No Shred of Evidence

by Charles Todd

  He led the way, and they could distinctly feel the wind drop as they stepped into the covered porch.

  “And Miss St. Ives?”

  “She was engaged to Stephen Grenville, of course, but I’m sure she and Saunders met, as young ­people do.”

  “She was young to be engaged before the war.”

  “Well, yes, but it had been understood since they were twelve that they would marry. Inseparable.”

  “And the other two?”

  Toup shook his head. “I can’t tell you if they’d ever met or not. I had heard rumors that Miss Langley and George St. Ives had met in London.” He smiled. “Matchmaking women in the Temperance Society that meets at the vicarage on Thursdays. How they found out I don’t know. Women seem to have a sixth sense about these things.”

  “And Miss Gordon?”

  “I think perhaps she’s the more levelheaded of the four. Charming girl, but she’s also intelligent and capable.”

  “Then why should she conspire to help murder a man she barely knew?”

  “Ah. I’ve heard the stories going round, you know. That Saunders had gone out with them, there was a quarrel, and he went overboard. Whether by accident or design I can’t say.”

  “Why should he have gone out with the group?”

  “He was in the water, fully clothed. An indication in most minds that he must have been in the boat at the start.”

  “The four women tell me that he was in his own boat, but it sank as he was heading toward them. They were trying to fish him out of the water. Apparently he wasn’t a strong swimmer, or he’d have been able to pull himself into the rowing boat.”

  Toup stared at him. “I hadn’t heard that account of events. Is this true?”

  “Would it appear to make sense to you?”

  “It makes more sense than murder. But where is the boat? The proof of what they are saying?”

  “Out in the channel somewhere.”

  “Well, I must tell you that it makes very good sense to me. I was made very uncomfortable by these accusations. And yet—­Trevose isn’t the sort of man to lie.”

  Time to test Penhale’s theory, Rutledge told himself.

  “Is there bad blood between the two families?”

  “Not to my knowledge. No, certainly not. Unless of course you count the deer.”

  “What deer?”

  “There’s a small herd at Padstow Place. Nearly tame, I’m told. Some years ago, well before the war it was, they were scattered during a winter storm, one of the worst in memory. A few of them found themselves on Trevose land and were helping themselves in his fields. He was all for shooting them, but Grenville came to collect them and threatened to fine Trevose if he so much as touched them. Regulars at The Pilot—­that’s a pub in the village, I daresay you’ve seen it down by the landing—­will tell you that Trevose is still smarting from that encounter. Nonetheless, I’d hardly call it bad blood so much as a difference of opinion on the matter. Trevose claimed they would find their way back again, and if they did, magistrate or no magistrate, he’d stop the deer from destroying his livelihood. A way of saving face, I think, because they never came back.”

  “Then why is the knocker on the door of Padstow Place identical in all but size to the one on the door of the Trevose house?”

  “Is it? Are you sure? I don’t think I’ve ever noticed.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “How very extraordinary. But then, possibly not. There was a blacksmith in the village many years ago who made useful but very lovely things. By the vicarage door, I have a hook for my hat that is beautifully done, a scrolled S. It was there when I came. Someone told me it was made in the village. I daresay if there was a pattern for a door knocker, and someone else admired it, the old man would have copied it for him.”

  It was one explanation. Rutledge let it go.

  The hens had followed them around to the porch, busily scratching in the path to the church, looking for seeds.

  Toup said with apologies, “Their ancestors fed us during the war. Eggs and meat and feather pillows. I haven’t had the heart to get rid of them. They live in a wooden hut outside my kitchen door, but when I come to the churchyard, they follow.”

  Rutledge smiled. They were beautiful birds, larger than most, and a dark blue-­green with light brown patterning. Their combs were small and more orange than red.

  Rising, he said, “Thank you, Vicar. I’ve enjoyed our talk.”

  “Any time, Inspector. I wish I could help you sort out this tangle, but unless you find that boat, we will be facing a rather unpleasant situation here.”

  The vicar was on his feet also, and the hens looked up, cocking their head expectantly. He strode back around the church, and the hens scuttled after him.

  5

  It was time to call on Harry Saunders, to hear from the doctor attending him exactly what had happened to him. And more urgently, to see the wound for himself.

  Rutledge asked Constable Pendennis for directions to Carrick’s surgery in Padstow, but when he rang the bell, the doctor’s nurse informed him that Saunders had been taken to his father’s house in the hope that familiar surroundings would bring him round sooner.

  And so he found himself in an older part of town on a street with larger houses standing above the harbor.

  Number 16 was two stories, painted white with dark gray facing stones used in a rather attractive pattern. There were bay windows on either side of the door. A handsome house. He knocked on the door, and it was opened by a middle-­aged woman dressed in the uniform of a housekeeper.

  “I’m afraid,” she said, before he could speak, “that there is illness here, and the family are not receiving any visitors. If you will leave your card, I will see that they know you have called.”

  “I’m not a visitor. My name is Rutledge, Scotland Yard. I should like to speak to the elder Mr. Saunders, please.”

