by Charles Todd
“I was not. But the driver who took you to the station worried about you and watched to see which train you took. It wasn’t to Plymouth, he said. It was to Boscastle.”
“I thought he’d gone, that he’d left the station.”
“And so he had. But he could see the platform. And he knew which trains came in that morning.”
“I thought I was safe in Padstow, I thought I could move safely to Fowey. But there were too many people in the hotel, even at this time of year. I was afraid someone might recognize me. And when I feel the anxiety building again, I run.” As he finished turning the crank and was preparing to drive away, she added, “There’s Scotland, of course. But people would know I was a stranger, as soon as I spoke. At least Cornwall is accustomed to visitors; they make nothing of a London accent.”
He was heading for the railway station, but she put a hand on his arm. “No. I tell you, I can’t get on that train. And I have nothing, nothing but the clothes on my back. I can hardly sit there looking like this.”
She opened her arms wide, and he could see that her sleeves and across her waist, the fabric was stiff with dried blood. She had kept her arms folded in the surgery. “Dr. Learner’s nurse offered me something to wear, but sadly her clothes didn’t fit. And I dared not go back to Boscastle.”
Rutledge weighed the risks, and then made a decision. He turned away from the railway station, although he could hear the whistle of an approaching train.
“There’s one place I can put you for the moment. This isn’t the only inquiry I’m involved with, but it’s fast becoming the most pressing.”
“Where?”
“I won’t tell you. I won’t mention this to anyone. And you will not be able to.”
She was wearing a hat, one not well suited to her, but he thought it must have come from the cottage where the sisters lived, caught up before the motorcar set out for Bodmin and the doctor’s surgery.
Rutledge pulled to the verge and took a clean handkerchief. Folding it carefully, he turned to the woman beside him.
“No—” she began, and put up her hands to stop him.
“You must. If I’m the only person who knows where you are, you’ll be safer.”
They argued, but in the end, she allowed him to blindfold her and then pull her hat down closer to her face to conceal it from passersby.
“I’m frightened,” she said.
“There’s no need to be.” He cast an eye toward the sky. In another two hours dusk would fall.
She couldn’t see where he was driving. He found one of the tracks out onto the moor, and after traveling a little distance down it, he pulled off into a small space where he could turn the bonnet back the way they’d come. And then he shut off the motor.
“You’ve stopped,” she said accusingly.
“Not for long, I promise you. There’s a rug in the boot if you’re cold. I want to be sure no one followed us.”
“Oh.”
He went around to take out the rug, and gently set it across her lap.
“Can I remove the blindfold?”
“Yes. For a little while.”
She lifted it and took a deep breath, as if it had covered her face and she could breathe now. “Where are we?” But he refused to answer. Leaning her head back against the frame of the door, she said, “I am so very tired.”
“Then rest.”
She finally fell asleep. He had no water or tea or food to offer her, but that was how it had to be. He got out and walked a little way, stretching his legs. Moors had always interested him. Secretive and wild, they were places where unexpected things could happen, and he smiled, remembering the Conan Doyle story he’d read as a boy. The Baskerville Hound had fascinated him. It had been his earliest introduction to superstition, and he’d relished it.
But they were not deep enough into this moor to feel its spell.
Dusk came, and she was still asleep. He walked again, to stay limber, and then when it was dark enough that he could barely see the track they’d followed coming in, he carefully woke her, so as not to frighten her, and asked her to put the blindfold back in place.
Rutledge made his way off the moor, found the road to Wadebridge, and settled down for the drive back to the village. Well before they had reached the outskirts, where there was still nothing to tell her where she was, he asked her to climb into the rear seat and pull the blanket over her.
He could hear Hamish protesting even as she quarreled with him, but in the end, he had his way.
They drove on. It was well into the dinner hour, and the street was empty as he passed the inn, then the church, and pulled up in the rear yard of the vicarage.
There was a lamp burning in the kitchen, and he thought Mrs. Daniels and her husband must be having their own dinner after feeding the vicar his.
“Stay where you are,” he said quietly. “There are people about.” It wasn’t actually true, but he hadn’t spoken to the Danielses yet, and it was too soon to involve Mrs. Worth.
When he tapped lightly on the door, a shadow loomed large. It was the hulking form of Mr. Daniels, blotting out the lamplight. He opened the door a crack and asked, “Who’s there?”
“Rutledge.”
He held up a lamp. “No offense. I want to see your face.” Then grunting in acknowledgment, he opened the door. “Can’t be too careful,” he said.
Rutledge stepped inside. “How is the vicar?”
“He’s been restless. I expect he’s got something on his mind,” Mrs. Daniels said. “Poor man, he’s not used to not seeing to his flock. But they come to him all the same.”
“Any other trouble at night?”
Daniels shook his head. “Do you think he—whoever he is—knows the vicar can’t remember?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Rutledge said. “Still, have a look around the churchyard, will you? To be certain? Because I have another favor to ask of you both. Will you give me your promise not to speak to anyone about what I have to tell you? Most particularly not the vicar.”
