No Shred of Evidence Read online

  “Did you know these young women?”

  For the first time Trevose hesitated. “One of them is the daughter of the house. Victoria Grenville. Two were visitors, or so I was told. The fourth is Miss St. Ives, who lives just up the way from the Place.”

  “The constable took them into custody. What did you do then?”

  “I went to one of the pubs, where I stripped and dressed again in borrowed clothes while mine were drying in the kitchen. I walked down to the police station and Constable Pendennis took my statement. When that was done, I went home.”

  “Did you see the young women again?”

  “I did not. I presumed they were in the cell in the back. Although Grenville himself came down while I was still there at the station and told me what he thought of me for accusing his daughter of attempted murder. It was either knock him down or go, and so I went out the door and didn’t look back.”

  “Is he a man of temper? Grenville?”

  “Not as a rule,” Trevose said after a moment.

  “And this is his only daughter?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Is there anything you’d like to add?” Rutledge asked.

  “No. I did my duty as I saw it. There’s an end to it.”

  “But why would Victoria Grenville, much less her three friends, want to kill this man Saunders?”

  “I have no idea,” Trevose answered with more force than he’d intended. Moderating his voice, he added, “You’ll be asking them, I’m sure.”

  “In the course of my investigations, yes,” Rutledge said. He rose. “Thank you, Mr. Trevose. I’ll be back in touch, if I have any further questions.”

  “I’ll be here,” Trevose told him. “Or about the farm. Mrs. Penwith will tell you.”

  The woman kept house for him, then. Rutledge had thought she might be this man’s mother or some other relation.

  He left the farm, walking back to the village across the fields, his mind busy with what he’d learned from Trevose.

  Had the man been overly quick to judge the situation? But if he hadn’t feared the worst, he would never have swum out to the boat. And possibly, whether the women had tried to kill Saunders or not, he could well have drowned simply because they were not strong enough to lift a fully clothed, wet man into the boat.

  But what was Harry Saunders doing out there in the first place? Had he been in the boat with the women?

  When he reached the river, Rutledge stopped to consider it. Somewhere very close to this spot, Trevose must have witnessed the struggle with Harry Saunders. He could see the village some distance away, where Trevose had come from. And it was clear enough that the farmer had been the only person who could have seen the events and rescued Harry Saunders.

  He retrieved his motorcar from the inn yard and with directions from Hays, he found his way to Padstow Place.

  It was a lovely old stone manor house, set well above lawns that sloped toward the south, and the gardens in front rose layer by layer to where the drive looped up to the door. Ivy, red with the season, climbed the crenellated front.

  When Rutledge reached out to lift the knocker, he saw that it was almost exactly the same design as the one at the Trevose farm, though larger. The shape was unusual, a riding boot and whip, with an initial, worn by time, on the handle of the whip.

  The door swung open, and a maid in black with a white starched apron and cap asked his business.

  “Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard, to see Mr. Grenville.”

  “He’s in the library,” she said. “If you’ll come this way.”

  Rutledge had the impression that Grenville was expecting him. Had someone from the household been to the village and heard the gossip? Or had someone come posthaste to warn the house that he had arrived?

  He was led down a passage to a very beautiful room, filled with sunlight from two arched windows, while on the walls on the other three sides, even by the door, shelves ran floor to ceiling, most of them filled with leather-­bound volumes. On either side of the door the shelves were glass fronted, set in ornate gold-­leaf framing. They contained an assortment of small treasures.

  The man standing in the center of the room, by a table with six chairs, was nearly as tall as Rutledge, with an aristocratic face, the nose aquiline and the cheekbones high. He wore a mustache, and both it and his hair were a silver gray.

  “Good morning, Inspector,” he said, and gestured to the chairs around the table rather than to the leather chairs closer to the door.

  “Good morning, sir. As you may know, I’ve been sent to replace Inspector Barrington. I’d like to interview your daughter and her three friends. I understand they are under house arrest here.”

  Grenville frowned at the words house arrest but said only, “They are upstairs. I’ll send for them. But before I do, I should like to say that these are young women of impeccable backgrounds and reputation, and their families have been very upset by this matter, as have I. They have been here to visit their daughters, and I have persuaded them to leave me to deal with the local police and the Yard. I think you’d prefer that as well.”

  Rutledge, reserving judgment, said, “I’m sure this was appreciated.” For Pendennis was, apparently, still being harried by their legal representatives.

  “I will be honest with you. I’m afraid Inspector Barrington received the full force of their anger. I can only hope it did not contribute to his heart attack.”

  When Rutledge didn’t answer, Grenville strode to the bell pull and summoned the maid.

  “Would you prefer to see them one at a time or all together?”

  “Have they been allowed to spend time together since they were taken into custody?”

  “I am a father, Inspector, and not a gaoler. My daughter’s friends have been treated as guests.”

  And had time to compare stories and settle on an acceptable one?

  “Separately, if you please.”

  “Very well.”

  The maid came to the door, and Grenville said, “Would you ask one of the young ladies to come down to the library? You will not tell any of them why she is being summoned.”

