by Charles Todd
He waited, but there was silence. Turning, he walked to the door, and his hand was on the knob when the vicar spoke. His voice was ragged.
“St. Ives. The only person I saw that morning was St. Ives. But I refuse to believe he would hurt me. In God’s name, why?”
“I don’t know.” Rutledge turned. “Who was the young woman who lived in that cottage outside Padstow?”
“She’s no one of importance,” Toup said, looking at Rutledge for the first time. “I will swear to it if you like. A summer visitor. A young war widow.” His eyes, the still-swollen lids twice their size, blinked several times. “Come closer. I can’t see you clearly.”
Rutledge walked to the bed and leaned over it. Toup raised his head to stare.
“Oh, my oath, Rutledge.” He closed his eyes again. “Was it St. Ives? Tell me it wasn’t.”
“I don’t know. Whoever it is, he was more agile. Or else driven by fear to do his best. But then the only time I’ve had the opportunity to watch St. Ives walk, he knew I was there.”
“It will not save the women who are accused,” Toup said. “How could it?”
A very good question.
Rutledge had no answer.
He went back to the cottages, but Dunbar wasn’t at home. Rutledge waited for an hour or more, knocking twice in the event the man was refusing to come to the door.
But there was no sign of him. Looking in the windows where he could, Rutledge could see that the interior was tidy, the curtains open, a cup and a teapot sitting on the kitchen table.
Not dead in his bed, then, Rutledge thought.
He would have liked to go inside, but he couldn’t risk it. He had no authority to be there, and if Dunbar came walking up the path, he would be well within his rights to call in the Padstow constable.
Frustrated, Rutledge gave Dunbar another few minutes, then left, following the road into Padstow in the event he could spot the man on his way back from marketing.
Driving on, he returned to the village. The street above the landing was busy, people going about their midday business. He was stopped once or twice before he could enter the inn by people wanting news of the vicar. The doctor had come again in his absence, and this had been worrisome.
“He’s slowly recovering. He has no memory of what happened to him. The doctor tells me it probably will never come back.”
His inquisitors shook their heads in sorrow, but Rutledge knew the news would be repeated over and over again until everyone had heard it. As he intended.
Several others inquired about his face, a mixture of curiosity and concern.
Rutledge said ruefully, “Serves me right, to go wandering about the Cornish countryside in the dark. Are there stones every quarter mile?”
And they smiled. If the Cornish countryside had one stone, it had thousands. The wasteland was full of them, and low-growing gorse and furze were a constant trap for unwary boots.
When finally he was free to go inside, Rutledge went up to his room and stood by the window. Across the Camel, rooftops and windows caught the sunlight, winking back at him.
Almost from the start he had been working under the assumption that the first act in this inquiry had been the death of Trevose’s brother Paul years before on St. Michael’s Mount. Even Mrs. Grenville had believed it.
But what if it wasn’t? Setting aside Trevose and the charge brought against the women in the boat, what if Scotland Yard had been summoned to Cornwall after Harry Saunders drowned in the Camel, unable to swim away from his sinking boat, and the sabotage of the dinghy had been discovered as it was raised?
How would he—or even Inspector Barrington—have proceeded at that stage?
He would have traced the dinghy back to where it was kept, and looked closely into the inhabitants of those three cottages, with an eye to uncovering any connection with Harry Saunders. And in doing that, he might well have learned about Harry escorting one of the cottage residents to services at St. Marina’s instead of St. Petroc’s, and this would have led him to the vicar of St. Marina’s, Mr. Toup.
The connection with Toup would have been reinforced as soon as the vicar had been beaten within an inch of his life.
He went back down to his motorcar and drove to Padstow.
Saunders’s parents still refused to see him.
And so he went on to Dr. Carrick’s surgery.
There was, Rutledge was told, a rash of chills making the rounds, and the doctor’s waiting room was full.
“Is it the vicar? Has he taken a turn for the worse?” Carrick’s nurse asked.
“He has not.”
“Very well, you can make an appointment and return tomorrow.”
“My visit will take no more than five minutes. But it is urgent.”
He would have to come back. She was adamant.
Politely thanking the nurse, he sat down among the coughing children and feverish adults waiting to be seen, and ignored the frowns and curious stares sent his way. By his calculations, he was fifteenth in line to see the doctor. Four more patients came in after him, and one of the children began to vomit.
An hour and a half later, the nurse summoned Rutledge, and tight-lipped, she led him down the passage to the doctor’s office.
Carrick was behind his desk.
“Are you blind? There are people out there who need care. What’s so important that it can’t be dealt with tomorrow?”
“I too have a cough,” Rutledge said blandly, and proceeded to demonstrate just that. He sat down in the chair in front of the cluttered desk.
“All right, what is it? I’m told this isn’t about the vicar.”
“The summer visitors in the cottages let by Frank Dunbar. Were you ever asked to treat any of them this summer? Most particularly one who had been quite ill, and had come to Cornwall to recover her health?”
