Charles Todd_Ian Rutledge 11

by A Matter of Justice

  “It would be rather stupid of me to visit Cambury, don’t you think? Strangers stand out in small villages, people are curious about them. No, if I went to the mainland, it was only to hear news that never reaches us here on St. Anne’s. But save yourself the trouble. You can ask the master of the mail boat. I didn’t leave the island.”

  “You have your own boat. Your staff would know whether you were here or on the mainland.”

  “While you’re here, you must ask them.”

  Which meant, Rutledge was certain, that they would lie for him. Or were paid well to do so.

  “It’s going to be very difficult, I agree. But I know the truth now. You’ll be summoned to give evidence at Penrith’s trial. Will you call him a liar, under oath? Will you deny ever telling him about his wife and Quarles?”

  Evering walked to the cabinet that stood between the windows. Opening the glass doors, he reached in to align the small figure of a man seated in a chair, his yellow waistcoat tight across his belly, one hand raised, as if in salute. “I have nothing to fear. I’ll gladly give testimony. Under oath. It’s far more likely that Penrith knew about that contraption you speak of. Not I.” He closed the cabinet door and this time turned the key in the lock.

  Evering, unlike Penrith, was not likely to break.

  Rutledge said, “Does it bother your conscience that Quarles was murdered and Penrith will hang? And that you are very likely responsible?”

  “I hardly know them. I won’t lose sleep over their fates. I’d like to offer you tea, again, Mr. Rutledge, but I think perhaps you’d prefer to await the mail boat down at the quay. It is, as you can see, one of our best days. The water in fact is beautiful. Admiring it will pass the time. There are a number of interesting birds on the islands. You might spot one of them.”

  Rutledge picked up his coat and his hat. “Thank you for your time.” He walked past Evering to the door, and there he stopped. “Quarles has a sister, you know. And he has a son. Penrith has a family as well. You are the last of your line. You may have found a way to destroy your brother’s killers, but revenge is a two-edged sword. Survivors are sometimes determined—as you well know—and somehow may find a way to finish what you began.”

  Evering said, “I have no interest in vendettas. Or vengeance. I can tell you that my mother was of a different temperament and would have stood there below the gallows to watch Penrith die. There are many kinds of justice, Mr. Rutledge. As a policeman you are concerned with only one. Do speak to Mariah on your way out. She’ll confirm—in writing if need be—that I never left St. Anne’s.”

  Rutledge did speak to the maid. She gave her name as Mariah Pendennis. And she told him, without hesitation or any change of expression, that it was true, Mr. Evering had been on St. Anne’s for a fortnight or more, as was his custom this time of year.

  “The man’s guilty,” Rutledge told Hamish as he leaned against a bollard, waiting for the mail boat. “As surely as if he took that stone and killed Quarles himself.”

  “But ye canna’ prove it. Guilty or no’.”

  Overhead the gulls swooped and soared, curious to see if this stranger intended to offer them scraps or not. Their cries echoed against the hillside behind Rutledge.

  He turned and looked back toward the house he’d just left. He could feel Evering’s eyes on him, watching to be certain he left with the boat when it came in.

  Where had Evering learned such cunning? And why had it taken so long to wreak havoc among his enemies? He’d been young, yes, when his brother died, but nearly twenty years had passed since tragic news had reached the anxious household at the top of the hill.

  Hamish said sourly, “He waited for a way that didna’ compromise him.”

  Rutledge watched the mail boat pull around the headland, the bow cleaving the waves and throwing up a white V as it moved toward the quay.

  It was a long twenty-eight miles across to Cornwall. Rutledge had time to think, and at the end of the journey, he was no closer to a solution.

  But as he turned his motorcar east, he suddenly realized that the answer had been staring him in the face since the beginning, but because it was so simple, it had gone undetected.

  24

  Inspector Padgett was startled to find Rutledge waiting for him in his office when he returned from a late tea with his family.

  “I thought I’d seen the last of you.”

