"If you consider murder paltry."
"That's not what I meant. I'm sure they would have preferred taking the matter to court, ruining us, and making Harold Quarles and myself laughingstocks. They are ruthless businessmen. It's the way they settle matters such as Cumberline. But they saw that in taking our firm to court, their own business practices might come under scrutiny. I can tell you that these men lost no more than they could afford to lose. They knew from the start that it was a risky investment, but they also had Cecil Rhodes in their sights, and their greed won over their common sense."
"Was this other investor, a man named Evering—"
Penrith must have been prepared for the question, but it still nearly splintered his carefully preserved calm. "Evering was one of Harold's clients. He made the decision to include the man."
"Was Cumberline the reason you broke with Quarles?"
Penrith fiddled with the fob on his watch chain. "All right, yes. It was. I thought Cumberline was risky from the start. I thought Quarles was taking a direction we'd never taken before with the firm. I thought his judgment was failing him. But he had his reasons for offering Cumberline, he said, and it would do us no harm. Financially, he was right, though it was a close-run thing. I felt that the good name of the firm—and more important, the good will of James, Quarles and Penrith—was tarnished."
"What was his reason, did he ever tell you?"
"Not in so many words. Most of these men had made their money in the war, cutting corners, shoddy goods, whatever turned a penny. He said the poor sods in the trenches didn't count for anything, if a shilling could be made from their suffering. And it was the same greed that made Cumberline so attractive to such men."
"Was Evering also profiting from the war?"
"I have no idea. You'd have to ask Quarles. And he's dead." Penrith took out his watch. "I really must go. I have matters to attend to in my office."
He held the door for Rutledge, and there was nothing for it but to thank Penrith and leave.
Rutledge drove to the Yard, and reported to Chief Superintendent Bowles, who appeared to be less than happy to hear there was a successful conclusion to the inquiry.
It was two hours later when Sergeant Gibson came to his office and said, "The Penrith in South Africa was born in Hampshire, his father lost his living there and went on to Sussex, where he didn't prosper. His son joined the army for lack of funds for a proper education, and served his time without distinction save for one heroic act—"
"—when the train was attacked. What else?"
"That's the lot. He never went back to Sussex. Instead he made his way in the City, and most recently set up his own investment firm after leaving James, Quarles and Penrith."
"And Quarles?"
"Almost the same story. Survived the attack, was badly injured, and didn't go back to his unit until they were ready to sail. He was from Yorkshire, but like Penrith, settled in London. Both men served their time, and that was that."
"All right, leave your report on my desk. A wild-goose chase."
"Why," Hamish wanted to know, "did Penrith deny they'd served atall or knew each ither before London?"
Rutledge reached for the report and went through it again, looking for what injuries had sent Quarles to hospital for such a long recovery.
He found it, a short notation in Gibson's scrawl: burned in attack, nearly lost hands.
Mrs. Quarles must have discovered this as well, if she hadn't already known about her husband's service in South Africa. Hardly sufficient reason to demand a separation. And even if Brunswick had learned of it, few people would care, even if he shouted it from the rooftops. Hamish said, "It doesna' signify. Let it rest."
Rutledge turned to the paperwork on his desk, concentrating on the written pages before him. In his absence there were a number of cases where he would be expected to give testimony, and he marked his calendar accordingly. Then he read reports of ongoing inquiries where the sergeants in charge were collating evidence and passing it on for a superior to inspect. He made comments in the margins and set the files aside for collection. Three hours later, he'd come to the bottom of the stack, and the report that Sergeant Gibson had prepared about the military backgrounds of Quarles and Penrith.
The sergeant had summarized the material in his usual concise style, and his oral report had matched it. Rutledge tossed the folder back on his desk for collection and filing, and sat back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.
Hamish was restless, his voice loud in the small office, rattling the windows with its force. Rutledge warned, "They'll hear you in the passage," before he realized he was speaking aloud.
But Hamish was in no mood to be silent.
Rutledge reached for a folder again, realized it was Gibson's report, and tried to read it word for word in an effort to shut out Hamish's tirade. Gibson in his thoroughness had attached a copy of Penrith's military service record to support his notes.
It was nearly impossible to concentrate, and Rutledge shut his eyes against the thundering noise in his head. The last line on the page seemed to burn into his skull, and he flipped the folder closed, shutting his eyes and trying to concentrate.
It was several minutes before his brain registered anything more than pain.
He wasn't even certain he'd seen it, but he lifted the report a last time and tried to find it, first in the summation, and then in the military record itself.
And almost missed it again. Lieutenant Timothy Barton Evering.
The name of the officer in charge when the train was attacked.
Gibson, for all his thoroughness, had had no way of knowing that it mattered. Rutledge had been searching for different information, and it was only because the sergeant was not one to leave any fact undocumented that the name was even included.
Rutledge stood up, the sheet of paper still in his hand, and went to find Gibson. But the sergeant had gone out to interview a witness for one of the other inspectors.
Rutledge went back to his desk, took up the file, reached for his hat, and left the building.
