by Charles Todd
“You do realize,” Rutledge said, “to be perfectly clear about it, the police have not been able to question the victim. We have never been able to ask him what he believed actually happened there in the boat. It would have been very useful, if we could have done so. It is now a matter of the word of the farmer, Trevose, and the word of your daughters.”
Grenville’s face darkened. “Are you telling me that you want to see the accused taken away to gaol?”
“No, I am not. I am telling you that as their gaoler, you must remember that you are just that, and not a father. Or in loco parentis for Gordon, Langley, and St. Ives. You must see that they are kept close. For their own safety as well as a matter of duty.”
Grenville stared at Rutledge. He was not accustomed to being told where his duty lay. Certainly not by a policeman. And then he seemed to realize that Pendennis was still standing there with them, all ears. That undoubtedly the constable would report this conversation to the grieving parents of the dead man.
He cleared his throat, as if that action also cleared his head, and then responded with dignity. “I do understand, Inspector. I will not show favoritism, I will not allow them privileges that are not permitted by their circumstances, and I will stand surety for their appearance if called upon to answer these charges in court.”
“Then I rely on your good faith. Constable?”
Pendennis nodded. “I have no choice but to do the same.”
Grenville glanced at St. Ives, then turned to walk Pendennis and Rutledge to the door, the good host. Or as near to that as he could muster. St. Ives remained where he was.
Grenville saw them out punctiliously.
Pendennis, turning toward his bicycle, glanced at the closed door. He said, for Rutledge’s ears only, “I’m not happy about this. What am I to tell Mr. and Mrs. Saunders? Their son is dead.”
“There’s rope in the boot,” Rutledge said. “We’ll lash your bicycle to the motorcar and I’ll drive you back to the village. We’ll talk about it on the way.”
“I’d prefer to ride on my own, sir. If you please.”
“Then you’ll stop at the gate. We can talk there.”
He cranked the motorcar and followed Pendennis down the drive, wondering as he did if the constable would wait for him there.
He did. Rutledge left the motor running to signify that he had no intention of holding up the constable for very long. The time for argument had, in fact, long since past. He got down, walked to where the constable was standing, and said, “You disagree with Grenville’s decision.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I do, sir. Harry Saunders is dead. There must be an inquest, binding those four young women over for trial. It’s not right that they aren’t in Bodmin Gaol.”
“I have not forgot. Grenville will see to scheduling the inquest. But I also remember that these same four women, even in a state of distress, still claimed that what happened out there on the water was an accident. However it might have looked to Trevose on the riverbank. And Trevose has also claimed that Saunders was in the Grenville rowing boat at the start of this business, and had been shoved overboard and held under the water to drown. Since then we’ve discovered the dinghy at the bottom of the river. Just as the four accused told us. What else is incorrect in his statement? Until the inquest decides, we will treat the young women with respect.”
“If they were anyone else, they would be in custody while you investigated the truth of the accusation. Sir,” Pendennis said stubbornly.
“When was the last time you were in Bodmin Gaol? Would you care to see your own daughter sent there?”
“I have no daughter, sir!”
“Yes, Constable,” Rutledge responded patiently. “I was speaking in general terms. Any young woman of your acquaintance, then. A sister. A friend.”
Pendennis hesitated.
“Bodmin was considered a proper place to keep the Crown Jewels safe during the war. Surely that recommends it?” Rutledge asked.
“But Harry Saunders—do you seriously believe, sir, that they will be found not guilty? That they have spoken the truth, and Trevose is lying?”
Rutledge could almost hear his thoughts—that Inspector Barrington wouldn’t have handled the situation in this manner. That Barrington wasn’t acquainted with one of the accused. Or was that his own conscience speaking?
“I shall want to know more about who put those holes in the bottom of Harry Saunders’s boat before I parcel out guilt or innocence. Did you mention that problem to Grenville?”
Constable Pendennis drew himself up stiffly. “I don’t gossip. Sir. And you asked me not to say anything.”
“Good man. Whoever interfered with the dinghy knew what he or she was doing. Holes placed carefully so that it would take on water slowly, well into midriver and far from help. Until I’m satisfied on that point, I can’t in good conscience close this inquiry. If the four women are guilty of causing Saunders’s death, then part of the responsibility surely belongs to whoever put him in peril in the first place.” Rutledge looked up as a cart came rattling by, the man holding the reins staring with interest at two policemen standing at the gates of Padstow Place. He waited, watching it until it had gone around the next bend in the road. “Can you understand why I am reluctant to listen to Saunders calling for their blood, reluctant to hurry them off to Wadebridge or Bodmin, until I know who else wanted Harry Saunders to die in the river that day? You can see these holes for yourself, if you wish.”
He half expected Pendennis to ask if he himself had done the damage to the boat, to protect the four women.
But the man said, “Will you take me there? It’s too far to go on my bicycle.”
“Yes, I will do that. Now, if you like.”
