No Shred of Evidence

by Charles Todd

  “If you wanted to conceal someone’s whereabouts, where would you go?” Rutledge asked, ignoring everything else.

  Grenville cast him a sharp glance, then bent over the map spread across the table. Mrs. Grenville had come into the room and was standing by the fireplace. The fire in the grate was snapping sharply and taking some of the evening’s chill out of the room.

  “Bodmin Moor,” Grenville said at once, a finger going to the moorland. “Or here.” He pointed to the headland beyond Rock. “There’s the ruin of an ancient fortress here. Certainly not medieval.”

  “The moor is too far. And the headland is a trap, he won’t go there. What’s this large spot?”

  “That? An abandoned quarry. Cornish stone was taken out of the ground, leaving a layered pit.”

  “That’s what, about fifteen miles from here?”

  “Nearer twenty, I should think.”

  “Then that’s where he’ll take her.”

  Grenville was all for summoning St. Ives and Langley and doing a little reconnaissance in force. But Rutledge shook his head.

  “No. We’ll see what his demands are. She won’t be harmed. Not as long as he believes he’ll have what he wants in the end.” But she would be frightened—­and stoic. He could count on Kate.

  “Why Gordon’s daughter?”

  “I don’t think he cared whose child she was. Only that she was someone with a father who cared. He may even have mistaken her for the magistrate’s daughter.”

  “He must be mad.”

  “Cunning is a better word.” He didn’t add the word chasing itself through his own mind: dangerous.

  “But what has this to do with the charges against my daughter and her friends?”

  “Nothing,” Rutledge said, and started for the door.

  “Wait,” Mrs. Grenville said. “You say Kate—­Miss Gordon—­is a hostage. What does this man want?”

  “His wife. He refuses to recognize a judicial separation.”

  “Do you know where she is? Will you take her to him, to exchange for Kate? It seems rather—­cruel.”

  Rutledge had already considered that. “I can’t exchange her for Kate. Nor can I leave Kate at his mercy.”

  “Then take me. Can you make me look enough like her? There’s nothing to be done about height or size. But it could work.”

  It could. Mrs. Grenville had the same coloring and build. But he was reluctant to agree.

  He knew why she had volunteered. She felt responsible for what had happened to her daughter. She was afraid to tell her husband. This was in a way her expiation.

  Grenville was already protesting. “I won’t have it. We’ll go after Kate ourselves, and bring her back.” He started for the door. “Be damned with this.”

  “He’ll kill her,” Rutledge said quietly.

  Grenville stopped, wheeling to face him. “You can’t be sure of that.”

  “I have seen what he can do. I won’t risk it. Not with Kate Gordon.”

  “My dear, Inspector Rutledge will see to it that I come to no harm.”

  “No, I refuse even to consider this.”

  She put her hand on her husband’s arm. “Give Mr. Rutledge your revolver. I don’t think he will hesitate to use it.”

  “Absolutely not. If we must do this, we’ll ask one of the maids.”

  “No. That would be very unfair. Think about it, Walter. I can carry it off. I’ve always been good at charades, haven’t I?”

  He smiled in spite of himself. “That’s hardly a skill you will find helpful in dealing with such a person. No.”

  She wasted half an hour in persuading him. But in the end, he agreed. She went up to her daughter’s room and came back with a selection of gowns, asking Rutledge which might be more suitable to Mrs. Worth.

  He chose a blue wool with a short jacket, and then a hat that more or less covered her hair. A heavy cloak against the wind, and appropriate shoes—­she had only one sensible pair, for walking out—­and she might just pass as Mrs. Worth.

  “I’m going back to the inn,” he told her. “I must await the summons. Then I’ll come for you.”

  Her eyes were worried, but she said steadily, “Of course. I’ll be ready, Mr. Rutledge.”

  A boy from Padstow brought the message an hour later. He told Rutledge that the man had given him sixpence to bring the note and a shilling if he lost his memory on the way.

  “And so I can’t describe him, sir. I have taken his shilling.”

  “I’ll give you a pound, if you tell me.”

  But the boy shook his head firmly. “No, sir. I have given my promise.”

  Admirable, but frustrating. It didn’t matter, the man who had given the lad the message would have left Padstow before the boy reached the village.

  Rutledge went up to his room and unfolded the square of paper.

  You know what I want. If you are standing on the village landing at noon, I will give my word that she will come to no harm. For twenty-­four hours.

  Rutledge swore, but he drove again to Padstow Place, asked for Mrs. Grenville, and said, “I shall need you to stand on the village landing at noon. He has field glasses; you must be careful.”

  “Give me fifteen minutes to change clothes.” She left the room.

  Grenville said, “You have a message. Let me see it.”

  Rutledge gave it to him.

  “Yes, all right, then.”

  Ten minutes later he and Victoria Grenville’s mother were in his motorcar on their way to the village.

  “You didn’t need to do this, you know.”

  She smiled and shook her head. “You know I must.”

  “Your husband will understand.”

  “He will. And that’s the worst part of it, you see. This way, I’ve done something to make amends for my part in what has happened.”

  They were silent for the rest of the way. Rutledge drove the motorcar directly to the landing, and got out.

