by Charles Todd
“Sometimes, but only to be polite, I think. I have a feeling that he was in love with her. And he doesn’t want her to think of him as he is now, but as he was before the war.”
“How far can he walk?”
“He manages the stairs. And he goes out to the terrace sometimes. The staff finds it as hard as I do to see him now. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that they avoid him—they never seem to be around when he’s downstairs.”
“Does he go out at night? Walking to strengthen his legs?”
Astonished, she stared. “Whatever gave you such an idea?”
He said nothing to her about Mr. Toup. It would only have upset her. But he wondered as he drove back to the village if George St. Ives could have lashed out at the vicar in his anger, as a surrogate for God. He’d heard men curse God in the trenches. And the same men would pray just as fervently.
In Rutledge’s absence there had been no change in the vicar’s condition. The doctor had gone, and one of the village women with a gift for nursing now sat by his side. The vicar moved restlessly, clearly in pain, but he was not conscious.
“Has he been given a sedative?” he asked the woman. Mrs. Daniels, Pendennis had told him her name was.
She was lean as a post, with a calm face and hair as black as a crow’s wing. But her hands were gentle as she reached out to smooth the covers over her patient. And he appeared to respond to her touch, his head lying still on the pillow for a moment afterward.
“Doctor said not, with the blows to the head. And there could be internal bleeding as well.”
Rutledge remembered the X-ray machines in the Base Hospital at Rouen. The Americans had brought them over when they set up the hospital there, along with a contingent of nurses and doctors to run it. But there was no such thing here in this part of Cornwall, and Carrick could only guess at the extent of the vicar’s injuries.
As he was leaving the cell the last of the search parties came straggling in, with nothing to report.
“If it’s an outsider,” Pendennis said with a sigh as he watched four of the searchers walk down to the pub, “then he’s well away. I’d rather think about that than consider the possibility that one of our own did this.”
“I can’t think why someone local would hate the man enough to do this to him.”
“No. Did you find George St. Ives? Could he tell you anything?”
“His father said that he was resting. I couldn’t force him to let me speak to his son.”
“That’s not like St. Ives.”
“I think he’s protecting his son, and in his own way, he’s denying that anything is wrong with George.”
They had returned briefly to the cell where Toup lay, his face and hands swelling and already discoloring as his bruises appeared. Pendennis looked out the door of the police station, at the people passing on the street.
“We’ve been a quiet village,” he said. “Nothing like what’s happened here, with Saunders and now Vicar. I wouldn’t have guessed that four young ladies could be held over for murder, or that Vicar would be set upon. It’s as if something’s happened to us. I don’t like it. I’ll be glad when we can settle this business and be done with it.”
But the question was, Rutledge thought as he walked back to the inn for a late luncheon of sandwiches and tea, what had been set loose in this place? And more importantly, was there any connection between the attack on the vicar and the holes in the dinghy’s bottom?
If there was, he couldn’t find it. And until he did, he would have to treat them as two entirely separate inquiries.
The doctor had reported what had happened to Toup to the police in Padstow, and Inspector Carstairs came to the village police station in late afternoon to have a look for himself at the vicar’s condition.
Rutledge was there when Carstairs strode in. He had a youthful look about him that made it hard to judge his age. Mid-thirties? Or even forty. There was some gray in his dark hair, but his face belied it.
He spoke to Pendennis, looked at Rutledge, and said, “Who are you?”
“Rutledge. Scotland Yard.”
“Sorry.” He considered Rutledge for a moment. “Carrick came to see me. I understand search parties have been sent out. Any word from them?”
“No luck, I’m afraid. Were any strangers in Padstow yesterday or today?”
Carstairs shook his head. “No one has been reported to me. Beyond the usual time for tourists, although we do get a few latecomers through early November.” He smiled without friendliness. “You’ve been sighted a number of times, of course. Went out to Saunders’s boat once.”
“So I did.”
“Is it possible to have a look at Toup for myself?”
“At the end of the passage, sir. We’ve dared not move him yet,” Pendennis responded.
The constable companied Carstairs to the cell, and Rutledge could just hear their low voices as the two policemen discussed the situation.
When they came back down the passage, Rutledge was waiting.
“Lucky you. Not a single crime to speak of in two years, and two in a matter of days on your watch.”
Rutledge decided to take it as lightness rather than a challenge. He’d dealt with enough local men to have a fair idea of what this one was feeling. While technically Carstairs oversaw the village in the shadow of Padstow, the Chief Constable had made the decision to ask for the Yard to take charge. And Rutledge was fairly sure this was because the families of the four suspects had reservations about Carstairs and his impartiality. He had seen that often in Yard cases.
“Any information or suggestions you may have are welcome,” he answered in a neutral tone of voice. “You know the people and the geography.”
Carstairs sighed. “I don’t envy you dealing with the parents of those four women. I expect you’ll be the one held to blame if they must stand trial. I’ve had an occasional chat with Grenville and St. Ives. Two more like them would be tiresome. Closer to any solutions in that direction?”