  “Yes, well, sometimes wishes are granted and sometimes not. I went to see this man Evering. I think he set in motion the train of events that led to the murder of Harold Quarles, but he knows very well that it can’t be proven. He’s as guilty as Penrith, in my view. More, perhaps, for using a weak man as his tool, and finding the right fear to provoke him. But that’s beside the point.”

  “You know as well as I do that policemen often have suspicions they aren’t able to prove. You’ll have to live with this one.”

  “Possibly.”

  “A bit of news at this end. Mrs. Quarles came to Cambury in person to apologize to Betty Richards. She also brought a bank draft for the sum that Quarles left the woman in his will. I don’t think Betty quite knew what to make of it all. Miss O’Hara tells me that she sat in her room and cried for an hour afterward. Tears, according to Miss O’Hara, of relief rather than grief. I don’t know that she cared for her brother as much as she cared for the money he left her.”

  “She was frightened about the future.”

  “It’s secure enough now.”

  “Which brings me back to something we never resolved. Not with Brunswick and not with Penrith. How the body of Harold Quarles was moved from the scene of his murder to the tithe barn, to be strung up in that cage. I was convinced that Evering must have done it. To humiliate the man in death. But the more I considered the matter, the more impossible it seemed. I know Penrith left his motorcar in the drive, where it wasn’t visible from the house, but what did Evering do with his? We found no tracks to explain what happened—and that’s a long way to carry a dead man.”

  “I’ve told you my opinion—Mrs. Quarles borrowed Charles Archer’s wheeled chair.”

  “Yes, but what brought her, in the middle of the night, down to the gatehouse just minutes after her husband was murdered?”

  “She heard something. The barking dog, remember?”

  “She’d have sent one of the staff.”

  Padgett said, smiling broadly, “You can’t have it both ways.”

  “But I can. The only vehicle that had driven down the tithe barn lane was yours. Whether you heard that dog barking and came in to investigate, or something else caught your eye, you found Quarles dead, and it was your need to make him a laughingstock that gave you the idea of putting him up in the cage. You drove him there, a piece of cloth or chamois around his head, and because you knew where the apparatus was and how it worked, you could strap him in very quickly. A stranger would have had to learn how the buckles and braces worked. Then you went in to Cambury, alerted your men, sent for me, and waited until I got there to remove Quarles, so that someone else was in charge of the inquiry. You’ve already admitted that much. But it explains why we never found tracks to indicate who else had been there in the lane and driven or dragged Quarles to the barn.”

  “You can’t prove it,” Padgett said, his face grim. “Whatever you suspect, you can’t prove it.”

  “That’s true. Because you’ve had time to remove any bloodstains from your motorcar and burn that rag. That’s why you left your motorcar with Constable Jenkins, because your evidence was in the boot.”

  “I did no such thing—”

  “But you did. The tracks were yours, and only yours, until your constables got there. And then the doctor came after I arrived. I shall have to tell the Chief Constable, Padgett. You tampered with the scene of a crime, with the intent to confound the police. And you did just that.”

  “I’ll deny it.”

  “I think you will. But he’s had other reports against you. This will probably be the last str
aw.”

  “I’m a policeman. I had a right to be in that lane. I had the right to decide if this murder was beyond the abilities of my men.”

  “And you spent most of your time trying to derail my investigation.”

  “I was no wiser than you when it came to finding out who killed Quarles.”

  “Didn’t it occur to you that the killer might still be somewhere there, out of sight? Or that Quarles might still have been alive—barely—when you got to him? Why didn’t you shout for help or blow your horn? But that’s easier to explain. You hadn’t seen Penrith’s motorcar as it left, so you must have believed that someone from Hallowfields had murdered Quarles. It was safer to let him die and bring down Mrs. Quarles with him.”

  “I did nothing of the sort—O’Neil himself said the second blow was fatal, that there was no help for it. He was unconscious and dying as soon as it was struck.” Padgett’s voice was intent, his gaze never leaving Rutledge’s face.