They agreed, warily. And Rutledge told them an expurgated version of events.
“I’ve brought her here because there is no other secure place for her. If no one knows where she is, if she keeps the shades down, I think she’ll be safe enough for the time being. But the man hunting her has killed before. I am telling you the truth about that.”
“You must do as you think best,” Mrs. Daniels said quietly. “Can you spirit her in without anyone being the wiser?”
“I can. Tell me which room, and I’ll take her directly up the back stairs.”
“Yes, that will be best. I’ll go up and see to it. Daniels and I have a room close to the stairs, so we can hear Vicar if he calls. But there’s a lovely big room on the back, and only the one window to it. Would you like Daniels here to nail down the shade to be sure? Even if she does peek out, there’s nothing to be seen but the corner of the sheds and the barn.”
He agreed, and gave them a quarter of an hour. Returning to the motorcar, he said softly, “It’s arranged. There’s a custodian here, and his wife. They’ll bring you meals. But you must give me your word not to do anything foolish.”
Her muffled voice answered him. “Are you sure this is best? Please, I don’t want anyone else to die.”
“Nor do I.”
When it was time, when Daniels had assured him that the churchyard was empty, he helped her out of the motorcar, shrouded in the blanket and with the blindfold firmly in place. The stairs were narrow, twisting. He had to lead her up them, and she stumbled once, but he caught her before she fell.
“A lighthouse?” she asked with a smile in her voice that he could hear. “But I smell food, my mouth is watering.”
“You’ll have something soon enough. All right, almost there. Good, now turn to your right and walk with me down the
passage.”
“Can I remove the blanket? Or at least the blindfold?”
“Not yet.” A door was open just ahead of him, and within the room a lamp was lit. He led her inside, and shut the door. “Now.”
He lifted the rug off her head and shoulders, and she pulled down the blindfold herself.
The room was papered in a pleasing shade of apple green with white morning glories climbing the walls. A darker green coverlet on the bed was the same shade as the ties on the white curtains at the single window. On the floor the carpet was a pattern of green leaves on a lighter field.
She said, “Oh!” as she looked around, saw the rocking chair by the table, a small desk, and a chest of drawers, a wardrobe against the far wall, and the bed in between that and the chest. “I was afraid you might—I thought a policeman would consider a gaol the safest place.”
He smiled. “You will not leave this room. People come and go downstairs, and you will be seen.”
She frowned. “Are we in an inn? A hotel? I didn’t hear voices.”
“It’s closed this time of year,” he said. “But friends visit the owners or come for tea.”
She turned to him, her face haggard in the lamplight. “Will they be all right? Ronnie and her sister? The doctor told me they would, but I thought he might be lying to make me willing to leave them.”
“He told me the same thing.”
“I should have listened. But I thought, no one knows they are there in Boscastle.”
“The local people did. They go to market. They’re seen about the town. If someone asked questions, it wouldn’t take long to discover who the visitors are, this time of year.” He left her soon after and met Mrs. Daniels on the stairs bringing up a tray for her.
It had been a risk, bringing her here. But Mr. and Mrs. Daniels were reliable. They wouldn’t talk, and the house was large, and very empty, save for Vicar. But he would have to depend on keeping the vicar and Mrs. Worth apart. Still, it wouldn’t be for very long. Or so he told himself. Meanwhile, he would ask the Yard to begin a manhunt for Worth. He had a name, now, and Mrs. Worth could provide a description. It would be a start.
He left soon after, drove back to the inn, and took the stairs to his room two at a time, his mind on the telegram he would send.
The owner, Joseph Hays, stopped him in the passage. “I saw your motorcar coming in. There’s dinner put aside for you.”
“Thanks,” Rutledge said. “I looked in on the vicar first. He’s doing well enough, in my opinion. Dr. Carrick continues to be concerned about his memory, but his body is healing.”
“Aye. That’s good news,” the innkeeper said, and went on about his business.
Rutledge took his meal in his room, composing the telegram he would send in the morning. He was tired, but there was much to consider before he made his next move.
He had done his best for Mrs. Worth. He could only pray it was the right course of action for now.
But Hamish, in the back of his mind, was raising doubts.
“If he canna’ find yon lass, if he kens you were in Fowey and Boscastle as well as in Bodmin, he will come for you. And when ye send a telegram through yon meddlesome man in Padstow, you canna’ be sure he willna’ hear of it.”
“I’m more concerned about the man in Bodmin who sent the telegram for Mrs. Worth. The only alternative is to ask the Chief Constable to contact the Yard.”
Restless now, he would have liked to go out after his meal and walk for a time. But when he looked out the window, a mist was rolling in from the sea. Rock had disappeared entirely, and the river itself was hard to find.
Not a night for wandering about. Not when his revolver was in his London flat, in the trunk under his bed.
20
There was a pounding on his door in the middle of the night.
Rutledge, awake on the instant, thought, My God, he’s found her.