He found Davis Penrith in his office. Brushing aside a reluctant clerk, Rutledge opened the door instead and strode in Without waiting for Penrith to take in his abrupt appearance, Rutledge said, "I thought you told me you didn't know an Evering. That he was Quarles's client."
"I don't—"
"The officer in charge of the train ambushed out on the veldt was Timothy Barton Evering."
Penrith's mouth dropped open. It took him several seconds to recover. Then he fell back on anger. "What are you doing, searching through my past? I'm neither the murder victim nor a suspect in his death. You'll speak to my solicitor, Inspector, and explain yourself."
"Timothy Barton Evering."
"He's dead, man! There were no other survivors."
"Then who is Ronald Evering? His son?"
"I don't know any Ronald Evering. I told you, the investors in Cumberline were Quarles's clients, not mine. Now get out of my office and leave me alone!"
Rutledge turned on his heel and left. Back at the Yard, he left a message for Chief Superintendent Bowles that he would not be in the office for the next three days, went to his flat, and packed his valise.
It was a long drive all the way to Cornwall. Rutledge had sufficient time to wonder why it mattered so much to tie up a loose end that in no way affected the outcome of a case that was already concluded. All the same, action had improved his headache, and that in itself was something.
Penrith had given incomplete answers three times. Once about where his father had been curate, once about Quarles's background, and again about Evering. Whatever it was that Mrs. Quarles knew and Brunswick had been determined to ferret out, Davis Penrith must know as well.
There was a secret somewhere, and whether it had a bearing on this murder or not, it connected three people who on the surface of things had nothing in common.
Hamish said, "Do ye think the three acted together? If so, ye're a fool."
> "Why has Penrith felt compelled to lie to me? If I'd gone to Hampshire looking for his past, I'd have found only a five-year-old boy. If I'd gone to Sussex, I'd have discovered that the grown man had served in the Army. And there was nothing in the legend of Harold Quarles about his military career, short as it was. He'd have used it if it had in any way served his purpose."
"They were no' deserters, they didna' need to hide."
"Precisely. Constable Wainwright's father called Penrith the sole survivor of that massacre on the train. Yet Quarles survived as well."
"It was Penrith who was pointed oot to him."
"Yes, the handsome young soldier who reminded Wainwright of the Prince of Wales: slender and fair and a hero. What was Quarles doing while Penrith was being a hero? Why wasn't he one as well? His wounds were serious enough to keep him in hospital for a long time. And back in London, why didn't Penrith's heroics become as famous as Quarles's escape from the mines? It would have stood him in good stead in many quarters." He drove on. "What will one Ronald Evering have to say about his own investment in the Cumberline stocks, and his father's dealings with Penrith and Quarles?"
22
The sea was rough, and the mail boat bucketed through the waves like a live thing, fighting the water every foot of the crossing. Rutledge, shouting to the master over the noise of the sea and the creaking of the boat, asked him to point out St. Anne's.
"That one, you can barely see the top of it from here. It's our third port."
"Do you know the Everings?"
"These many years. Visiting, are you?"
"An unexpected guest," Rutledge said, watching the little island take shape. But it was another hour and three-quarters before they reached the tiny bay that was St. Anne's harbor, and their voices were suddenly loud as the wind dropped and the seas smoothed in the lee of the land.
"Evering must not have got word you were coming today," the master said, lighting his pipe. "The house usually sends down a cart for visitors."
"Are there often visitors?"
"Not often. Ronald Evering's the last of the family, and not much for entertaining."
Rutledge watched as the man maneuvered the small craft toward the stone quay and efficiently secured it to the iron rings that held it against the fenders.
"Off you go," he said to Rutledge, nodding to the path that ran down to the harbor. "Up there, cross the road, and when you see the arbor, follow the path to the house. Would you mind carrying up the mail? It would save me a trip."
Rutledge took the packet that was held out to him.
"Will you be going back today?"
"Most likely."
"Then I'll come for you."
Rutledge stepped out onto the quay and waved to the departing mail boat as he reached the path. It ran up the sloping hillside in looping curves, as if a goat had been the first to climb here. As he went, the wind reached him again, and he carried his hat in his hand to keep it from flying off. Halfway up he could see the Scilly Isles spread out before him like a map, the four or five larger ones showing signs of habitation, the smaller ones dotting the sea like afterthoughts. On the northern exposures the bare rocky slopes of the nearest islands were covered with what appeared to be heather, while the sunnier southern parts of the islands were green.
It was a very different world from London or indeed from Cornwall.
The sun began to break through the clouds, watery and halfhearted, as Rutledge reached the road and crossed it to the Evering house. It was beautifully situated, facing the south, and protected from the north by a higher slope than the one on which it stood. He came to the arbor, opened the lovely swan-neck gate, and took the shell path up to the door.
The master of the mail boat told him that there had been shipbuilding on the largest island in the last century, but here on St. Anne's were fields of flowering bulbs and perennials. He could see that the daffodils were already dying back, their yellow and green leaves covering long beds.
The brass knocker on the door was shaped like a pair of swans, like the top of the gate in the arbor.