  “No, stay here,” he said to her as she prepared to get down. And then he walked on to the edge of the landing. He didn’t know quite what to expect. Whether the ruse would work. But he was counting on the man watching them to be hungry enough to take the bait. Unless, of course, he possessed a rifle, and what he wanted as well was revenge.

  He was standing there, scanning the opposite side of the river when something caught his eye. It was a single flash. He located it in a small stand of wind-­shriveled trees high on the slope.

  The flashes started again.

  Morse code, he realized as he recognized the flashes. He shook his head.

  The flashes began once more, and this time he pulled up the code from the depths of his memory and began to read.

  The quarry. Ten o’clock tonight. Come alone with her. If you fail me, you know what to expect.

  Rutledge waited, but the message was not repeated. The flashes had ended.

  He turned and walked back to the motorcar, thinking hard. Why ten o’clock? Would it take the other man that long to set up his traps?

  He made a decision. He reached Mrs. Grenville’s side, and leaned forward.

  Very quietly, he said, “I’m telling you something. Listen to it, and then shake your head vigorously. Angrily. Can you do that?”

  She leaned forward, as if hanging on his words, then moved away, showing distress and anger.

  He continued to talk to her, and she appeared to burst into tears. At that point he walked around the motorcar and got in, driving away.

  When they were safely away from the River Camel, Mrs. Grenville said, “Do you think he believed in me?”

  “I hope so.”

  “I saw the flashes. What did he want?”

  “Ten o’clock tonight. The quarry.”

  She bit her lip, then said with more courage than she must hav
e felt, “Very well.”

  He spent another hour convincing Grenville. And then, drained, he went back to the hotel and up to his room.

  “It’s a verra’ grave risk.”

  “I know. God, I could use an aircraft. I would give a great deal to see this quarry.”

  But there was no one he dared to ask, except Grenville, who hadn’t been there since he was a boy.

  “A great empty bowl,” he said. “They scooped out the rocks like porridge, and left it. An eyesore. There’s no place to hide.”

  “But he can see anyone approaching.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I don’t think anyone has worked there these past twenty years. There’s talk of opening it again. Nothing has come of it. You aren’t proposing to do this alone? You can’t take the risk, Rutledge, with two women caught in the middle.”

  “It will be all right. He won’t come near Mrs. Grenville.”

  Grenville was difficult to persuade, but Rutledge was fairly certain that Worth would be watching. A raiding party would be spotted, and it was Kate who would suffer.

  They left in the afternoon, he and Mrs. Grenville. And her husband’s revolver went with them in Rutledge’s pocket.

  He had a feeling that Grenville would break his promise and try to follow, but he hoped that he himself had had a sufficient head start to finish the business before the cavalry arrived.

  Mrs. Grenville was quiet as he drove to Wadebridge and then turned back toward the sea. He had some difficulty finding the road to the quarry, abandoned and overgrown as it was. By that time, they were only two miles away from their destination, and it was quite dark.

  “It will go as planned. As long as you don’t speak. Cry, scream, but don’t speak.”

  She nodded, and he thought she was too tense to reply.

  The quarry was larger than he’d expected and deeper. Even in the dark he could see how raw the land was for some distance around it, bare of anything but scrub growth that had fought its way back through soil pounded down by wagons and horses, and the feet of men. Grenville had not remembered it well.

  The quarry itself was a great black hole. He could see nothing below.

  Mrs. Grenville spoke, keeping her voice low. “It goes down in descending circles, you know; as each level was removed, the next was narrower and lower. Like giant steps. I haven’t seen it myself, but I remember now that Stephen came here once. For a lark. It would be easy to fall, I think. I can’t imagine how unstable those stones must be, and in the dark. He has the advantage, doesn’t he?” There was resignation in the words.

  “He thinks he has. It’s what matters.”

  “Yes. You must be right.”

  They sat there. Rutledge found himself considering all the things that lived in the Cornish night, and he wondered if a man like Worth was superstitious.

  A voice came out of the dark, echoing oddly.

  “Did you bring a torch? Shine it on her face.”

  “The battery is too low. I’ll switch on the headlamps instead.”

  He did, the large, powerful beams lighting the night and making him blink.

  Mrs. Grenville had thrown up her arm, as if the glare was too much.

  “Bring her to the pit’s edge.”

  “Not until I see that your hostage is all right.”

  A torch shone down into the pit. Rutledge could just make out the figure of Kate Gordon standing on one of the lower levels. It appeared her hands were tied behind her back.

  But the torchlight had not come from the pit. Where the hell was Worth?

  “Kate?” Rutledge called, getting out of the motorcar. He had pocketed the revolver. “Are you all right?”

  “I am. Take care, Ian.” As she spoke, the torch flicked off.

  It was a warning, and he took it seriously.

  “I will not leave her down there. She must come up. Or the trade is off.”

  “I’ll kill her then.”

  “No, you won’t. You don’t have what you were after. Bring her up.” His voice was hard.

  The torch came on again. And with her hands still tied behind her, Kate Gordon started to walk.

