No Shred of Evidence

by Charles Todd

  Trevose didn’t stop but continued toward the house, and the other two men fell in step beside him.

  “I expect you’ve heard that the Saunders boat has been located and brought up,” Rutledge began quietly. “I’m sure gossip reaches even this far.”

  “Mrs. Penwith’s cousin brought it out with a sack of flour,” he responded. “I don’t see that it changes anything. But the lad’s death does. That news also came with the sack of flour.”

  “There’s a strong possibility now that the four accused were telling the truth that Saunders was in the dinghy, and it was sinking rapidly.”

  Trevose shrugged. “It could have been there for weeks, that boat, and he’d been out with the women to search for it.”

  “Why at this time of year would he ask four women to help him search, when there’s a perfectly good salvage firm in Padstow that he could afford to hire? What’s more, Harry’s father never mentioned that the dinghy had been reported missing.”

  “Perhaps Harry didn’t see fit to tell his father. I saw what I saw, and there’s an end to it.”

  “I have a witness who saw Harry Saunders take the boat out that Saturday afternoon. That tells us the dinghy was in Saunders’s possession shortly before the encounter with the Grenville rowing boat, and that he had no one in the dinghy with him.”

  “I saw what I saw, and there’s an end to it.”

  “Do you have any personal connection with the families of any one of these young women?”

  Trevose glanced at him, then gestured around him with his free hand. “Do you think it’s likely?”

  “Miss Gordon is from London. And Miss Langley. Have you ever traveled to London, Trevose?”

  “I’m a farmer, Rutledge. Cows to milk, chickens to feed, pigs to keep out of the gardens. It’s a long way to London.”

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  “No.”

  “Miss St. Ives, then. Any connection with her family? They’re close by, you could be home in time to milk and all the rest.”

  “And what, pray, would I be doing there? I’m too old to ask for the hand of his daughter, and I never went to school with his son. We have nothing in common.” It was said with disdain, as if the loss was St. Ives’s.

  “And the Grenvilles?” Rutledge had purposely left them to the last.

  Trevose glanced in Pendennis’s direction before answering, “You might say the same for the Grenvilles. Although we’ve had words over his precious deer getting out of the park and grazing on my crops.”

  “You had a younger brother, I believe.”

  Trevose stopped and stared straight at Rutledge. “He died young. Leave him out of this.” And then he walked on, ignoring them.

  Rutledge let him go. Whatever reason drove Trevose to stick to his story, it was beyond argument. But he had given the man some information to think about.

  Turning to Pendennis, he said, “That will do for now.”

  He drove the silent constable back to the police station and then decided to take the owner of The Pilot up on his invitation to come in.

  The pub was old and dark, paneling and beams blackened by years of smoking fires and men’s pipes. The bar was bright with brass pulls and stacks of clean glasses, while the space around it was shaped like a U, with tables and chairs. They were heavy, at least thirty or forty years old, the tabletops well worn and uneven. But the smells wafting in from the kitchen were irresistible, and Rutledge nodded to the barkeep as he crossed the room to a table. It was late for lunch, still early for dinner. And the bar was empty. He had The Pilot to himself.

  The day’s special was a turnip-­and-­potato pasty, piping hot from the oven. To his surprise when he cut into it, Rutledge found it contained mince as well. With it came a side dish of stewed apples and another of green cabbage.

  He was halfway through the meal when Penhale came in from the kitchen, saw him sitting alone, and came over to the table.

  “Found the Saunders dinghy, did you?”

  “We have.”

  “Pity he’s dead. Nice enough young man.”

  “I need to find his friends and ask them a few questions about him.”

  Penhale scratched his chin. “Acquaintances here, of course, but no close friends that I know of. You’ll have to ask in Padstow. Or Rock.”

  Rutledge had thus far avoided bringing in the Padstow police. Or crossing over to Rock. “The problem is, everyone tells me what a ‘nice young man’ Harry Saunders was. Surely if that’s true, he had friends. There would be respectable young women who invited him to dinner or parties or walked out with him on Sunday afternoon.”

