No Shred of Evidence: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery (23 page)

“I’m thirsty,” the vicar said then. “Have I had some sort of apoplexy?” He put a hand up to touch his face, and quickly withdrew it. “What’s wrong with my face?” Alarm was turning swiftly to panic.

“You’ve had a slight concussion. Nothing more,” he reassured the man on the bed. Reaching for the glass of water on the table, he held the vicar’s thin shoulders while he drank. Then he set the glass aside and lowered him to the pillows once more. “You don’t remember?” he asked again.

Mrs. Daniels, standing in the doorway, said softly, “Poor man.”

“What’s wrong with me?” Toup demanded, ignoring the question. “I want to know. I need to know.”

“You were set upon. On your way to the Terlew farm. Someone struck you down and then kept beating you until you lost consciousness.”

“Dear God,” Toup said in amazement. “I don’t remember it. I don’t remember anything.”

“It will come back to you, if you don’t let it worry you. Memory can’t be rushed. Rest if you can. It’s the best thing for you. Are you in any pain?”

“I hurt. All over my body. I fell out of bed, did you say?”

“No, someone struck you down,” Rutledge repeated patiently.

“Why?” He lay there, his eyes closed, not moving. “Are you sure? I don’t understand.”

“I wish we knew why. But we’re doing our best to find out.”

“Thank you.” He seemed to drift into a light sleep then.

Mrs. Daniels came into the room and set the tray on the table. She handed a cup to Rutledge. The tea was hot, strong, and heavier with sugar than he cared for. But he drank half of it. Then she put one cloth on his face and another on the back of his head. They were cold, and they felt good.

Someone began knocking at the door. Rutledge was about to get up to answer it, but Mrs. Daniels put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s Daniels,” she said. “That’s his signal. I’d sent him to find you. He’s been searching for you.”

She was gone for several minutes, and when she came back, she said as she took the cup from Rutledge and lowered the lamp, “He’s gone to bed. Upstairs. Why don’t you take my cot for a bit?”

“I need to stay here. In case he wakes up again.”

“The cot is just there. Go and lie down. I’ll sit here and call you.”

After a moment he did as she’d suggested. But even with the cloths his head was thundering. He put his arm over his eyes and lay there, counting the minutes.

He must have drifted off, for he came wide awake as a voice cried out in agony, and for a chilled moment he thought it was his own. Rising on one elbow, he looked across at the bed.

Toup was twisting in the bedclothes, crying out and begging for mercy.

“
For the love of God—enough, enough
.”

Rutledge got up too quickly. Fighting a sudden dizziness, he came to stand beside Mrs. Daniels. They listened helplessly as the vicar relived his beating in his sleep. Mr. Daniels, awakened by the cries, came to the door. Rutledge heard him swear under his breath, then realized it was a curse.

They couldn’t make out most of it. A tangle of cries that were incoherent, the words tumbling over themselves.

Unable to stand it any longer, Rutledge reached out and touched the vicar’s shoulder. And he screamed, high-pitched and filled with pain.

He woke with a start, staring blindly at the man from London, not seeing him as he said clearly, “Coward. That’s what you are. If you have something to say to me, say it now and be done with it. Or I’ll walk on.” And then he shouted a name, breaking off as the first blow must have struck. “
St. Ives—
”

The three other people watched as he slumped back against his pillows. Mrs. Daniels stepped forward quickly, and put a hand to his throat. “He’s passed out. It was too much.”

They kept their vigil until the sun came up behind a leaden sky, hardly making a difference between night and day. But the vicar lay there like a man in exhaustion.

And then, warning Mr. and Mrs. Daniels not to speak of what they had heard, Rutledge finally went back to the inn.

He postponed walking through the inn. The side of his face hurt, and he knew he would be the center of comment as soon as anyone saw him.

Moving on to the deserted landing, he stood there for a time, ignoring the misting rain that had covered everything with tiny droplets of water, giving them a frosted look. To the west it was beginning to clear, a glimmer of blue out where the sky and the sea met.

He didn’t mind the rain. It felt good. Closing his eyes, he tried to clear his head.

He could feel Hamish stirring. And he thought,
Not now, dear God, not now
.

But it wasn’t the war that Hamish was talking about. And then he felt it.

He was being watched.

Opening his eyes, Rutledge turned slightly, looking around him.

There was no one on the river. No one at The Pilot, and as he looked toward the shops along the street, he could see no one at a window or in a doorway.

The feeling was so strong his first thought was whether he was in revolver range, if someone was preparing to fire at him. But he was out of range of the street or the river.

He couldn’t have said afterward why he looked up toward Rock on the far side of the Camel. His gaze swept the town, moved east toward a patch of rough ground, and still saw nothing. But he knew he’d found his watcher.

He turned to scan the landing at his feet, but there wasn’t a boat tied up that he could borrow. And even if there had been, he knew he couldn’t have pulled across the river and climbed the slopes in time. His watcher would have melted away long before he could reach him.

