No Shred of Evidence

by Charles Todd

  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.

  7

  Harry Saunders died without regaining consciousness at a little after seven that evening.

  Word was brought to Constable Pendennis, who in his turn came at once to the inn to pass the news on to Rutledge.

  “Are you certain of your news, Constable? It was from a trustworthy source?”

  “Yes, sir, it was one of the doctor’s nurses. It’s murder, now,” he said. “I shall have to ask Mr. Grenville if he will bring Miss Grenville and her friends in to be charged. There’s no room in the police station here for them. Only one cell, and no matron. I shall have to send them to Padstow or Wadebridge.”

  “I’d rather have them remain where they are,” Rutledge told him. They were in the parlor of the inn, speaking quietly so that no one in the bar in the next room could hear them. “I will need to speak to them, and there’s evidence still to be examined.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but now that young Saunders is dead, ­people will expect it. Murder changes the complexion of the inquiry.”

 
“It does. And I will take them into custody myself when the time comes.”

  “I can’t spare anyone to stand guard at the house.”

  “I think Mr. Grenville’s word will be sufficient. What did you learn from the house-­to-­house canvass? Did anyone see Saunders out in his boat that same afternoon? Or have a better view of the river and what was going on?”

  “The constables from Padstow couldn’t find anyone who had seen anything. I find that very queer. All those windows overlooking the mole and the river? But no one has come forward.”

  How many ­people’s livelihoods, he wondered, depended in some way on the Grenville estate or family? Or was it a simple matter of not wanting to be brought in to testify? The bank was important in the life of the village now, and ­people might not wish to stand up in court and give evidence at all.

  “I’ll drive to the Place and tell them the news. And make certain that Grenville understands his responsibilities.”

  “They have the money to spirit their daughters away to the south of France or even America. The Grenvilles and the St. Iveses. The others as well, to be sure.”

  “You’re chasing shadows, Constable. And if these were your daughters, would you wish them in a cell anywhere?”

  He had the grace to look away, reconciling his need to see things properly done and the fact that if the evidence was wrong, he would make the Grenvilles and the St. Iveses very angry with him.

  “Very well, sir. If you insist.”

  “I’ll take full blame, Constable.”

  He set out five minutes later to Padstow Place.

  The family had just sat down to dinner.

  Grenville came out to speak to him, saying, “Can’t it wait until we’ve finished our meal?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. I’ve just received word from Padstow. Harry Saunders has died of his head injury. This means that the charge of attempted murder has now been changed to one of murder.”

  Grenville stared at him. “Are you sure, man?”

  “Word was brought by one of Dr. Carrick’s nurses.”

  Grenville turned to look toward the dining room, then swung back to face Rutledge.

  “If you are here to take my daughter and my guests in to a cell, I will tell you as Chief Magistrate that I will not allow it.”

  “For the time being, I’ve persuaded the constable to leave them where they are. The weather is clearing; tomorrow I should be able to find Saunders’s boat. Until I have that, I can postpone any official action. If it’s not there, then we’re back to the question of whether or not Saunders was in your rowboat, what he was doing there, and how he came to be in the water.”

  “Good God,” Grenville said again, absently rubbing his chin with one finger as he tried to think. “Thank you. And I believe it would be best to say nothing to my wife or the young ladies. Not tonight. The news will keep until tomorrow. Let them rest.” He looked up at the lamp that lit the entry and the stairs, an ornate but small chandelier. “I’ve lost my only son. I am sorry for Saunders and his wife. I know what that grief is like.”

  “Is Major Gordon still here?”

  “He’s on his way to London. God, I shall have to send a telegram to him, and to Langley. Have you told St. Ives?”

  “That’s where I’m going when I leave here.”

  “He’ll find it as difficult to accept as I do. There’s George, you see. Well. I must return to the dining room and keep this to myself as best I can. Good evening.”

  Rutledge left and drove on until he found the gates to the St. Ives house. It was not the size of Padstow Place, but even in the cloudy darkness, Rutledge could see that it was nearly as old as the Grenvilles’.

  On the ornate gates, standing wide, was the image of a Cornish chough, the large glossy black bird with the down-­curving red beak and red legs. It was depicted in soaring flight, with its long wings and short tail caught beautifully, and red enamel had been applied to the black of the iron plate to show the legs and beak.

  One legend had it that as King Arthur died, he was transformed into a Cornish chough, and his spirit still watched over England.

  On the gateposts were brass placards, one to each side, giving the name Chough Hall in English to the right, and presumably in Cornish to the left.

  The house rose three stories above the drive, crenellated at the roofline, and spread out into two smaller wings on either side. The drive stopped at a set of three steps that led up to a broad terrace lined with stone urns, and the iron-­studded wooden door was set deep in arched stonework.