  “In Heyl he kept to himself. Before the war he sometimes went fishing with George St. Ives. Now, of course, St. Ives is a vegetable, or so I hear.”

  “Have you seen him since the war?”

  “I have not. He stays close to home, and the staff don’t gossip. He had a nurse for the first weeks. She came with him from the clinic.”

  “Anyone who might wish Saunders harm?”

  Penhale chuckled. “ ‘A nice young man’?”

  “All right then, his father.”

  The chuckle faded. “I’ve not heard any talk against him.”

  Someone walked in the door, calling to Penhale. He nodded to Rutledge and left to speak to the newcomer. Rutledge suspected the man, who looked like a fisherman, was asking news of Saunders, for both looked toward his table as Penhale answered.

  Finishing his meal, Rutledge paid for it and left.

  Until he could speak to Mr. and Mrs. Saunders, he was at a standstill. But there was Elaine St. Ives, whose brother had gone fishing with Harry.

  He drove to Padstow Place, and asked to speak with her.

  Grenville, intercepting him on his way to the library, asked if there was any news.

  “I’m trying to look into Saunders’s background,” he said.

  “I can’t see what good that will do you. The question we’re facing is what to do about the charges against my daughter and her friends.”

  “Trevose stands by his initial statement.”

  Grenville swore. “Bloody-­minded fool. Surely you can put that nonsense to rest about throwing Saunders out of the rowboat. If his dinghy sank, he was never in ours until Trevose helped drag him there. A fact, Rutledge.”

  “Another fact, Grenville, is that he died from the blow to the head. If that injury is due to the oar hitting him, your daughter could still be charged. The seriousness of the charge will depend on just what she intended to do when she picked up that oar.”

  “My daughter has never hurt anyone.”

  “Then we must hope we can prove that.”

  He waited in the library for Elaine St. Ives, staring out the window that had been drenched in rain only the night before.

  As she came in she said quietly, “I’m so sorry to hear that Harry is dead. It’s quite terrible to think we had something to do with it. His parents must be unable to believe it. I wish I could write to them, but Mrs. Grenville tells me it wouldn’t be wise.”

  He turned. She was thinner, he thought, than when he had first met her, the bones of her face tight against the skin, her eyes dark-­circled. He remembered what St. Ives had said about the other tragedies she’d suffered.

  “No, I’m afraid it’s not a good idea,” he said, paying her the courtesy of believing her and understanding her feelings. “I haven’t spoken to Mr. or Mrs. Saunders since he died. I know they must be suffering. But if what you tell me about that Saturday is true, his death was not your fault.”

  “I don’t think I’ve lied.” She took a deep breath, walked toward the hearth, and held out her hands to the blaze. “I tried my best to balance the rowboat, to give Kate and Sara a chance to bring him in. Death is so final. You can’t go back and try again and hope it will all turn out well this time r
ound. You can do that with art or music or poetry—­start a fresh page. But not with a life.” She turned to face him. “I’m told you wished to see me. I can’t think of anything else, although I’ve tried. I was so frightened in the boat, it almost seems as if I wasn’t really there, just watching someone who looked like me and who wasn’t handling her fear very well. I see myself trembling when it should have been Harry I worried about, or Sara and Kate. You should have seen the bruises on their knees and arms, leaning out that way. I didn’t even have a splinter to show how I’d tried.”

  “It’s often that way with a very bad experience. Soldiers feel much the same after a battle. They see themselves running forward, firing their weapons, watching others fall around them. It’s a way to cope with it. You will too, in time. But I came here to ask about Harry Saunders. Who should I speak to who could tell me more about him? Who his friends were, his enemies—­if there was someone he particularly cared for. I need to know more than simply seeing him as the victim in this.”

  “I wish I knew how to answer you.”

  “I understand your brother sometimes went fishing with Harry Saunders.”