  “You couldn’t have known that at the time, could you?”

  Padgett swore. “You’ve been after my head since I was rude to Mrs. Quarles on our first visit. Well, she’s a piece of work, I can tell you that, and neither wanted nor needed our sympathy.”

  “It was you who let slip to someone the fact that Quarles had been trussed up like the Christmas angel. It didn’t serve your purpose to keep that quiet. The sooner he became a subject of ridicule, the happier you were.”

  “You can’t prove any of this.”

  “You also saw to it that I suspected Michael Brunswick, because you believed him guilty of his wife’s death. It was you, manipulating the truth behind the scenes, just as Evering had done. And because you were a policeman, your word was trusted.”

  Rutledge stood up, preparing to leave.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the Chief Constable. It’s my duty, Padgett. What you did was unconscionable.”

  Padgett shouted after him as he went down the passage, “You were a damned poor choice for Scotland Yard to send me. Talking to yourself when no one is looking. I’ll bring you down with me, see if I don’t.”

  His voice followed Rutledge out the door and to his motorcar.

  “A poor enemy,” Hamish warned him.

  “He’d have killed Quarles himself, if he’d dared. I rather think what he did do gave him even more pleasure than he realized in the feverishness of the moment. Quarles has become a nine-day’s wonder.”

  Rutledge drove to Miss O’Hara’s house and knocked at the door. It was Betty Richards who answered and led him to the parlor. “I didn’t go to the funeral,” she told him, before announcing him. “I wasn’t asked. But it’s just as well. I never wanted to see that village again. I made a bad marriage to escape it. We went into service together, and that was worse. He drank himself to death, finally, leaving me not a penny, and when I was turned out, it was Harold who rescued me and brought me to Hallowfields, though I wasn’t to tell a living soul I was his sister. I paid for my freedom, and now I have money of my own. I still have nowhere to turn. I don’t know how to live, except at someone else’s beck and call.”

  “You must find a home of your own, and learn to be your own mistress.”

  “Yes, I must, mustn’t I?” she said doubtfully, then announced him to Miss O’Hara.

  “You keep turning up, like a bad penny. What’s this visit in aid of now?”

  “Tidying away loose ends.”

  “That doesn’t sound to me like an invitation to dinner.”

  Rutledge smiled. “Another time. I have other calls I must make. I hear Mrs. Quarles has made restitution.”

  “Yes, that was the oddest thing. I was never so shocked as I was when I found her at my door. It’s Betty who worries me. I told her I would keep her on here, until she can decide what she wants to do with herself. But she’s been so browbeaten all her life, she doesn’t seem to have tuppence worth of backbone. It’s really quite sad. I shall miss you, Ian, when you’ve gone back to London. Perhaps I can arrange a murder or two to bring you here again.”

  “Yes, do that.” He said good-bye and left, while Hamish rumbled in the back of his head, telling him to be careful.

  After calling on the Chief Constable at his house in Bath, Rutledge turned back toward London.

  He had some explaining to do when he got there. Chief Superintendent Bowles was not pleased about his absence.

  “Why couldn’t this inquiry have been wrapped up sooner?”

  “Because there was misinformation from the start. And there were people to whom it was advantageous to muddy the waters.”

  “This man Padgett. What possessed him? A policeman!”

  “Pride.”

  “And what about Evering. What are we to do with him?”

  “There’s not much we can do. He didn’t touch Harold Quarles. He in no way encouraged Davis Penrith to kill the man. He simply told him a lie.”

  Bowles said, “A lie can be as deadly as the truth. See to your desk. There’s more than enough work on it to keep you busy awhile. I don’t hold with this running about. Leave it to the lawyers now.”

  Dismissed, Rutledge went to his office and sat down in his chair, turning it to look out at the spring shower washing the London air clean, his mind far away from the papers in front of him. All he could see was a hot dry morning in the bush and a train burning while a man screamed.