“I’ve looked into Saunders’s background. Do you know anything about those cottages where he left his boat? There’s a small landing there.”
“They’re to let, every summer, and they’re generally occupied. There has been no trouble with the people who do come to stay. As a rule, they’re older, settled, looking for a quiet few weeks by the sea. The younger ones prefer to stay in town, closer to the restaurants and the shops and so on. Any particular reason for inquiring about them?”
“The boat that sank came from there.”
“Yes, of course. And in regard to Toup. Any theories?”
“Pendennis doesn’t know of any problems the vicar has had with his parishioners. He was wearing his clerical collar, there was no mistaking him for anyone else. George St. Ives was out that way this morning. I called on the family to see if he’d spotted anyone coming through. A walker. A vagabond. For that matter, anyone who shouldn’t have been on the farm’s land. But he was resting. His father preferred not to disturb him.”
“Oddly enough, I’ve seen young George myself. On the outskirts of Padstow. And yet I wasn’t aware he was walking.”
That was news indeed. “Apparently he’s been strengthening his legs of late. A surprise for his father.”
“Face that would frighten children. I don’t blame him for walking at night, poor bastard. No stares or glances of pity. Wasn’t he to marry the Grenville lass?”
“His sister was engaged to Grenville’s son.”
“Yes, that’s right. I remember now. Pretty girl, young Elaine. My wife was in school with her. A year or so ahead, but she knew Elaine. A sad business, all around. Well, I’ll leave you to it. My wife is about to present me with our second child, and I want to be there for this one’s birth. I was outside Ypres when my son was born. Didn’t see him until he was three years old. He wouldn’t even com
e to me when I walked through the door.” He shrugged, as if to show that it hadn’t hurt. “Cost of war,” he went on. “Let me know if you need anything.” And he was gone.
Pendennis blew out a breath. “He’s a good man,” he said to Rutledge. “But I’d not like to cross him.”
Rutledge rather thought he himself had, and it was as much a need to see the man from London that had brought Carstairs to Heyl as the need to find out what had happened to the vicar.
It was just after the dinner hour when a message came from the Chief Constable.
Rutledge was summoned to the police station by Pendennis and found the messenger, an older man, waiting for him there.
There were only two lines on the sheet of paper.
If you believe the two inquiries are in any way connected, I will clear the attack on the vicar with London.
Rutledge stared at the lines, ignoring Pendennis hovering behind him, waiting to find out what the Chief Constable had written.
Was there a connection? It was still too soon to be certain. But there was the question of George St. Ives, whose sister was one of the four women in the rowing boat. The last thing Rutledge wanted just now was to find Carstairs using the opportunity offered by the Toup inquiry to meddle in his own case.
He asked Pendennis for pen and paper, bent over the constable’s desk, and wrote a short reply.
Thank you, sir. I am not in a position at this stage to tell you whether there is a connection between the attack on Mr. Toup and the death of Harry Saunders. However, anyone looking into what happened to the vicar will be interviewing many of the same people involved in my present inquiry. It would be better if I dealt with both until such time as I can see that these are separate issues. I will then call on you and ask to turn whatever evidence I may have discovered over to someone else.
Hamish, apparently looking over his shoulder, startled him by commenting, “The Yard willna’ like it.”
Rutledge, striving to ignore the voice, signed his name to the note and handed it to the messenger.
“Thank you.”
The man nodded and walked out to the carriage waiting to carry him back to the Chief Constable.
“Is it wise? To take on a second inquiry?” Pendennis asked when Rutledge told him what the Chief Constable had decided. “Not that I’m eager to see Inspector Carstairs darken my threshold again. But I could help with the vicar’s case.”
“So you could. And you can begin by finding out if anyone brought a message to the vicarage, asking Mr. Toup to call on the elder Mrs. Terlew. She wasn’t expecting him that morning. We need to know if the vicar was lured to the farm where he could be attacked in a quiet corner.”
“I’ll be on it first thing tomorrow,” Pendennis said.
“No. Find his housekeeper tonight and ask her. If necessary we’ll roust someone from his bed to talk to him.”
“Sir.”
After watching the constable on his way, Rutledge walked back to the cell and looked in on their patient.
Toup was still restless, and the nurse, looking up as Rutledge quietly stepped into the room, said drowsily, “There’s no sign of him waking up.”
She had been nodding off, a shawl around her shoulders and a pillow at her back to make the station’s hard wooden chair more comfortable.
He nodded and left.
But on his way back to the inn he wondered if it had been wise for him to send Pendennis to interview the vicarage housekeeper straightaway.
That left the woman watching over the vicar as the only line of defense, if whoever had attacked the vicar decided it was in his best interests to finish what he’d begun. If Toup regained consciousness, he would very likely be able to identify the person.
Rutledge turned, walking swiftly back to the police station.
There he sat behind Pendennis’s desk until Mr. Daniels, the nurse’s husband, came to spend an hour with her. Daniels was a large, burly man, and Rutledge left him to it.
As it turned out, the person who was rousted out in the middle of the night was Rutledge himself.