  “Which one, sir?”

  “Miss Gordon, I should think.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When the door had closed behind her, Rutledge asked, “I gather these women were guests of your daughter’s?”

  “Yes, it was her birthday. She invited three friends down for the weekend. They arrived on Thursday evening, and the boating—­accident—­occurred on Saturday afternoon.”

  The door opened and a young woman stepped in.

  “You asked to speak with me—­” She broke off as she saw the man standing beside her host.

  And at the same time, Rutledge felt the room shake around him, thrusting him into a past he had put behind him and did not want to revisit ever again.

  3

  Kate Gordon found her voice first, by an effort of will so great that she was suddenly pale.

  “—­sir?”

  Grenville looked from one to the other.

  “Do you know each other?” he asked, as if it were impossible for this woman to be acquainted with a policeman.

  Rutledge answered for her. “I knew the Gordon family. Before the war.”

  He thought to himself that knew was hardly an adequate word to explain his connection to Kate Gordon. She was Jean Gordon’s cousin, and he had been engaged to marry Jean in the summer of 1914. And in the spring of 1919, he had released her from that promise when he’d seen the shock and horror in her eyes as she looked at the shell of a man who had returned from France and been in hospital for months with some undisclosed affliction. The last time he had seen Jean was quite by accident, after he’d returned to the Yard. She was coming out of the church where she was to be married to someone else the following week. Later, in Ca
nada, where the war was a distant memory, she had died in childbirth.

  The doctors had thought that seeing a familiar face would help him find his way back to the world he’d shut himself away from. Instead, it had sent him into a downward black spiral that had almost cost him his life. It had been his sister, Frances, not Jean, who had insisted that he be removed from the hospital and put in the care of Dr. Fleming, in a clinic that specialized in cases such as his.

  He could hear Hamish thundering in the back of his mind, and he forced himself to shut out the voice.

  “I should like to speak to her alone, if you please.”

  “I refuse—­”

  “You are not a relative, sir, and I believe she is of an age to speak for herself.”

  Grenville’s mouth tightened into a thin line, and for a moment Rutledge thought he was about to argue. And then with a curt nod, he strode to the door.

  They waited until they were certain he was out of earshot.

  Kate lifted her hand, holding it out in a gesture of distress, then let it fall to her side.

  “How are you, Ian?” she asked, her voice husky.

  He was still battling the darkness but somehow he managed to say, “I’m well.”

  She didn’t seem to believe him. But she said, “I wanted to come and see you, but Frances told me it wouldn’t be advisable.”

  In a panic of uncertainty, he said, “When?” Surely not the hospital—­please God, not the hospital!

  “A week or so after you returned to the Yard. She said it was too soon after—­after Jean had broken her engagement to you.”

  “I broke it,” he said. “I set her free.”

  “Did you? It was very kind of you. She wanted to leave England, to go away and not think about the war any longer. I think it was best for her. She had taken the war very hard. But you know that. She wrote often, she said.”

  But in the last two years of the war her letters had been brief and infrequent, and often laced with her own fears and uncertainties. She hadn’t been prepared for such a long war. For so many friends dead or wounded. It had taken a toll on her. And yet she had been laughing, happy, when he had seen her coming out of St. Margaret’s with her friends.

  He frowned, remembering. Kate had not been among them. He hadn’t noticed at the time, had eyes only for the young woman he had hoped to marry and lost. It had taken all his courage to turn away before she could see him standing there. But she hadn’t seen him . . .

  “Yes,” he answered. “And you, Kate, how have you been?”

  “Like everyone else, I’ve coped,” she said with an attempt at lightness. “There wasn’t much choice in the matter, was there?”

  “No.”

  She took a deep breath. “Are you here officially? How did you know I was in Padstow?”

  “Officially. And I didn’t know—­I had only been given the surnames of the women involved. God knows, Gordon isn’t an unusual name. It never occurred to me that you could be in Cornwall. Inspector Barrington died. I’ve been sent to take his place.” It was disjointed, but the best he could do.

  “I’d heard. I was so sorry, he seemed to be very considerate.”

  A silence fell. He thought he could hear the ticking of the clock, then realized it wasn’t the clock, there wasn’t one in the library. It was his own heart.

  “Kate,” he began, and cleared his throat. “We will have to talk about what happened.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you go out in the boat? At this time of year?”

  She told him. “And so we rowed up the river, as far as Elaine’s house, and it wasn’t until we were coming back toward the landing that we saw the boat in trouble. And a man waving. I didn’t know then who he was. But the boat sank around him, and I don’t think he could swim well. We rowed down as quickly as we could, and when we spotted him in the water, we tried to bring him aboard. But he was too heavy for us, you see. His wet clothes combined with his weight. Sara and I tried to pull him up out of the water, but he was panicked, he was flailing and struggling, and it was impossible, really. I was about to tell Victoria that she had to row us in somewhere, beach us if necessary, as soon as she could, while we clung to him, and then this other man appeared—­out of nowhere, it seemed. I didn’t realize until later that he’d been on the riverbank and seen us. But as soon as Harry—­that was the only name I knew him by just then—­was breathing and safe, this man turned on us and accused us of trying to murder him. Ian, it was horrible, we were near to exhaustion ourselves, I was shivering with the cold, as was Sara, we were almost as wet as that man and Harry. And I didn’t know what to say, I simply stared at him. That was when he took the oars and began to row us toward the village. Sara and I clung to each other for warmth, our teeth chattering. Elaine was crying, her face in her hands, and Victoria sat there in the bow like a woman turned to stone.”