  She hesitated, uncertain whether to turn him away or seek advice about admitting him. “If you will step this way, sir, I’ll see if Mr. Saunders will speak to you.”

  She led him to a room just off the entrance hall, and closed the door behind him.

  It was a spacious room, tastefully decorated in pale green and cream, but the furnishings were Victorian and dark. He went to the window and looked down on the inner harbor, the stone arms of which gave safe anchorage in storms. Beyond lay the river, broadening as it swept out to the sea beyond. The low headland on the opposite shore was dull green at this time of year. A forest of masts picked out the fishing boats, but there were several pleasure craft as well, and a lifesaving station to one side.

  Rutledge turned as the door opened. Mr. Saunders was of medium height, and appeared to have put on weight as he reached middle age. But his graying hair was well cut and his dark clothes indicated a good tailor, as one would expect of a banker.

  On closer inspection as he went to meet his host, Rutledge could see the deep lines on either side of his mouth and the puffiness of sleepless nights and worry around his eyes.

  “Mr. Rutledge,” he said, coming forward but not offering his hand. “You’ve replaced Inspector Barrington, I believe.”

  “I’ve had to take up the inquiry without his guidance,” he said, as Saunders indicated chairs by a marble-­topped table. “And so I must ask questions that may repeat those he asked. How is your son?”

  “Still unconscious. The doctor fears bleeding on the brain.”

  “May I see him?”

  “He’s not on display,” Saunders retorted sharply, then shook his head. “I’m sorry. Of course you must. It’s just that we’ve had any number of visitors moved more by curiosity than any interest in my son’s condition, and it has been very trying for us, his mother in particular.”

  A gathering of crows, one Inspector had called it, come to find out whatever they could to add
to the town gossip. Rutledge had seen it before.

  Saunders led the way to the stairs, saying, “If you will hold your questions until we’ve returned to the parlor?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  They mounted the steps, turned right, and entered a bright room where the curtains were opened wide to let in the sun. A fair-­haired woman in a dark blue dress was sitting by a bedside, reading aloud from a book. She put it down and rose, looking at her husband.

  “Inspector Rutledge, my wife.”

  He nodded to her across the still body of her son. She said, “Dr. Carrick has suggested reading to him. He tells us Harry may be able to hear our voices, if not the words.”

  Rutledge approached the bed. Under a pretty coverlet lay Harry Saunders. There was no longer a bandage on his head, but the cut where the oar had struck him was an angry raised line on his forehead within a quarter of an inch of his hairline. Rutledge judged it to be several inches long and quite deep. There was a raised lump as well.

  Which meant that the oar had hit him before it had hit Sara Langley’s forearms?

  Or had this been the work of the thwarts? Rutledge was inclined to believe that it was the oar, considering the depth of the injury. It indicated too that he must have been struggling to keep his head out of the water. If the oar had come down only a matter of inches lower, it would have struck him across his nose and eyes. That at least had been a blessing.

  He looked at the face of the unconscious man. Perhaps not handsome, but he had certainly inherited his mother’s regular features, and his hair was the light brown that could well have been fair in his youth. He had a strong jawline and broad shoulders.

  The sort of man that women would find attractive . . .

  Apparently Victoria Grenville had not felt that way.

  Mrs. Saunders put out her hand and smoothed back a strand of hair that had fallen across her son’s forehead. “He’s so quiet,” she said.

  And he was. None of the twitching or involuntary movements of a sleeping man, untroubled and at rest.

  Rutledge realized, glancing around the pleasant room, that it must be his mother’s, feminine in detail, boxes of powder and jars of creams and crystal flasks of perfumes on the elegant dressing table, chintz covering on the chaise longue in a pattern of violets, wall papering with cream and pink and lavender cabbage roses. A summer garden, a familiar place, a comforting place.

  Saunders would recognize it if and when he opened his eyes.

  Rutledge had seen enough. He thanked Mrs. Saunders and followed her husband out of the room.

  Out of earshot on the stairs, Rutledge said, “Does your son live with you?”

  “He did before the war. And for some months after he came home. Now he has a cottage of his own just a few streets from here.”

  “And so you aren’t aware of his comings or goings?”

  Saunders stiffened.

  Rutledge said, “For instance, if he takes his boat out or looks in on the bank in the village or in Rock, across the river. If he attends a party or has friends in to dine.”

  Innocuous pastimes, the sort of ways a young unmarried man might spend his time.

  Saunders relaxed. “That’s true. We didn’t know he was in Heyl village. Not until word came.”

  “Does he take his boat out often?” They had reached the hall at the foot of the stairs. Rutledge noted that he was not invited to return to the parlor. But then Saunders appeared to be dead on his feet from worry and lack of sleep.

  “Not the larger one, although in the summer he tries to make a few weekends for sailing down the coast.”

  “Did he take the smaller one to row up to Heyl village?”

  “I can’t imagine why he would do that, dressed to spend time at the bank. He has a horse, an Irish mare. Pretty little thing.”

  “Is the dinghy still tied up here in Padstow?”