He woke to a pounding on his door, and had to fight sleep for a moment before he called, “Yes? Who is it?”
The door swung open, and Daniels stood there foursquare in the glow of the lamp hanging by the head of the stairs.
“Mr. Rutledge, sir? The vicar is showing signs of regaining his senses. If you want to speak to him, you’d better come.”
“Yes, thank you, I’ll be right there.”
He threw back the covers and dressed hastily, then set out for the station at a run.
Daniels, Rutledge discovered, had fallen asleep in the chair he’d set next to his wife’s, and never stirred until she’d shaken his shoulder and told him to fetch the man from London.
Mrs. Daniels met Rutledge at the police station door, which she had apparently locked as soon as Pendennis had called it a night, and she locked it after him as he came in.
“He’s waking up?” Rutledge asked, following her back to the cell.
“I wouldn’t say waking up, exactly, sir. But there are Signs.” Her inflection capitalized the word. “The coma isn’t as deep. I wouldn’t be surprised if he could hear your voice.”
They had reached the cell. Toup’s condition appeared to be unchanged to Rutledge’s eyes. He sat down where Mrs. Daniels had kept watch while husband and wife stood in the doorway, anticipation on their faces.
“Mr. Toup? Inspector Rutledge here. How are you feeling? Are you in any pain?”
There was no immediate response. And so at a nod from Mrs. Daniels, he reached out and took the vicar’s thin hand in his own. How many times had he given what comfort he could to maimed and dying men in France? And sometimes a touch was what they needed, a reminder that they were alive and among friends, that help was on the way. Or that they wouldn’t die alone . . .
He could hear Hamish in the back of his mind, and he struggled to keep his thoughts focused on the bruised man on the cot.
He began to talk, starting with Mrs. Terlew’s mother-in-law. “Bad cough, but I don’t think she’s any worse.”
Mrs. Daniels nodded again, in encouragement.
“I spoke to her daughter-in-law. They’ll be happy when you can stop by. Mr. Terlew was away, looking to buy some ewes. I gather his wife—or perhaps his mother—is something of a weaver. I saw the wheel and the loom. It was her son who found you, by the way, and came for help. Dr. Carrick was here to have a look at you. He says you’ll be uncomfortable for a little longer, but you should heal quickly. Except for the broken leg. You’ll be giving your sermons from the rood screen, not the pulpit, for a few weeks. But that’s all right.”
He went on in the same vein for another five minutes, beginning to think that Mrs. Daniels had misjudged her patient’s condition.
And then just as he was about to give up, Toup spoke.
His voice was no more than a tired thread. Rutledge had commented on the fact that it was a cool evening, casting about for different topics and settling on the weather.
“Morning. It’s morning. I’ve only just had my breakfast.”
Rutledge realized with a start that Toup was talking about their conversation at the vicarage door.
“I know, sir. I was commenting on last evening,” he improvised.
“Forgive me. I’ve a dreadful head.”
There was silence for a time.
“Did you see George St. Ives? Is he walking noticeably better these days?” Rutledge asked. He’d avoided mentioning the beating. He wasn’t sure whether Toup had got that far in his memory.
“Angry. He was angry.” The vicar’s swollen face twisted, and Rutledge realized that he was trying to frown. “Why? Not God’s curse . . .”
It was garbled. Rutledge was no longer certain that Toup was talking about the previous morning�
�s encounter.
“I’ve never met him,” Rutledge said. “Tell me, how does he look?”
“There’s pain. I can tell.”
His own? Or St. Ives’s?
And then the vicar’s body lurched, and he made a futile effort to lift his arms above his head, as if to protect it. He cried out once, a cry that tore at the silence of the police station, a mixture of deathly fear and anguish. He lost consciousness.
“Poor man,” Mrs. Daniels said softly. She stepped forward, settling the coverlet again and making soothing noises. Straightening up, she added, “Poor soul. He doesn’t know.”
Rutledge wasn’t certain what she meant—that Toup didn’t know where he was, or that he couldn’t tell the Inspector anything at this stage.
He waited for another half an hour, but wherever Toup was, it was not in the police station in the middle of the night. At length he thanked Mrs. Daniels and got up to leave.
“Pay no heed,” she said. “Head injuries don’t always come back to us the first time.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s true.” And then on an impulse, he asked, “Do you know anything about George St. Ives?”
“I do, poor man.”
“Have you seen him walk of late?”
“I saw him one night. It must have been almost a year after he came back from the war. He was struggling down the road to his father’s house. I asked if he needed help and he nearly took my head off. I was coming back from a lying-in, you see, and I was tired. I didn’t need to be told a second time to mind my own business.”
“Have you seen him since then?”
She looked away. “If I have, I’ve said nothing. Strange things walk at night. I mind my own business and pay them no heed.”
“What sort of strange things?”
“My father met a piskey once, coming back from Padstow. He knew what it was straightaway, because it wanted him to turn off the road and go another way.” She glanced at the vicar. “He wouldn’t care to hear it. But my father was an honest man, and if he saw a piskey, it was true.”
“I wasn’t asking about your father. What have you seen?”