“Is that the only reason you’ve interrupted my office today?” Carrick was angry now.
“It will save time if you answer my question and I can leave. It’s important. More so than you may realize.”
“The answer is no. As far as I am aware, this summer’s visitors were not in need of my services.”
It was a dead end.
Rutledge rose. “Thank you. I’ll leave you to your patients.”
“Here. What’s this to do with the vicar’s injuries?” the doctor asked sharply.
“I’ll tell you when I’m sure.”
“I did attend Dunbar, if that’s of any use. He had a severe attack of indigestion from dining on mussels. Harry Saunders had just brought that young woman home after attending church services, and they found him in great distress. Harry came for me, thinking it was a heart attack. I was just sitting down to my own joint, and I was grateful it wasn’t more serious than it was. The young woman agreed to see to it that he took his medicines that evening. Pretty little thing.”
“Describe her, if you will?”
“Slim, dark hair, a very pretty face.”
“And she was staying in one of the cottages?”
“The middle one. I remember because she was close enough to keep an eye on Dunbar.”
“Do you recall her name?”
“Sorry. I don’t think she gave it. But Dunbar will know, certainly.”
So much for the spinsters!
Leaving the doctor’s surgery, he drove on to the police station. Inspector Carstairs was not in, and Rutledge spoke to his sergeant.
“George St. Ives. Anything in his past that I should know about?”
“Young St. Ives?” His surprise was genuine.
“Before the war. What sort of lad was he? Any trouble with his friends? The police? A reputation for being a troublemaker?”
“High spirits, sir, but nothing I’d call trouble. He and the Grenville lad were that close, birthdays i
n the same month, in and out of each other’s houses. One Easter for a lark they tried to put a rooster in the church belfry.” He grinned. “Rooster got the best of them, and the doctor was called in. On another occasion, they claimed they saw a ghost ship out on the Doom Bar, and when everyone rushed out to have a look, they slipped into The Pilot and drew themselves a pint. Young Grenville was sick, but St. Ives managed to finish his glass before he was caught. No report on whether he was sick later or not. They stole a pony from Trevose, when their fathers refused to let them take out the mare, and rode it to Wadebridge to see a man with a talking parrot. Trevose wanted to see them up before the magistrate, but as the pony suffered no harm, Mr. Grenville refused to hear the case.” The sergeant studied Rutledge. “You could have asked Constable Pendennis, sir, and saved yourself coming into Padstow.”
“I could have done,” Rutledge agreed, “but I preferred to ask here. Since I have no immediate cause to think ill of St. Ives.”
Sergeant Beddoes nodded. “I understand, sir.”
And Rutledge thought he did. What’s more, this information confirmed what he was beginning to suspect: that St. Ives was in the clear, in spite of what the vicar had cried out in his delirium.
“I’ll tell the Inspector you called, shall I, sir?”
“Yes, all right. Where is he?”
He wasn’t sure afterward why he asked. It was none of his affair, well out of his jurisdiction.
“At the moment, he’s busy with what appears to be robbery that ended in murder.”
“Here in Padstow?”
“Yes, sir. An elderly gentleman. He’d just withdrawn ten pounds from his bank yesterday, and he was set upon before he could reach his home. The body wasn’t found until this morning.”
It was Hamish’s voice in the back of his mind that warned him.
“Anyone connected with the Saunders’s case?”
“Not that I’m aware of, sir. Although he does live in one of the cottages where young Saunders kept—”
“Dunbar.”
“Yes, sir, how did you know?” Beddoes was frowning. “Is there something I should tell Inspector Carstairs?”
“I don’t know. I waited at Dunbar’s cottage for him. Most of this morning. I thought he’d gone to market. Where is Carstairs?”
“There’s an alley toward the end of the harbor, runs from there into the town. The man’s body was discovered there some time ago, but it had been there for a while. Early risers thought he was a drunk. His clothes disheveled, his hat pulled down low over his face, a strong smell of drink about him. A Good Samaritan stopped, thinking he might be ill as well as drunk, and called the police. He was dead, he’d been badly beaten.”
“Good God.” Rutledge was out of his chair, on his way to the door. “Was there a weapon found near him?”
“I don’t believe so, Inspector. But I’ve not seen the full report.”
Rutledge didn’t wait to hear him out. He was out the door, on his way to the harbor. He had no trouble finding the alley. The usual cluster of onlookers marked the place. As Rutledge came closer he could see that it was no more than a narrow space between the two buildings on either side, running up to the streets above and dark most of the day. He thought it might have been used by merchants hurrying to meet a ship sighted in the roads or fishermen’s families coming to meet the boats and help unload the catch.
The smell of sour beer greeted him before he’d turned into the opening. Halfway along a body lay propped against one wall. Carstairs was standing over it, talking to someone.
“Here!” A constable rushed toward him, to stop him.