A middle-aged woman came to answer the door. She seemed surprised to see a stranger there, and craned her neck to look beyond him toward the harbor. The mail boat was just rounding the headland. "Ronald Evering, please. My name is Ian Rutledge."
She stepped aside to let him come into the foyer, and said doubtfully, "I'll ask if Mr. Evering will see you." Disappearing down a passage, she glanced over her shoulder, as if to see if he was real or had vanished when her back was turned.
After several minutes, she led him into a small parlor that overlooked the sea. Which, he thought, every room in this house must, save for the kitchen quarters.
Evering was standing by the cold hearth and regarded Rutledge with some interest. "Do I know you? We seldom have visitors on St. Anne's, but sometimes people come to see the seals or watch the birds. We let them camp near the headland."
"I'm here to ask you about your father."
"My father?" Evering was at a loss.
"Yes. Lieutenant Timothy Barton Evering."
Ronald Evering said without inflection, "My elder brother. He's dead. Why should you be interested in him?"
"Because he served in South Africa. Can you tell me the circumstances surrounding his death?"
"They are painful to me. I prefer not to discuss them. Why are you interested in him?" he asked again. "Are you writing a book on that war? If so, my brother's death was a footnote, no more. There is more interesting material to be found, I'm sure."
Rutledge changed his ground. "It's my understanding that you were one of the investors in the Cumberline stock scheme. Is that true?"
Evering was very still. "Who are you? And what do you want here?"
"I'm Inspector Ian Rutledge, from Scotland Yard, Mr. Evering." He held out his identification. "Harold Quarles has been murdered—" Evering turned away toward the mantelpiece, his hands gripping the mahogany edge, his head bowed. "I hadn't heard. I'm sorry. When did this happen? Where?"
"In Somerset, where his country house is located. Some ten days ag°"
Evering took a deep breath. "I hope you've found his killer."
"Yes, he's already in custody. It was when I was searching Mr. Quarles's rooms that I came across your name in connection with Cumberline. In his study he kept a file on the transactions."
Evering turned to face Rutledge. "And how did you learn about my brother?"
"We were looking up Harold Quarles's service records, in an effort to find out what role, if any, his past played in his death."
"I can't see how South Africa matters? Or the Cumberline stocks. Surely neither of those could be connected to murder?"
"Not to my knowledge. But it pays to be thorough, Mr. Evering. How long have you known Mr. Quarles?"
"Not very long. I invested a sum of money with him, and it didn't prosper."
"Did you know when you invested your money that Quarles had served under your brother in the Boer War?"
Evering glanced toward the windows, where a shaft of errant sunlight had turned the sea from gray to deep green. "The War Department gave us very little information about my brother's death. He died on active duty and served his country well. That's what my father was told in the telegram. I was very young at the time, and if he learned more, he never spoke of it."
"And so it was quite by chance that you should choose an investment offered by two men who served in your brother's company."
"Neither Mr. Quarles nor Mr. Penrith ever mentioned the fact. If they recognized the name or knew my relationship to Timothy, I didn't realize it."
"Did you deal with both partners? Penrith and Quarles?"
"Yes, I talked to Mr. Quarles first, and then he brought in Mr. Penrith."
It sounded straightforward, told without hesitation or attempt to conceal.
"Is that all you came to ask me, Mr. Rutledge?"
"I'm informed that Penrith and Quarles were the only survivors of the Boer at
tack. Do you know if that's true?"
"I've told you—I know very little about how Timothy died. The fact of his death was enough. My parents never recovered from the shock."
"Yes, I can understand."
"Were you in the Great War, Mr. Rutledge? If you were, you can appreciate that many details of what happens in a battle are not reported. My brother's commanding officer wrote a very fine letter to my father, and it said very little beyond the fact that Timothy died bravely and didn't suffer. That he was an honor to his regiment, showed great promise as an officer, and would have had a fine career in the army if he'd lived. How many such letters does an officer write? He could say the same thing to a dozen grieving families, and who would be the wiser?"
"It is meant well. Sometimes the details are—distressing."
"Yes, I'm sure that must be true. For my mother's sake, I was grateful. She died not knowing whether he suffered or not. Which is what really mattered, in the end." Evering gestured to the chairs that stood between them. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Rutledge? I'll ring for tea. It will be some time before the boat returns."
"Thank you." Rutledge took the chair indicated and waited until Evering had given the order for tea to the woman who'd answered the door.
"One of the reasons I'm following up on the South African campaign is that something that happened in Harold Quarles's service out there—he served nowhere else, you see—disturbed his wife to such a degree that there was a serious breach with her husband. It lasted until his death."
Evering considered Rutledge for a moment and then said, "I don't know what to say. I've never met Mrs. Quarles or spoken to her. Does she think this—whatever it was—had to do with my brother?"
"I have no way of knowing what it is. I'm here to learn as much as I can about the only serious action Quarles saw during the war."
"It's a mystery to me. But if she tells you anything that I ought to know, please send me word. I'd be grateful."
The tea came, and they drank it in silence. Rutledge's mind was occupied, and Evering seemed to have little conversation, as if living alone in this empty, silent house had shaped his spirit.
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