  He lifted a brass knocker in the shape of the St. Ives coat of arms, and waited several minutes before someone answered the door.

  It was a manservant, dressed in black. “The family is not receiving this evening,” he said.

  “I’m from Scotland Yard. Please tell Mr. St. Ives that I’m here.”

  The man went away, and soon afterward St. Ives himself came to the door.

  “Rutledge? Grenville told me he’d spoken to you. I was coming myself to speak to you today, but the weather stopped me.”

  St. Ives was older than Grenville by some years. A heavyset man, a head shorter than Rutledge, and balding.

  “Come in, then. I was in my study.”

  Rutledge followed him into the interior, lit by only one lamp and filled with shadows.

  “We keep early hours without Elaine here,” St. Ives was saying. “My son just went up.”

  There was a fire on the hearth of the comfortable room, bookshelves lining two walls, a desk to one side, and leather chairs ranged around the hearth. There was paneling where there were no shelves, and several paintings hung in those spaces. Rutledge could see the resemblance to what appeared to be ancestral portraits going back to the 1700s, judging from the style of clothes.

  “Sit down. Whisky? It’s a raw night.”

  “Thank you, sir, but no.”

  “Bad news? Well, spit it out, man. We’ve been no stranger to it of late.”

  “Harry Saunders died earlier this evening.”

  St. Ives sat down hastily, as if the air had been let out of him. “I have been prepared for that. At least I thought I was. But it’s a shock to hear it, all the same. Have you told Grenville?”

  “I’ve just come from there.”

  “How did my daughter take such news?”

  “The family was at dinner. Grenville thought it best to wait until tomorrow.”

  “Yes, well, he’s right there. Elaine wouldn’t sleep a wink, worrying about what’s to happen next.” He sprang to his feet again as he realized what Rutledge’s call must mean. “Here! You’re not taking them back to that damned cell, are you?”

  “Not yet. But you must realize that it will happen sooner rather than later. Unless someone else comes forward to give us a different account from the one Trevose has given. Constable Pendennis has had men canvassing the village houses with windows overlooking the river. No one has admitted to seeing anything.”

  “Fools,” he said succinctly. “But then we’re used to the river being there. We don’t sit and stare at it by the hour. We have better things to do. I’ve seen visitors do that, and it’s all very well if you’re on holiday. But listen to me. Elaine is not fit to sit in a prison cell for months on end. She wasn’t always of such a nervous disposition. When Stephen was killed, I thought we’d lose her as well. Then her mother died of that damned Spanish flu, and her brother came home an invalid. She’s seen how fragile life can be, and it’s changed her. She cries over a dead mouse, for God’s sake. What will happen to her in a prison, where the roughest of inmates will prey on her?” He looked at Rutledge. “I won’t allow it. You must understand me on this, Rutledge.”

  “I find it hard to believe that your daughter was a party to any attempt to kill Saunders—­but she has been accused of the crime, and that will have to be deal
t with.”

  “We’ll see about that,” St. Ives retorted grimly. “If I have to apply to the King himself, I’ll protect her. He has a family, he will appreciate a father’s fears.”

  Rutledge said nothing. The King would have no authority here. Still, he remembered when, as a newly minted constable, he’d heard the older men talk about the conditions under which the suffragettes had lived in prison, and their treatment. It had been punitive, designed to deter them from some of their more dramatic behavior. But prison was still harsh, and the other inmates would make life wretched for women like Miss St. Ives, gently reared and unprepared for what she would find there.

  “I’ll go to see her in the morning,” St. Ives was saying. “She’ll be sick with worry. It might even be possible to persuade the others to clear her name. Damn the man,” he added vehemently, and Rutledge wasn’t certain whether he was referring to Saunders or Trevose.

  “They can’t clear her name. To say that Miss St. Ives had taken no part in the drowning will condemn them. What we need is fresh evidence, a new witness to come forward.”

  “I’ll offer a substantial reward. That ought to bring the most reluctant witness out of hiding.”

  “Along with every poor fisherman or farmer eager to claim it, even if it requires them to perjure themselves. What’s more, you can’t be sure you’ll be given the information you’re searching for. It could make matters worse.”

  St. Ives swore. “I don’t like this feeling of helplessness, Rutledge. It doesn’t suit me, damn it.”

  “Nor does it suit me. But I’m bound to follow the law.” He rose to take his leave. “Grenville will send telegrams to Langley and Major Gordon with the news of Saunders’s death. It would be advisable for all of you to keep your heads. Otherwise you will do more harm than good threatening to take matters into your own hands.”

  “Easy for you to say,” St. Ives answered shortly. And then he took a deep breath. “Damn it, Rutledge, I know you are doing your best here, but surely there’s a way around this?”