“Rutledge, Scotland Yard,” he called, and went on into the dim shadows. The pavement was puddled, scattered windblown debris caught in cracks of the cobblestones and against the sides of the buildings rising overhead. A sad place to die.
Carstairs looked up as he approached. “I thought I told the constable to keep the alley clear, damn it.” And then he recognized Rutledge. “What the hell brings you here?”
“I was at the Dunbar cottage earlier, waiting for him. I thought he’d gone into Padstow and would be returning sooner rather than later. But he never came.”
“We’re waiting for Carrick, damn his eyes. He should have been here by now.”
“He’s got a surgery full of ill patients. What happened here?”
“See for yourself.”
Rutledge walked closer to the old man’s body and squatted for a better look.
At the same time Carstairs leaned over and lifted the man’s hat.
His face and head were bloody, his hands as well, where he had tried to defend himself. From the look of his coat, he’d died lying down, but had been propped up afterward to give the semblance of a drunken man slouched against the wall. It was filthy, and spattered with Dunbar’s blood, already dark and drawing flies.
“He’s been dead some time,” Rutledge commented, reaching out to touch his swollen face.
“He went to his bank yesterday just before it closed. We’ve determined that much. His pockets are empty now. But he’d taken out ten pounds.”
“At his age, someone could have robbed him without beating him like this,” Rutledge pointed out.
“I’ve asked for torches. But God knows what we’ll find in the filth underfoot here. Nothing of use, I’ll be bound.” His anger got the best of him. “Damn it, he was a harmless man who eked a living out of letting those cottages of his. Never any trouble, mind you. I’d run into him from time to time when he came into town, and he always had a good word. The weather was fine, his latest visitors were pleasant, he’d heard birdsong or seen a flower in bloom on his way in, or there was a new boat in. Something. Even if it was pounding rain, he thought it might be good for the crops.”
“Know anything about the people who came to let his cottages?”
“Families, mostly, or older couples looking for an inexpensive outing to Cornwall. Never any trouble, either. Paid up on time, lived quietly, came and went without fuss. No rowdiness or the like. We were never called out there for any reason that I remember. If you were desperate, he’d make you a loan. If you couldn’t pay it back, he’d wait patiently for it.”
Someone came just then with torches, and in their garish light, Dunbar’s injuries were even more ghastly.
Rutledge and the constable held the torches while Carstairs scoured the alley for clues of any kind. There appeared to be none. And then Carrick was there: he spent five minutes examining the body, and straightened up.
“I’ll know what killed him when I have him on the table. Hard to say what blows there were to the body. That one head wound,” he added, pointing where a flap of scalp had been torn loose, “is also a possible cause. Have him brought around.” He wiped his hands on his handkerchief. With a nod to Carstairs, but not to Rutledge, he was gone.
The constable’s torch swung in an arc as he stepped back to allow the doctor to pass. And that was when Rutledge saw it.
“Here—shine the light by Dunbar’s right hand.”
“Where?”
“Just by his thigh. On his right side.”
Carstairs turned to look as well as the constable, who steadied his torch on the spot Rutledge had indicated.
Something had been scraped into the scum that covered the pavement. It was hard to read—or even to be sure it was anything more than a dying man’s twitches.
Rutledge backed up against the wall beside Dunbar’s body, and tried to work out the scratches.
“W,” he said after a moment. “And I think that’s an A. R? And an N. Then something I can’t decipher.”
Carstairs said, “Let me try.” He took Rutledge’s place. “I don’t see any letters. You’re imagining—no wait, move the torch a bit—no, this way. Yes, that’s a W, I’d accept that.” He studied the ground beside Dunbar. “Good God
, he must not have been dead when he was propped up against that wall. WARN—what’s the rest of it?”
“He didn’t finish it. He tried. I can’t make out the next line. B? P? F? The rest is unintelligible.”
“He lived alone. I don’t know that he had any immediate family. You said you were there at the cottage this morning. Anything wrong?”
“Nothing as far as I could see. No one came to the door.”
“Hmmmm.” It was more a grunt than a response. “Why were you there?”
“We’d spoken, Dunbar and I. Earlier. It was where Saunders kept his boat.”
Carstairs gestured. “That’s not an R. I’m not sure what it is, but I don’t believe he was about to write Rutledge.”
“No.” Rutledge moved away from the wall. “I will leave you to deal with this. If there’s anything I can do, you have only to ask.”
Carstairs smiled. It was more like a grimace in the torchlight. Curled lips over clenched teeth. “I think we can manage.”
With a nod, Rutledge left. He was eager to be away from that dank, dim, claustrophobic alley with the smell of urine and beer and death. And he didn’t want to be there when—if—Carstairs recognized the similarities between the two beatings, Dunbar and the vicar.
Besides, with Dunbar dead and the police occupied with his murder, there was no one to prevent him from letting himself into the cottage, to look for anything that might be useful. Or anything to do with a P, a B, or an F.