“Now would be convenient, sir.”
They lashed the bicycle to the motorcar after all, and the constable got in beside Rutledge. They traveled to the village in silence, and Rutledge wondered if the constable was mulling over what he’d been told.
Dropping the bicycle at the police station, they set out for Padstow and the salvage yard.
As they were nearing their destination, the constable spoke for the first time. “It was deliberate? You are sure of it? And it happened before the—incident—on the water?”
“See for yourself.”
He left the motorcar where he had before, and they walked down to the salvage yard. It was busy, and one or two of the men at work there glanced up as they passed, their boots crunching in the wet sand where a boat had been pulled into drydock. On their way there, Rutledge had said, “You were aware where Saunders kept the dinghy?”
“I was, sir. I expect other people knew.” And then he stopped, as if he wished he’d bitten his tongue.
They reached the dinghy where it had been stored in an out-of-the-way corner and together turned it over. Pendennis clambered aboard, and Rutledge stood back, letting him find the damage for himself. Watching as the constable thoroughly examined the bottom of the boat, Rutledge had a sense of being observed, and he turned his head to look. The owner of the yard was standing some thirty paces away, watching, along with one of his men. Rutledge nodded to him.
Pendennis hoisted himself out of the boat, then said, “Could we turn her over again, sir?”
Together they got it hull up, and Pendennis went to look for the narrow holes. “How come he didn’t see this before he took her out? Harry Saunders was a careful sailor, from all reports.”
“I don’t know the answer to that. The yard owner suggested that some sort of filler was used, something that would disintegrate after being in the water. Clay, possibly, or bits of paper or wax stuffed back in. Or perhaps he was in a hurry, or had other things on his mind, and so he saw what he believed must be there—an intact hull. See for yourself. Did you spot them when you first walked up to the dinghy and we turned it over the
first time?”
“No, sir. I was thinking, when first you told me, that something like an axe was taken to the planks. This work wasn’t meant to be visible, was it? But it was enough to let the boat sink in due course.”
“Precisely. Why put holes in the fabric of a boat? A warning, that someone had been here, and had damaged it, someone who had it in for you? But these were well hidden, so that in the course of your afternoon out, or halfway round to the Padstow docks, where your larger craft is anchored, you either swim for it or drown?”
“The young ladies took the boat out for pleasure, because it was a fair day. So they say. But maybe not so, maybe they wanted to watch Saunders drown.”
“How could they possibly be sure when next he was to take the dinghy out? And how could they know, putting the holes where they did in the fabric, that he wouldn’t go down sooner, on his way to Padstow? They aren’t experts in this, Pendennis. Do you think they would know when to be lying in wait?”
He shook his head. “It would be hard to say, precisely, where he set out to go, and how long he would stay afloat.”
“Then it’s possible, isn’t it, that the sinking of this dinghy was by design, and that the encounter was happenstance. No one was watching that day. The accused had only to let him drown. After all, there was no one else on the river, and these young women could claim that they hadn’t been able to reach him before he went down. Why pull him over to their boat and then hit him with an oar?”
“It still doesn’t clear them.”
“No. I agree. But it puts enough doubt in the picture to make me reluctant to send them to Bodmin Gaol. They’d just come down from London. When would they have had time to do this much damage? Even if they knew where to find the boat.”
“I dunno, sir. But I expect you’re right.” He looked down again at the dinghy. “But if it wasn’t the accused, who had it in for Harry Saunders?”
“I’d like to know that myself, Constable. And with any luck, we will.”
Pendennis turned to study the yard. “I wish I’d seen this straightaway, sir. Before I went to see Mr. Grenville this morning.”
“At the moment, the fewer people who are aware of this dinghy, the better, until I can sort it out.”
“I see, sir.”
But Rutledge wasn’t sure he did. Still, the constable appeared to be satisfied.
“I’ll drive you back to Heyl.”
The constable took one final look at the dinghy, as if still convincing himself of what he’d seen there, then followed Rutledge back to the motorcar.
“Know anything about the summer visitors who come here to let cottages?” Rutledge asked as he went to turn the crank.
“No, sir. They generally stay in the vicinity of Padstow. I know of them, and that’s about it. Over the years I doubt I’ve seen four or five in the village.”
“And the young woman who sometimes accompanied Saunders to St. Marina’s for Sunday service?”
“Was she from one of them?” Pendennis had opened the motorcar’s door and he stopped, staring at Rutledge. “I thought she was from Padstow. That he might have brought her down to the village to keep her out of his father’s or mother’s eye.” He shrugged. “They strike me as rather—” He groped for the right word, and failed. “He’s an only son. An only child. They would be particular about the company he kept.”
“Did you ever meet her?”
“Lord, no, he wouldn’t be likely to introduce us, would he?” Pendennis got in and shut the door. “Pretty little thing. Struck me as rather possessive, all the same. The way she’d hold his arm, as if afraid to let go.” Then the thought occurred to him. “You’re not saying that she had anything to do with the damage to the boat. Where was the cottage she was staying in?”
