Half an hour later a faint line of gray was making itself known in the far distance, storm clouds building somewhere over Cornwall. A pity, he thought, watching them. The weather had held fair so far. All that was needed was barely another twenty-four hours, for tomorrow’s wedding. After that the rain could fall.
He had taken a few days of leave. Edgar Maitland, a friend from before the war, had asked Rutledge to come to Somerset to meet his bride and to stand up with him at the wedding.
This had been Maitland’s grandfather’s house, and Rutledge could understand why his friend preferred to live here most of the year now, keeping his flat for the occasional visit to London. Edgar had also inherited his grandfather’s law firm in nearby Dunster and appeared to be well on his way to becoming a country solicitor.
Rutledge and Maitland had lost touch after 1917, but when Maitland had come to town in April to buy a ring for his bride, he’d tracked Rutledge down at Scotland Yard. France had changed both men, but they understood that these differences were safest left unspoken. What had drawn them together at university had been an enthusiasm for tennis and cricket; what had made them friends was a feeling for the law, and this each of them, in their own way, had held on to through the nightmare of war, seeing their salvation in returning to it.
Maitland had often good-naturedly berated Rutledge for choosing to join the police. “A waste, old man, you must see that.”
And Rutledge always answered, “I have no ambition to be a K.C. I’ve left that to you.”
When Rutledge had met Elise on his arrival in Dunster, he’d had reservations about the match. She was young, pretty, and in love. The question was whether she was up to the task of caring for a man who’d lost his leg in France, and with it, for many months, his self-worth. Unlike the steady, happy man Rutledge had seen in London, now Edgar was by turns moody and excited as the wedding day approached. And that boded ill for the future.
Indeed, last night when they were alone on the terrace, darkness obscuring their faces and only their voices betraying their feelings, Edgar had said morosely, “I can’t dance. She says she doesn’t care for dancing. Or play tennis. She doesn’t care for tennis. She says. But that’s now. What about next year, or the year after, if she’s bored and some other bloke asks her to dance, or to be his partner in a match? What then? Will she smile at me, and ask permission, and be relieved when I give it?”
Rutledge had grinned. “Cold feet, Lieutenant? Where’s the bane of the sappers, the man who never backed out of anything, even a burning tunnel?”
“Yes, well, I was brave once too often. And it’s cold foot, now. Do you know, I can still feel pain in my missing leg? Phantom pain, they call it, the nerve endings looking for something that isn’t there and worrying themselves into knots.”
“That’s common, I think?”
“Apparently. But it’s damned odd when it’s your foot itching, and there’s nothing there to scratch.”
They had laughed. But Edgar had drunk a little too much last night and was sleeping it off this morning.
Rutledge watched that thin line of gray cloud for a time, decided that it was not growing any larger, and turned his attention to the sea below, tranquil before the turn of the tide. Behind him, the terrace door opened, and he looked up, expecting to see Edgar.
Elise came out to join him. He hadn’t heard her motorcar arriving in the forecourt, but she must have driven over from Dunster, looking for Edgar.
He wished her a good morning as he rose to bring a chair forward for her. She sat down, sighed, and watched the gulls in her turn.
“A penny for your thoughts?” he asked after a time.
“I wish I knew what was worrying Edgar. It’s frustrating, he won’t talk to me. That makes me feel young, useless. And the wedding’s tomorrow.”
He realized that she had come to find him, not Maitland. “You’re several years younger in age,” Rutledge pointed out gently. “And a hundred years younger in experience.”
She shrugged irritably. “I know. The war. I’ve been told that until I’m sick of it. It doesn’t explain everything!”
“In a way it does,” Rutledge replied carefully. “It marked most of us. I expect that it will stay with us until we’re dead.”
“Yes, but that’s looking back, isn’t it? You survived—and so there’s life ahead, marriage, a family, a future. You and Edgar were the lucky ones. You lived. Now get on with it.”
He laughed. “Would that we could.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, Ian, you know what I mean. If you stay bogged down in the trenches, then they’ve won. You went on with your profession. Edgar can go on with his. He’s not the only man in England with one leg. He’s not a freak. He’s not unique. A solicitor can manage with one leg, for heaven’s sake.”
He couldn’t tell her why he’d returned to the Yard last year. At what cost and for what reasons. He answered only, “Have you ever had a terrifying nightmare, Elise?”
“Of course. Everyone has.” She was impatient.
“Think about the worst one you can recall, then try to imagine waking up to find that it was real and would go on for years, not minutes, without respite.”
“That’s not possible—” She stopped. “Oh. I see what you mean. Trying to shake off a nightmare is harder than having it.” She turned her head, watching the gulls. After a moment she went on. “When I was five, I was frightened by a friend’s little dog. I was creeping up on her to surprise her, and the dog heard me first and attacked me. After that, I was always afraid of dogs. Any dog.”
Rutledge nodded. “Are you still afraid of dogs?”
“Not afraid. Wary, perhaps?”