  She broke off with a shudder at the memory. “It was awful, Ian. I can’t tell you. And then we were at the village landing, being helped out of the boat. There must have been twenty or so ­people watching us. I couldn’t remember afterward whether we’d tied up the boat properly or not. A silly worry, but I had no idea of what was to come. A constable appeared, Harry was taken first to a pub, and then to the doctor’s surgery in Padstow. The farmer disappeared, and the four of us were hurried off to the police station. I thought they were going to take care of us until Victoria’s father could come and fetch us. But Sara and I were given these rather smelly blankets, and the four of us were ordered back to a cell. I was speechless with the shock, and then I asked the constable as he locked the door why he was doing this, but he wouldn’t answer. In a while I heard the farmer’s voice, or at least I supposed it was his, talking to the constable, and later other voices before Mr. Grenville arrived. It was then that I learned we were actually being accused of attempted murder. That the farmer had meant what he said.”

  She had been standing all this while, and now she sat down in one of the leather chairs as if her legs couldn’t support her any longer.

  It had been clear, concise, as objective as Kate could make it as she relived the events.

  He looked at her. Really seeing her now. She had changed very little. And she had always been one of the most sensible women he’d ever met. Levelheaded, kind, trying to tell him how to manage Jean when she was in one of her moods. Almost six years older, now, in her twenties, and still very attractive.

  He was a policeman, he had to keep his head and listen to her account with the objectivity of a stranger interviewing a witness. And yet he knew he believed her. That if Kate said it was not what it had appeared to be to Trevose, then it was true.

  But she was only one of the four.

  He said, “What about the oar?”

  “The oar?”

  “I was told that one of you struck the victim with the rowboat’s oar?”

  “I don’t remember anything about an oar.” And then, her eyes wide, she said, “But yes, I do. Victoria tried to put it out for him to cling to. She could see we were not going to be able to hold him much longer.”

  “It hit him in the head.”

  “Did it?” She stared at him. “Is that where the blood came from? On his face? I thought it was where he’d been hauled inside. He landed with some force, on the thwarts. Well, we were heaving him in, trying to lift him above the side, and it had taken a great deal of effort. We hadn’t intended to hurt him. But you’re saying we didn’t.” She paused, looking back into her memory. After a moment she nodded. “You’re right. Of course you are. There was blood on his face while he was still in the water.”

  She was quick, intelligent. “Is this why we’re accused of attempted murder? Because of the oar? Inspector Barrington questioned us individually and asked us not to talk about what happened, not to anyone. And so I don’t think any of us did. I didn’t. He wouldn’t tell us
what he knew. Why the charges had been brought. He said in due course we would be told. But then he died, and we were rather in limbo. At least, Mr. Grenville had arranged for us to be taken out of that godforsaken cell, that smelled of drink and other things I didn’t care to think about. Inspector Barrington let Mr. Grenville keep us here. And true to his word, Mr. Grenville asked us to remain in our rooms. We were allowed down for meals with the family, of course. But Mr. Grenville told us that there would be no discussion of events. That’s how he put it.”

  “Do you think he’s spoken privately to his daughter?”

  “I don’t know. He hasn’t questioned me, that’s all I can tell you. He thinks this is all Trevose’s fault, I heard him tell his wife that, when he brought us here, but he’s done his duty. My father came down, but I wasn’t allowed to do more than greet him. Mr. Grenville asked us not to talk privately. He and my father had a very long conversation and then went to the village. I do know that. But I wasn’t a party to it.”

  “Why should Grenville think Trevose was behind it?”

  “On our way back to the Place, Mr. Grenville was quite angry. But not with us, nor even Constable Pendennis, who hadn’t wanted to keep us in that cell any longer than necessary. It was the farmer who kept insisting he’d witnessed us trying to kill the poor man and that we ought to remain in gaol until it was sorted out. As if he were the magistrate, and not Mr. Grenville.”

  “And what has Harry Saunders had to say about the matter?” He said nothing about the coma.

  “I don’t know. No one has told us what he thinks.”

  “Indeed.” He finally made himself sit down in the chair opposite her. “Kate, did you know Harry Saunders before you went down to the river that Saturday?”

  “I hadn’t met him, if that’s what you mean. I did hear Victoria say to Sara that he was simply flirting with us. That was when he was waving, before we realized his boat was sinking. But I’m not sure she knew who the man was until Elaine recognized him. Her back was to the dinghy.”