  “I’ve no idea, I have hardly left my son’s side. Certainly I had no time to worry about boats.”

  “How well did your son swim? Do you know?”

  Saunders looked away. “Not very well. He never took to the water as a child. Short distances. He preferred to be on the water, not in it.”

  Which confirmed Rutledge’s earlier assumption.

  “What was he wearing when he was brought to the doctor’s surgery?”

  “One of his dark suits, white shirt. Tie. What he’d expect to wear to do business.”

  “It was a Saturday. Is the bank open on a Saturday afternoon?”

  “It is not. It closes at twelve. But there may have been a private meeting with someone thinking of buying a property. That sort of thing.”

  “Or perhaps to go calling on a friend?”

  “Yes, that too. Although Harry doesn’t have many friends in the village. It’s not—­comfortable—­when your father owns the bank.”

  “I can understand that. How well does your son know Victoria Grenville? Or Elaine St. Ives?”

  The man’s mouth drew into a thin line. Then he replied, “I would have said, before last Saturday, that he and both young ladies were friends. Not close perhaps but most certainly on civil terms.”

  “Before last Saturday,” Rutledge repeated in a thoughtful tone of voice, adding, “Miss Grenville is now an heiress. She would be considered quite a match for anyone in Cornwall. It wouldn’t be unheard of for your son to wish to press his suit.”

  “Nonsense!” Saunders snapped. “He will most likely find a wife in London banking circles.”

  But not many fathers would be irritated by a liaison with a cadet branch of the Grenville family, one who owned an estate as fine as Padstow Place and had probably owned much of the town itself in the distant past.

  Saunders opened the door. “Good day, Mr. Rutledge. I hope to hear from you very soon in regard to the attempted murder of my son.”

  “I’ll keep you informed, of course,” Rutledge answered pleasantly and went out the door, leaving Saunders himself to shut it behind him.

  He wasn’t certain whether Saunders actually believed that the four women accused of the attack on his son were guilty or whether in his fear and doubt he wanted someone to blame for that still form lying upstairs in his wife’s room.

  Rutledge drove on into the Old Town, left his motorcar in the yard of a pub, and walked down to the harbor. It was busy today, ­people coming and going, the shops doing a brisk trade, and a few women sitting or standing by the water, enjoying the view as they talked with acquaintances.

  When he asked several of the men who were walking past if they could point out where Harry Saunders kept his smaller boat, they shook their heads.

  “I expect it’s too busy here in the harbor to tie it up,” one man told him, anxious to be on his way.

  “Didn’t know there was one here,” another told him.

  And a third suggested that it might be tied up at a private dock instead.

  He walked the length of the harbor but saw nothing that he could say with any certainty belonged to Saunders. And the first man had been right, the harbor was busy.

  A fourth pointed out the larger Saunders boat, at anchor in the roads. A sailboat that Rutledge estimated could accommodate one or two ­people in its tiny cabin.

  It was pleasant here in the sun, surprisingly warm now that the omnipresent wind had dropped, or because this was a sheltered place. Rutledge stood for a time with his back to the town, looking out to sea beyond the low headlands. One of his informants had told him there was a dangerous shoal out there, not a likely place for a small boat.

  He had asked if it were possible to row upstream to Heyl, and he was told that it was a long pull if the tide was running out.

  So where had Harry Saunders kept his boat, and why had he been rowing past the village that Saturday afternoon?

  And then he turned and retraced his steps,
looking for a salvage yard. Constable Pendennis had promised to see to it, but Rutledge wasn’t convinced it would be a priority for the Heyl police.

  He found what he was looking for and made arrangements for the yard to send someone upriver to find Harry Saunders’s boat. The owner, a stocky man with a beard, brought out a map and asked Rutledge to pinpoint the area to be searched. He did that to the best of his ability, adding, “I was not there when the boat sank. It may have been left or right of the mark I’ve made. But I shouldn’t think you will have too much difficulty locating it.”

  The man nodded. “We’ll do our best. Why did it sink, do you know?”

  “That’s the point of retrieving it,” he replied. “To find out.”

  Walking to where he’d left his motorcar, Rutledge took a detour to Church Street to see the church of St. Petroc.

  It had been a great pilgrimage center, until the bones of St. Petroc had been taken away to Bodmin—­and then stolen from there and carried off to Brittany. Henry II had restored them to Bodmin. And Padstow became a backwater. The church was more a chapel, with gray stone, a square tower, and a churchyard full of tombstones tilting and leaning in the high grass. The mounded graves, the grass around them still thinner and shorter, marked where those who had died of their wounds in England lay buried alongside influenza victims.

  He could feel Hamish stirring as he looked at them, and so he turned away, not lingering there.

  It was on the way back to Heyl that Hamish finally spoke for the first time that day. A cloud had crossed over the sun, leaving a gray light behind that made the scenery more suitable to the time of year, a dreary dampness that promised rain.

  “Yon man in the bed didna’ look verra’ good. It’s a matter of attempted murder now. What if he dies? What then? His father will press for a trial. And it willna’ go well for the lasses.”