“Yes. That’s what war does to you. It leaves you wary because you can’t erase what you saw or felt or did. It can’t be safely tucked away in the attic until you’re fifty and decide to bring it out and look it squarely in the face. And Edgar is reminded of his missing leg every time he puts on a shoe or tries to walk across the room or step into a motorcar. It’s a fact he can’t escape, however hard he tries. And in turn, this is a constant reminder of a day he doesn’t want to remember.”
She turned to look at him. “Where are your scars?”
“They are there. Just a little less visible than missing a leg.” He found it hard to keep the irony out of his voice. Thank God no one could see Hamish. Or hear him. He couldn’t even be explained away logically. A haunting that was no ghost, a memory that was filled with guilt, a presence where there was none. Except to him.
Elise said, “You’re telling me that patience is my cue.”
“I’m telling you that getting on with it will always be easier for you. And so you must teach Edgar to forget, not only with patience but with the understanding that some memories may never fade. If you can’t accept him as he is, then you must walk away. Now.”
She smiled, a pretty girl barely twenty. He felt like a grandfather in her presence, though he was the same age as her older brother. How on earth would Edgar cope? Or had he deliberately chosen someone so young, someone who had no experience of war, in the hope that it would help him forget?
It was not his business to ask. He was here to support the groom, and that was that.
Elise was saying, “I appreciate your candor. I’ll try to understand. And when I can’t, I won’t judge.”
“Then you’ll make Edgar an admirable wife.”
Her laughter rang out, fresh and untroubled.
Inside the house, silver rattled against silver.
“Aha. I hear sounds from the dining room. By the way, my matron of honor has arrived. I’ll bring her along to meet you this afternoon.” She got up and went inside, leaving Rutledge with his thoughts.
4
Ronald Evering stood by his bedroom window that same morning, watching the small mail boat make for the harbor at St. Anne’s. There was only one passenger on board; he could pick out the blue jacket and white trousers of Davis Penrith, who was standing amidships, his face t
urned toward the landing, his fair hair blowing in the wind.
The launch came in, tied up, and Davis stepped ashore, looking up the winding hill that led to the only large house on the island.
Evering wondered what he was thinking.
No doubt gauging how many pounds this venture might bring him. Was he so foolish that he thought he would be trusted again with a small fortune? Did he feel no twinge over cheating a man twice—of his brother and of his money? Apparently not, or he wouldn’t have come.
Evering turned away from the window and went down to await his guest in the hall, but the memory of his mother’s corpse lying there at the foot of the stairs prodded him to move on to the stone steps of the house.
St. Anne’s was one of the smaller of the inhabited Scilly Isles. The Romans had come here, and then the Church, and finally Cornish-men looking to make money any way they could. Cut flowers had become the latest source of wealth, for they bloomed here earlier than anywhere else in England, and so they had been very much in demand for country houses and London weddings. The war had put an end to that, of course. Getting perishable flowers across to the mainland and to their hungry markets had been impossible, what with workmen gone to fight or to factories, the government taking over the trains for troops and the wounded, and the German menace out there waiting to sink whatever vessel sailed into their sights.
He doubted that the market for fresh flowers would be as profitable again, not the way it was before 1914. It would be too costly now, workmen’s wages too high, and no one was entertaining on the scale they once had done. Great vases of flowers in every room, profligate and beautiful, were a luxury now, even for the wealthy.
He was glad his father hadn’t lived to see this day. He had mourned his elder son, then given his only remaining child all that he had dreamed of for Timothy—a fine education, this house, and a love for the Scilly Isles that in the end had come to be the strongest bond between them.
If this day bore fruit, the senior Evering would have lost both sons—one to murder and the other to an unconscionable act that would damn him.
For an instant he was torn. Penrith hadn’t seen him yet. Let him knock at the door, and when no one answered his summons, go back to Cornwall and thence to London, cursing a wild goose chase. Or tell him to his face that it had been a mistake, there was no money left to invest after all.
Evering turned and went back inside.
It would seem too—eager—to be seen waiting by the steps.
Invisible in the quiet parlor, he soon heard shoes crunching in the shell walk that led through the trellis gate up to the door. At the sound of the bell, he counted to ten, then he himself opened the door to Penrith. Welcoming him as his father would have done, with an old-fashioned courtesy Evering was far from feeling.
It’s not too late…
Penrith stepped into the cool hall and said plaintively, “I thought perhaps you’d have sent a cart to meet me. The boatman said it was usual.”
“Alas, the horse is lame. But the exercise will have whipped up your appetite. Breakfast is waiting in the dining room.”
“I could do with a cup of tea.” Penrith followed him down the passage to the dining room, its windows looking out to sea, where nothing stood between the stone walls of this house and the great expanse of the Atlantic.
Penrith took his tea standing up, looking out at the cloudless sky. “Is that a bank of sea mist out there on the horizon? I didn’t notice it from the boat, but of course we’re higher here. I can tell you I wouldn’t care to be caught in one of those. I’ve heard tales of what it would be like—dank and damp, like cotton wool. Worse than a London fog. No wonder the Cornish coast is famous for its shipwrecks. I see the boat has continued on its rounds—I thought it might stay on for a bit. How long before it returns to St. Anne?”