  Rutledge held his breath. It was dangerous, she could stumble and fall at any moment. She had no way to protect herself. But she moved slowly, resolutely. A stone spun out from under her foot and went down. It was a moment before Rutledge heard it splash in the darkness below where rainwater must have pooled in the depths.

  He watched, powerless to help her. But it was the only way to get her out of there. If he went down to guide her, he left Mrs. Grenville alone. And down in that pit, he was an easy target. It wouldn’t take Worth long to discover the impersonation.

  He couldn’t imagine the courage it was taking. He walked to the rim of the pit, and it was then that he realized that Kate Gordon was blindfolded. He began to talk to her. She reached the slope that led to the next level. Keeping his voice steady and his eyes on her, he guided her with words, and she listened as he warned her of obstacles, told her how far she had come, encouraged her away from the precipitous edge without frightening her, using the only weapon he had to keep her safe.

  It seemed to take forever, that walk. But she must have been able to see under the blindfold—­a little—­to follow the shining path of the torch light.

  One foot in front of the next, slowly, painfully, she came nearer. And he prayed that the cavalry would keep its distance until she was out of danger.

  In the motorcar behind him, he heard Mrs. Grenville gasp as Kate’s footing nearly failed her, and she lurched too close to the edge. She froze there, and Rutledge talked her into moving again, praising her, warning her, and cursing in his mind the man who had put her through this.

  For once Hamish was silent. He seemed to be holding his own breath as well.

  And Rutledge was grateful for the respite.

  She was nearly at the top now. Another twenty feet and she would be off the ascending levels and away from the edge of the pit.

  And then the torch went dark, stranding her there, and the voice said, “That’s enough.”

  “Stay where you are, Kate. You’re safe there. It will be all right,” Rutledge told her. “Twenty feet more, that’s all, and you’re almost within reach. But don’t move. Not yet.”

  The headlamps didn’t reach her where she stood, but he could see her shoulders slump as she realized it was nearly over.

  “You have what you want. Give me what I came for.”

  Rutledge went back to the motorcar and pretended to pull Mrs. Grenville roughly from it. “Struggle,” he commanded in a fierce whisper, and she did, her fists pounding his chest and shoulders before he turned her sharply toward his best estimate of the source of the voice, and made her march beside him.

  At Rutledge’s urging, she kept up the struggle, for all the world a frightened woman who was resisting being traded for the girl on the pit’s edge.

  “When I say drop, go down,” he told her softly.

  She didn’t speak. But he knew she had heard him.

  He walked only as far as the light of the headlamps reached. There he stopped.

  “If you want her, come and get her. She will run if I let her go.”

  “With pleasure.”

  Rutledge could hear footsteps in the darkness, crunching over the rubble, and then he realized that Worth was moving away, not toward him but toward Kate.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded, his voice cutting the silence.

  Worth had reached Kate, taken her arm, and pulled her in front of him, as a shield.

  Mrs. Grenville said quietly, “I think—­he’s holding her at gunpoint now.”

  He had seen it as well. Rutledge swore again, but he had prepared for that too.

  They moved toward him, the dark outline of the man Rutledge had never seen, and the slim fig
ure of the girl who had climbed out of the pit alone and without anything but her own bravery to help her.

  They were still out of revolver range.

  And then Rutledge saw a single flash of light somewhere on slightly higher ground behind Worth, where the land sloped upward before falling away again.

  He heard a sharp intake of breath beside him, and then Mrs. Grenville began to struggle against the light grip he had on her arm.

  “No, no,” she cried, her voice muffled by her shoulder. And before he could stop her, she broke free. He whirled and caught her up, and he saw the anger blazing in her eyes beneath the hat. This time there was no pretense. She struggled fiercely, and he had all he could do not to hurt her.

  “Let me go,” she said then, and as he realized what she was about to do, he let her break away again, and run headlong into the darkness, away from Worth and from Rutledge. Just as Mrs. Worth would have done.

  He heard the man swear, his voice wild and furious. And then he dropped Kate’s arm and started after Mrs. Grenville, raising his revolver.

  Too late, Rutledge realized that in the darkness beyond the headlamps, she had misjudged her distances. She was nearer Worth now than he was, and in range while he was not.

  Rutledge shouted a warning, already racing to intercept Worth, to bring himself into range, but the man was quickly gaining on Mrs. Grenville.

  Raising the borrowed revolver, Rutledge fired, praying that it aimed true, and watched the shot kick up a tiny spout of earth ten feet short of the other man, barely diverting him from his target.

  He wasn’t going to be in time—­

  And Worth was steadying his own gun hand.

  Rutledge fired a second time, had the satisfaction of seeing Worth duck. And in that instant, when the man’s stride was off, a large-­bore rifle fired, echoing through the darkness, and Worth dropped like a stone.

  Shoving the revolver into his pocket, Rutledge changed direction and ran toward Kate, stranded near the rim of the quarry, still blindfolded and fighting her bonds.

  “I’m here,” he said, reaching for the blindfold, and then pulling her into his arms.

  As he half led, half carried her to the motorcar, she twisted to see what had become of Worth.

  “Don’t look,” he ordered, and she turned her face away.