
“Trespassers. There were two men from newspapers at the door of the Place this morning. I was told to see they didn’t disturb the family or wander about the property.”
“I’m not a journalist.”
“That’s as may be,” the man said again.
“Then we’ll walk to the house, shall we, and ask Mr. Grenville’s view of the matter.”
After a moment the man said, “No need to disturb them again. If you’re leaving.”
Rutledge had seen all he’d come to see.
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
The man stepped back, allowing Rutledge to pass. After turning the crank, he took his time closing his umbrella and stowing it once again in the boot. Then he walked to the driver’s door and opened it.
Holding it open, he knocked the sole of first one and then the other of his boots against the frame, to shake off the thick coating of sand.
The man, waiting impatiently, said nothing. Rutledge got into the motorcar, reversed, his wheels spinning a little in the heavy wet sand, and then turned back toward the main road.
In his mirror he could just see the man standing there watching him before he was cut off by the bend in the road.
It was not very wise of Grenville to send one of his tenants out with a shotgun to keep interlopers off his property. On the other hand, he must feel beleaguered, and the estate was the only place he could protect his daughter. And her friends.
At least that was the way it appeared. But if the tenant took his work too seriously, there could be more charges than attempted murder.
When he reached the village again, he sat in the motorcar for ten minutes, telling himself that there must be other avenues to explore. People to talk to. Anything but going back to Padstow Place and speaking to Kate and the others. What more could they tell him?
Watching the raindrops racing down the windscreen, he put together all he’d learned thus far, and so far there was nothing to alter the initial charge against Victoria and her friends.
It still came down to their word against that of Bradford Trevose. In a courtroom in London, the four women might prevail. They were from good families, respected and respectable. A good barrister could claim that Trevose misunderstood what he was seeing and jumped to conclusions. That he had indeed helped the women save the drowning man. But there was the blow from the handle of the oar.
It was harder to explain away. It would depend on whether a jury believed that Victoria Grenville’s intention was to help, to give Saunders something to hold on to if they weren’t able to drag him in. A way to pull him to shore.
But it could also be viewed as fear that he might be saved.
By the same token, in a trial in Cornwall, would a man like Trevose be believed instead? He was known, one of their own, and a jury might well be persuaded that he would never have leaped into the cold waters of the Camel if there had not been a real threat to Saunders.
But where was the motive for murder?
Not even Saunders had suggested one.
Rutledge was about to step out of the motorcar when he spotted Constable Pendennis pedaling fast toward the inn. The constable saw him and veered into the yard.
“What is it?” Rutledge asked as the bicycle was braked to a skidding stop, a wave of muddy water splashing across the motorcar’s radiator.
“I’ve just had word, sir. From Padstow. It appears that Harry Saunders has taken a turn for the worse. I thought you ought to know as soon as possible.”
Rutledge stood there, grimly listening to the constable.
It behooved him to get to the bottom of what had happened on the river. Before the charges changed from attempted murder to murder.
6
Thanking the constable, Rutledge got back in the motorcar and pulled out of the inn yard, driving to Padstow Place.
The same maid admitted him and led him to the library. This time there was no delay before Mr. Grenville joined him.
“Are you here to question my daughter and her friends again? I don’t know how much more they can tell you.”
“That may be necessary. I’ve come because you should be aware that there has been a change in Harry Saunders’s condition. It has worsened.”
Grenville stood there, his face showing nothing. Then he asked, “Is this an attempt to frighten my daughter and my guests into confessing to something that would be a lie?”
“I’m quite serious, sir. I felt you should be told.”
Grenville frowned, the fingers of one hand bracketing his mouth. “Will you give me your word that this is the truth?”
“I have no reason to lie.”
Grenville turned away, walking toward the fire that burned on the hearth. His hands gripped the marble chimney piece, and Rutledge could see that his knuckles were nearly as white as the marble itself.
Then he straightened. “I shall have to send word to my solicitor. And to the other families involved. Will you arrest my daughter and her friends?”
“Not yet. I’ll be forced to do that if the charge becomes murder.”
“But Saunders can’t die. He was hit on the head, half drowned. But he’s healthy, young. He’ll recover.”
“I’m told there’s bleeding on the brain.”
“Dear God.” He looked toward the tall windows where the rainwater was running in streams. “All right, what is it you need to ask? Who is it you will need to speak to?”
There was no choice in the matter.
“Miss Gordon.”
“Wait here. But don’t frighten her. I won’t have that.”
“You needn’t worry. I’m sure she will understand the situation herself.”
But he was speaking to Grenville’s back.
In five minutes, Kate Gordon stepped through the doorway.
“Ian? Is there any news? Mr. Grenville was not himself when he came to my door. What is it? What’s happened?”
He told her. There was no way to so
ften the blow.
She sat down abruptly. “Poor man,” she said. “His parents must be frantic. But what can I do? What can we do?”
“I want you to think back to that Saturday afternoon. Is there any detail you might have forgot?”
She considered the question, her head to one side. “No, I think I’ve been as clear and honest as I can be.”
“I shall need a written statement from each of you. It seems that your earlier ones have been mislaid. But let me warn you that they might well turn up, and if they do, and there are any inconsistencies between them, it will not go well for any of you.”
Kate stared at him. “You’re frightening me.”
“No. I’m trying to warn you. That’s all.”
“I hardly remember the first statement. I was cold, my skirts hanging heavy around my ankles. And so very tired. I’d have given anything for it all to be over, a bad dream or a misunderstanding of some sort. But what’s happened to the earlier ones?”
“Barrington had them, but they weren’t in his belongings when Constable Pendennis looked for them. And I’ve searched as well. They’ve gone missing.”
“That has an ominous ring to it.”
“I don’t know.”
He went to the small escritoire standing in the middle of the room beside a small bookcase filled with what appeared to be older, more precious books. There was paper in the single drawer, and pens. He took out several sheets and handed them to Kate, along with one of the fountain pens. “Here. Take your time. If you think of something that might not be in the earlier version, tell me.”
Kate took the pen and paper, walking to the little desk and sitting down in the matching chair. Its back was heavily carved, vines and faces peering out from behind them. She stared out the window at the rain, collecting her thoughts, and finally began to write. When she’d finished, she read it over, then looked up at Rutledge.
“Shall I sign it? I did the other one.”
“Yes. Please.”
She wrote her name with more confidence than he thought she felt, then rose from the chair.