But when the door burst open before he could set his feet on the floor, it wasn’t Daniels standing there, a torch in his hand. It was a livid Walter Grenville.
“There you are, lying in your bed!” he shouted. “And all hell breaking loose.”
Rutledge reached for the matchbox and lit the lamp. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“She’s gone. A quarter of an hour, that’s all it was. A quarter of an hour.”
“Where did she go?” He was already dressing.
“How the hell do I know?”
“Where is Daniels?”
“Daniels? Who the hell is Daniels?”
“Have you come from the vicarage?”
“I came from the Place. It’s the bloody middle of the night.”
“Who, precisely, is missing?”
“Kate—Miss Gordon.”
Rutledge stopped buttoning his shirt and stared at Grenville. “What are you trying to tell me, man? Start at the beginning, damn you.”
He did, launching in a nearly coherent account, this time.
“We let them exercise after dinner. We can’t keep them shut up in a room day after day. With the fog, it felt close in the house, breathless. I let them go out to the terrace to walk up and down. One at a time. It’s safer than the lawns. They run down to the river. First Victoria, then Sara—Miss Langley. After that, Miss Gordon. I timed them. I sat there in the room and timed them. When a quarter of an hour had passed, I went to the door and spoke her name. Quietly, sounds carry in the night. She didn’t answer. I stepped out on the terrace. She wasn’t there. We spent the better part of two hours searching the house and then the grounds. I went to the St. Ives house, thinking she might be there. God knows why, but I couldn’t think of anything else. But she wasn’t. They hadn’t seen her. I even went down to the landing, for God’s sake. And the damned boat is wet. Someone had it out tonight. You knew her before this. I thought she might have come to you.”
“No. She didn’t,” he said trenchantly, tying his boots. “Why didn’t you send for me at the start? Why wait until now?” He looked at his watch. It was nearly two in the morning.
But he knew why Grenville had waited. He was the magistrate, he was responsible for the accused put into his keeping. He had wanted to find Kate Gordon without any fuss.
And he had come to the man from London as a last resort.
Wasting precious time.
Without waiting for an answer, Rutledge said, “Quite. Do you let them walk every evening?”
“I’ve told you. They can’t remain shut up into a room.”
“Was there anyone on the river tonight? Did you ask the others? Your daughter or Miss Langley?”
He hadn’t. Rutledge read the answer in his face.
“Who would be on the river in this fog?” Grenville asked after a moment.
“Someone was. Your boat was wet. Whoever took her, he came in that way.”
Grenville ignored him. “Kate gave me her word. As did the others. She’s broken it. There was no one else. My wife told me she was homesick for London. She must be trying to make her way there. In the dark, alone, without a penny in her purse.”
“I doubt it,” Rutledge said, going out the door. Grenville followed him down the passage, leaving the door standing wide behind him. “Kate Gordon isn’t a fool.”
But where to look? Rutledge asked himself as he went down the stairs.
He had no doubt at all about who had taken Kate Gordon.
And if he was right, there would be a message soon. He could have told Grenville what it said, without even seeing it.
Kate Gordon for Alexandra Worth.
Hamish had been right. Her husband had found out who had sent that telegram. And who had received it.
Rutledge searched Kate’s room a second time, although it had been searched before, but there was no message waiting for him. That sealed his certainty. She hadn’t gone off on
her own. And she hadn’t taken it into her head to play detective and help him find a way out of their predicament. She was too sensible for that. But by this time, he could almost wish she wasn’t. It would have been simpler.
“I shall have to send for Gordon,” Grenville was saying as they closed the door to Kate’s room. They had already spoken to Victoria and to Sara Langley, but neither of them had noticed anyone on the river that night.
“But I thought I heard a motorcycle,” Sara said. “I couldn’t swear to it. There aren’t many around here, I’m sure.”
He wasn’t convinced there had been a motorcycle. Putting someone bound and gagged on a motorcycle was a tricky way of going about a kidnapping. Still, he hadn’t been told of a strange motorcar on the road. Rare as they were even in London, they were rarer still in these parts. But how else had Worth traveled to Boscastle, to Bodmin, and then here?
“Right,” Rutledge said as he and Grenville came down the stairs again. “Do you have a map of this part of Cornwall?”
“From the turn of the century,” he said, and led the way into the study. “You think someone’s taken Kate. Why? What’s this got to do with Saunders’s death?”
Rutledge said only, “It’s too long a story and there isn’t time. But it has to do with the vicar as well as Saunders. I can set your mind at ease on one matter. Whoever it is doesn’t want Kate. She’s a pawn.”
“Who does this person want?”
“A summer visitor.”
Grenville, still asking questions, pulled open a long drawer beneath the table and took out a large map of North Cornwall that appeared to be from 1900. But Rutledge found that it held true, for the most part, despite the passage of twenty years. He could pick out roads, villages, even farmhouses and more than one of the sacred wells, dolmens, menhirs, and other relics of the past. It was amazingly complete. But he didn’t have time to study it in detail.