  “That’s true. On summer holidays, of course. We didn’t see much of him during the school year. My brother was at Winchester, and Harry was sent to a school in Yorkshire.”

  “Did they get along?”

  “I think so. Fishing is not very divisive, is it?”

  He smiled. “Not at all. What did they talk about?”

  “I’ve no idea. School. Sports. Girls.”

  “Has Harry visited your brother since the war?”

  Her face clouded. “No. George isn’t up to seeing anyone. He spends most of his days in his room. Sometimes he joins us for dinner. But that’s difficult for him.”

  “How badly was he wounded?”

  “He was terribly burned. A German flamethrower. He and some of his men had taken refuge in a shell crater, where they were trying to cover men retreating after a botched assault. Their angle of fire was deadly. The Germans sent out a man with a flamethrower, and he came up behind them. There was chaos on the battlefield at the time, and no one saw what he was about to do. There was no warning. Four of my brother’s men were already wounded. George turned and fired, but it was too late. No one quite knows how it was he survived. They got him to a field hospital and from there to the Base Hospital. It was awful, Mr. Rutledge. I’m ashamed to say I felt ill the day when I saw him carried through the door on a stretcher. Even his legs are twisted. He stays in his room or on the terrace in the shade, although he goes out into the gardens for a little air, but only at night when everyone is asleep. I’m told his skin—­scars—­are still quite sensitive to the sun.”

  Rutledge had seen such men. Sometimes they went out at night, faces hidden by a scarf and a hat pulled down low, gloves on their hands. It was said that children screamed and dogs barked when they saw burned men. Whether it was true or not, no one with severe scars wanted to find out. The pulled and puckered skin that twisted features and fingers was something out of nightmares. He himself had flinched once or twice when he’d seen a severe case.

  Flamethrowers had been more useful against buildings or bunkers, places where men were pinned down by fire. It was also said that snipers targeted men with the equipment on their backs, and that few were ever taken alive, even if they were captured. It was not seen as an honorable weapon of war.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “To return to Harry Saunders?”

  With a visible effort, Elaine St. Ives brought her thoughts back to the library. “Victoria believed he was in love with her. I don’t know if it’s true or not. I have no idea who his friends are. I seldom attended parties here in Cornwall. Most of my friends are in London now.”

  “Where did Saunders keep his dinghy?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t believe anyone has ever mentioned it to me.”

  He found he believed her. She didn’t have the kind of face that concealed what she was thinking. He had watched the play of emotions as she answered his questions. And having been engaged to Stephen Grenville, she had moved in very different circles than the banker’s son. It was one thing for boys to go fishing together. Quite another for a daughter of the house.

  Still, Padstow wasn’t a large town, and Heyl was even smaller. Had she heard no gossip?

  Apparently not. Gossip too moved in particular circles.

  He thanked her, and she had already opened the door when she shut it again and turned.

  “I just remembered . . . It was this past summer. A young woman came to Sunday ser­vices at St. Marina. I hadn’t seen her before. And she didn’t come every Sunday. Quite pretty, with brown hair and lovely taste in clothes. I never knew her name, she never offered to introduce herself. And then by September she was gone. Harry Saunders usually brought her to the vicarage, and then she came alone to the church. He came sometimes, but not always. If he didn’t stay, the vicar would take her home. Wherever home was. When I asked him who she was, Mr. Toup told me she was his cousin and visiting with friends over in Rock. I thought no more about it. Whenever Harry did stay for ser­vices, Victoria was there, and I expect he’d come to see her.” She smiled. “She would tell me not to leave her alone with him, but any woman is flattered by attention, and I thought she rather liked knowing she’d captivated him.”

  And then she was gone, leaving him to weigh what she’d just told him.

  9

  Rutledge was crossing the hall when Mrs. Grenville came down the stairs. She was wearing a dark red dress with a gold chain necklace, and the combination was very attractive with her dark hair.

  “Good evening, Inspector.”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Grenville.”