Evering smiled, deliberately misunderstanding him. “I promise you we’ll have more than enough time to discuss our business.”
“It must be quite lonely here. I should think you’d open your London house for the summer,” Penrith went on as he set his cup down on the table and accepted the plate Evering was holding out to him.
“Not in summer. That’s the best season for us. Next winter perhaps.” Evering shrugged. “That is to say, if I am luckier in my investments than I was the last time and can afford to open the London house again. Surprisingly enough, I’ve never found it lonely here. Perhaps because I was born in this house.”
He searched Penrith’s face for signs of—what? Something, anything—a conscience, a reason to put a stop to what he was about to do.
But all he read there was impatience and greed.
“I brought the papers you asked for. I think, given the state of business these days, that we’ve got something to offer. Something that might well recoup that earlier loss. Something with long-term potential, and an excellent rate of return.”
“That would certainly be desirable. Frankly, I could use the income. But you told me much the same story the last time, and look where it led.”
“Yes, well, we apologized for the Cumberline stocks. No one was more surprised than I when they went down with a crash. I lost money myself.”
Evering raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He had heard rumors that Penrith and his partner had had a miraculous escape. A word of warning in the right ear at the right time…But not passed on to clients. Not this client, at least.
Penrith took his filled plate to the foot of the table and sat down, picking up his serviette. “I say, this is a wonderful spread. We’re still trying to get decent food in London. You have a fine cook, as well. My compliments.”
They ate their meal in a drift of light, stilted conversation, touching on events in London, the state of the economy, the worsening situation in Russia.
“No money to be made there,” Penrith said with a sigh. “You’d think, given their way of looking at land reform, that they’d put it to good use. In my view, they’re going to be hard-pressed to feed their own people. And their factories, such as they are, produce only shoddy goods. Europe isn’t going to be back on its feet for another dozen years, if I’m any judge. But there are opportunities in South America. Cattle. Coffee. Mines. That sort of thing. It’s what I intend to talk to you about.”
Thus far Penrith had made no mention of his business partner, and the omission was glaring. Evering brought him up instead.
“And what is Quarles doing, to keep himself out of trouble?”
Penrith grimaced. “I daresay he manages. We no longer handle joint ventures. Which is why you contacted me, I think? You never liked Quarles.”
Nor you, Evering thought, but was silent.
They finished their meal and adjourned to the study. It too looked out across the sea, but there were other islands in this direction, scattered blue smudges. Penrith glanced toward the long bank of mist one more time before sitting down. There was some anxiety in his face, as if he was trying to judge how far it had advanced since last he had measured it.
“Let’s get down to business, shall we?” Evering asked.
“By all means.”
The next two hours were spent in intense exposition of the properties that Penrith had brought for discussion.
Evering listened carefully to everything he was told, then sat back with a frown.
“I don’t know—” He pulled at his lower lip, a study in uncertainty.
Penrith said persuasively, “It’s the best opportunity I can see to improve your position. I like what’s here, and I have a feeling that we’re moving into a decade of handsome rewards for the farsighted investor.”
Evering said, “Yes, yes. You’ve done your work well. Still—would you mind leaving these papers here for a week? I’m to travel to Kent shortly, and I can bring them to you with my decision.” He smiled wryly. “I’ve learned to be careful, you see.”
“Caution is important. There are no guarantees that what I tell you will be right in five or seven years’ time. However,
time is something we must consider as well. I suggest you make your decision within the fortnight. Or we stand to lose as the shares go up. They aren’t going to be overlooked for long, I can assure you.”
Evering studied the earnest, handsome face. Penrith, fair and tall and very presentable, gave the impression of coming from old money, and it stood him in good stead, this impression. More than one woman and many a man had fallen for this quality and trusted the advice tripping so lightly from his tongue. In their partnership, Penrith had been the velvet glove, Quarles the iron hand, though Quarles could be very pleasant when it served his purposes. And very coldblooded when it didn’t.
The contrast between the two men was something Evering hadn’t been prepared for when first he met them. One obviously a gentleman, the other a blunt Yorkshire man with unreadable eyes and a tight mouth. In God’s name, what had drawn them together in South Africa, much less kept them together all these years? He couldn’t fathom what it was, unless it was the strength of Quarles’s personality. Weaker men were often drawn to that. If Quarles had manipulated Penrith, surely he himself could manage it as well. And yet the weak could be as cruel as the strong, he’d had cause to know in his own mother. It was the main reason why Evering had chosen Penrith as his penny. Quarles would not be as easily influenced.
“I assure you, I’m as eager as you to see this under way. But—well, I’d feel better if I had a little time to consider.”
Penrith nodded. “Suit yourself.” Though it was clear that he was not pleased about being put off. He got up and stretched, walking to the window, staring worriedly at the fog bank. Evering swore silently at the distraction, cursing the weather.
Penrith turned to his host. “When did you say the mail boat comes back this way?”
Evering glanced at his watch. “It should be here within a quarter of an hour. It makes the rounds of the inhabited islands before going back to the mainland. Naturally it depends on how much mail and how many passengers there are on a given run, but for the most part, it keeps to its schedule.”
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