“Do you think she was strong enough to do that kind of work?” Rutledge countered.
“There’s that. But a jealous woman?” He shook his head. “They’re a force to be reckoned with, they are.”
“Keep this to yourself,” Rutledge warned again. “I haven’t even spoken to Grenville about it.”
That seemed to please the constable, and in a way appeared to assuage some of the sting of being told out of hand that there would be no formal arrest warrant.
They were nearly to the village. “Will you keep me informed of any progress?” Pendennis asked.
“I will. What will you tell Mr. and Mrs. Saunders?”
There was a deep sigh as the constable considered. “I dunno, sir. They won’t be happy, whatever I tell them.”
Rutledge waited until he had seen Constable Pendennis enter the police station and shut the door. Then he turned back the way they had just come.
It had been a risk, telling the constable so much about the boat. But one that it had been necessary to take.
Now that there was a murder charge, the families of the accused would send a phalanx of lawyers back to Heyl, intent on making certain the daughters they represented were protected. It would stir up animosity in some quarters, and if there was any inkling that there might be more to the case than they knew, the Londoners would muddy the waters for the police. He had seen it before.
But there was nothing he could do about it now. The one good thing, he told himself, was that the families would be as eager to keep the press out of Cornwall as he was. Unless or until it was in their best interests to look for public support.
He left the motorcar in what was fast becoming its accustomed place, and walked past the first two cottages, staring out at the river as it broadened toward the Doom Bar. And then, as casually as he could, he turned and walked back toward the only cottage that was still occupied.
Before he could knock, the white-haired man he’d spoken to before opened the door with a smile.
“I thought you might be back. Thinking of letting one of them, are you?” He gestured toward the vacant cottages, then invited Rutledge in, offering him a chair.
“It’s possible,” he agreed. “Tell me, what sort of neighbors would I have, if I chose to spend the summer here? It’s rather isolated. I wouldn’t want to find myself with people I wouldn’t care for.”
“Mostly families from London,” the man said. “I think I told you. A young couple in that first cottage. Celebrating a second wedding anniversary, I was told. They spent most of their first summer here just walking, the two of them. I expect he’d been in the war, and they were getting to know each other again. I think they like being alone out here. Or perhaps he needs to get away from the city’s bustle.”
“What does he do there? If he can spend his summers here?”
“He’s writing a book, his wife told me. I thought it might be a memoir of the war, but she said it was about Africa. He grew up there, it seems. Lots of famous people in the book, she said, and he knew them all.”
“And in the second house?”
“A pair of spinster sisters.”
“Then they’ll be coming back?”
“No. They left a note saying that they wouldn’t be returning.”
“And the young woman? Where did she live?”
“A young woman?” He shook his head. “Do you mean the wife?”
“I understood there was a young woman who spent much of the past summer here. Alone or with her family.”
“You must be thinking about another cottage for let.” He rose. “Now I’ve a few repairs to make, if you’ll pardon me for rushing you off.”
“Do you own the cottages? Or do you act for the person who does?”
“That needn’t concern you, sir, if you’ll forgive me for saying so. If it’s too soon to decide, as you say.”
Rutledge stood and allowed himself to be ushered toward the door. “Tell me about the spinsters.”
“Two women in their sixties, I believe. Two sisters. Former schoolmistresses, I should think.”
/>
Rutledge thanked him, and left.
It was odd, he thought, walking back to the motorcar, that the man knew so many details about the young couple, but almost nothing about the spinsters. They might have chosen to keep themselves to themselves. Or he could be lying, and they didn’t exist.
But why lie?
He went into Padstow with an eye to finding an estate agent who could tell him more about the cottages and even provide the names of the people who had let the first two during the past summer.
An hour later, Rutledge found what he was after. The cheerful man behind the desk smiled and said, ‘”You must mean Frank Dunbar’s cottages. I wouldn’t mind taking him on as a client, but he manages quite well on his own. Puts advertisements in London newspapers in the early spring, and usually has someone in both houses by the start of May. He never lets the third. Prefers to live there himself despite the money he would make.”
“Do you know anything about the people who let his cottages?”
“Nothing at all.”
“What sort of advertisements does he run?”
“Very simple ones. Out-of-the-way private cottages on the River Camel, looking for quiet people seeking a peaceful summer. That sort of thing. The truth is, I think I could get far more money for them. Artists, writers. People like that are willing to pay well for privacy and inspiration.”
“I thought artists preferred the light along the southern coast.”
The man shrugged. “Those who want to be noticed, yes. It’s the famous ones seeking privacy I’d like to attract.”
Leaving the office and returning to his motorcar, Rutledge wondered who precisely this young woman was. The vicar’s cousin? Someone who cared for Harry Saunders and had been disappointed in love? Or someone more sinister? She might well have been from Padstow or even Rock, not the cottages.