  Four days later, he was dispatched to Cornwall. A body had come ashore off Land’s End, and in the dead woman’s pocket was a water-logged letter. They could make out Rutledge’s name, and Scotland Yard. Much of the rest was indecipherable.

  He left London as soon as he could and reached Penzance late in the evening. A young constable at the police station greeted him and said, “I’m to take you directly to Inspector Dunne. He lives in that small farmhouse you passed on your way in.”

  It was no longer a working farm, where the inspector lived. But the gray stone house, built in the distant past, its slate roof heavy on the beams, had a charm that was very obvious. The outbuildings had for the most part been cleared away, save for the barn and the large medieval dovecote. As they pulled into the yard, Rutledge could hear doves fluttering and calling, unsettled by the brightness of his headlamps.

  Dunne was a middle-aged man graying at the temples. He had waited up for Rutledge, but he’d already replaced his boots with slippers, and shuffled ahead of them as he led Rutledge to the room where he worked when at home.

  “You don’t often find a victim of drowning with Scotland Yard’s address in her pocket. We thought you might want to have a look.”

  “I appreciate that. No idea who she was?”

  “None. That’s what we’re hoping you can tell us.”

  Rutledge had an odd feeling that it was Mariah Pendennis, who was the only person who could swear that Evering wasn’t in his house on the night that Quarles was murdered. His spirits rose. There might yet be a way to catch Evering.

  Even as he thought about it, he had to accept the reality of winds and tides. It would be nearly impossible if she’d drowned off St. Anne’s for her to be found off Land’s End.

  Hamish said, “He would ha’ taken her out to sea. Else she might wash up in the Isles.”

  Dunne was telling Rutledge the circumstances of finding the body. “Fishermen spied her on the rocks. That’s where a good many drowning victims turn up. Know anyone living in this part of Cornwall? Dealt with a crime in our fair Duchy, have you?”

  “Only one, and that was some time ago. Nearly a year. And farther north, above Tintagel.”

  “Not my patch, thank the Lord. Want to have a look at her tonight? Or wait until the morning. I’d be glad to put you up. The house is empty at the moment. My wife’s gone to Exeter, a christening.”

  Rutledge accepted his invitation, and the next morning, Dunne took him to see the body of the drowned woman.

  Her face had suffered from the waves tumbling her against the rocks, but shocked as he was, Rutledge h
ad no difficulty identifying her. What he couldn’t grasp was why Betty Richards should have drowned herself off Cornwall.

  A sad end, he thought, moved by pity. He reached out, gently touching the cold, sheet-clad shoulder nearest him.

  Rutledge said to Dunne, “You were right to summon me. Her name is Betty Richards. She was the sister of someone who was killed in Somerset recently. I’d like to see the letter. It may be important.”

  They brought him the stiff, almost illegible pages, and he tried to read them, using a glass that someone found for him. Even so, even magnified, the ink had run to such an extent that Rutledge could decipher only one word in three. Something about money, and her duty, and at the end, her gratitude for what he’d done for her.

  But it hadn’t been enough.

  She’d tried to kill herself before, and this time she’d succeeded.

  Why here?

  She couldn’t have known. He’d told no one but Padgett—

  He turned to Inspector Dunne. “I must find a telephone. It’s urgent.”

  Dunne took him across to the hotel, and there, in a cramped room, Rutledge put in a call to The Unicorn.

  He recognized Hunter’s quiet voice as the man answered. Rutledge identified himself and said, “Can you find Miss O’Hara, and bring her to the telephone. It’s pressing business.”

  “It will take some time. Will you call back in a quarter of an hour?”

  Rutledge agreed and hung up the receiver.

  Inspector Dunne said, “Mind telling me what this is about?”

  “I’m not sure.” He looked at his watch. “Can someone hold the mail boat to the Scilly Isles? We should be on it, but first I’ve got to wait for my call to go through.”

  “The Scilly Isles? She wouldn’t have come from there. Trust me, I know the currents in this part of the world.”

  “Nevertheless—”