  “We’ve been given the sad news. And I understand, too, that poor Harry Saunders’s dinghy has been found.”

  “That’s true,” he answered her, and then he had the strongest feeling that she had been watching for him.

  She crossed to where he was standing and said, “I’ll see you out.”

  “Thank you.”

  They walked together as far as the house door, and with a quick glance over her shoulder to see if anyone was within earshot, she said quietly, “And has Mr. Trevose reconsidered his earlier statement, that my daughter and her friends were trying to drown Harry? I should think that finding the dinghy would change his mind, at least about the fact that Harry was in our boat. Instead he must have been trying to reach it after his own went down.”

  “Mr. Trevose remains adamant that what he reported was what he saw.”

  Her expression changed from polite interest to uncertainty. “But I should think he would find it hard to claim any such thing, now.”

  “He refuses to discuss the matter. But the inquiry is ongoing, and there is every possibility still that new information will come to light.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, saying, “Dear God, I hope so,” under her breath. And then she forced a smile and thanked him.

  He walked out to his motorcar with the distinct impression that she was still watching him. He could only hope, for her sake, that the past could stay buried, but if that was what was driving Trevose, the man wouldn’t give up his pound of flesh very easily.

  It was well after six o’clock when Rutledge reached the vicarage. He expected to find Mr. Toup sitting down to his dinner, but the vicar was just hanging his coat on the rack by the door as he opened it to Rutledge’s knock.

  “You only just caught me,” he said. “Or have you come looking before?”

  “I’ve been out to Padstow Place and only just returned to the village.”

  “Well, then, come in. May I offer you a drink? Vicars are supposed to drink only sherry, but I much prefer a good whisky. I’ve been to one of the outer farms, sitting with a parishioner who is recovering from pneumonia. We had feared at her age that she might not
live, but she’s a sturdy soul. The cottage was so hot from the coal fire, I thought I’d perish from the heat. But she feels the cold in her bones, she says.”

  He led Rutledge into the study, where the fire was burning down. Toup looked at it, decided to leave it where it was, and went over to a cabinet where he kept his whisky.

  “Some of my parishioners are strong temperance supporters, and so I try to make certain they aren’t shocked by my habits.”

  Rutledge smiled, taking the whisky that Toup poured for him.

  “Now, tell me. How are Miss Grenville and her friends bearing up? I’ve called several times, but Mr. Grenville has taken his duties to heart and refused to allow me to speak to them. I understand, of course, but I continue to call to assure them that I care about them.”

  “It’s been difficult. They expected to be returned to gaol when Saunders died, but finding the dinghy has called into question some of Trevose’s assumptions. Early days.” It was the standard police response when certain information hadn’t been made public.

  “What brings you here this evening?”

  “I was told that there was a young woman who visited St. Marina this summer, and Harry Saunders generally brought her to the vicarage to attend.”

  Alarm spread across the vicar’s face, quickly suppressed.

  “A summer visitor,” he answered casually. “Sometimes Saunders would bring her over in his carriage. As a courtesy.”

  “Who is she?”

  “A cousin of mine,” Toup replied. “She’s very young, and I thought it best for her not to stay here. My housekeeper doesn’t live in.” He smiled. “Even a man of my age is not immune from malicious gossip. Rock was more suitable.”

  “Who was she?” Rutledge persisted.

  Toup finished his whisky and said, “She’s not important to this inquiry, Inspector. She left here in September and hasn’t returned.”

  “Anything to do with Harry Saunders is important to me.”

  “May I ask who mentioned her to you?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “If I asked you, as a favor to me, to this church, to say nothing more about her, would you agree? I can vouch for her, and I can tell you truthfully that Harry Saunders was being kind when he brought her here. She’s a little reserved, and I think she felt more comfortable coming to ser­vices here rather than attending in Padstow. There’s no mystery about that. She didn’t wish to appear to be a friend of his—­he has his own life, or had. He simply provided transportation because I asked him to.”