Rutledge brought his gaze back to that rough patch of ground and stared intently at it. The man must have field glasses, but there was not enough light this gray morning to flash off the lens. It didn’t matter. Rutledge knew he was there, and why.

He rather thought whoever it was had wanted to have a look at his adversary. To see him clearly in the daylight. And possibly to assess what damage he’d done with the barrel of the revolver.

Well, then, let him have a good look.

He was about to turn his back on the watcher and walk on toward the inn when something along the far shore of the Camel, where the scrub came down to the strand, suddenly caught his eye.

He could have sworn that the Grenville boat was drawn up there, hidden in the deeper shadows.

R
utledge went through the inn and out the back door. It was a long walk, but out of sight of the river, he made his way toward the Grenville boat landing.

Even before he started, he had a feeling he would be too late, that whoever he was after would make his way across the river again. While he couldn’t see Rutledge, Rutledge couldn’t see him.

His headache was raging by the time he reached the small landing where the Grenville rowboat was kept.

And it was there. Wary of a trap, he walked on toward it.

But there was no one near it.

The boat, when he got to it, was wet, and the sand under the hull as well.

He’d been right.

But there in the wet sand just at the prow of the rowboat, something had been drawn. It was a very rough sketch of what appeared to be a horse’s head. But it had been done quickly, without stepping out of the boat, and the water was already smoothing across whatever it was. He could see the two small holes on either side of the figure, as if the stick that had been used to draw it had been thrust twice and with some force into the wet sand. Rutledge couldn’t be sure what the intent had been in making the drawing.

But he knew very well what it meant. Someone was taunting him.

Straightening up, he looked around. But there were no identifiable footprints except for his own. Whoever it was had either walked in the water a little distance before coming ashore, or he’d cleared his tracks away as he left.

Rutledge did know that he wasn’t being watched here. Whoever it was had done what he’d wanted to do and then disappeared.

He couldn’t help but remember the first word the vicar had used as he began to relive his beating.

Coward . . .

Why had he called the man who faced him a coward?

Rutledge realized suddenly that it was important for him to find out.

Ahead of him lay the long walk back to Heyl.

Taking a deep breath, he set out. By the time he reached the inn, it was willpower alone that kept him going.

R
utledge was awakened by a knock on his door. Outside his windows the rain was coming down in sheets, with the force of wind behind it. He got up and went to answer the summons.

The man who stood outside his door stared at his bruised and swollen face, then cleared his throat.

“Inspector Rutledge?”

“Yes?” he answered, wary now. He didn’t recognize the man.

“I’ve been sent from the Wadebridge telegraph office, sir. Special messenger. There is a telegram for you from London.” He reached into the pocket of the rain gear he was wearing and brought out an envelope. “I’ve been asked to have you sign for it, sir.”

Rutledge took the form the man held out and signed it with a pencil produced from the same pocket. “Thank you. Have something at the bar until the worst of this passes. Put it on my account.”

“Thank you, sir.” He touched his cap and turned to run lightly down the stairs.

Why, Rutledge wondered, shutting his door, had London seen fit to send him a telegram through Wadebridge rather than Padstow?

He opened the envelope and went to turn up the lamp. With the storm, the already fading light gave the impression that it was later than it was. Glancing at his watch, Rutledge saw that it was a little after five in the afternoon.

Gibson had written:

A request has come from Cornwall for you to handle the attack on the vicar of St. Marina’s as well as the murder of Harry Saunders. Chief Superintendent not particularly happy with this, but defers to the Chief Constable. Inspector Carstairs in Padstow had requested permission to take over the second inquiry if you finish the Saunders case first and must return to London. Chief Superintendent has been asked by Grenville of Padstow Place to leave you on the Saunders case, although Major Gordon has requested that you be withdrawn. In regard to the elder Saunders and a farmer named Trevose, neither has ever been in any difficulty with the law, at least none reported to London.

That, Rutledge thought wryly, explained why Gibson had sent the telegram through Wadebridge rather than Padstow. It would not do for Carstairs to learn the contents.

It went on:

About the address in London, 12 Sutton Place. Mr. and Mrs. Wingate live there, no known connection with Cornwall. He is authority on Edward I, has written several studies of his life and court. Only son killed on the Somme, daughter married and living in Edinburgh. They claim not to know a David Toup, and cannot explain why their direction should be in his possession. General consensus is a respectable and respected family.

Then why, he asked himself, had Toup had that slip of paper in his possession?

Hamish said, “He wrote yon number down wrong.”

The voice was as clear as if Hamish were standing just behind him, clear even above the sound of the storm outside.

“Or was given the wrong number. Possibly the wrong street as well?” Rutledge answered aloud before he could stop himself.

There was a final comment.

In regard to the earlier inquiry. Inquest brought in death by misadventure. The weather held responsible for his fall. It was never challenged.

Mrs. Grenville had told him the truth about what had happened at St. Michael’s Mount.

Putting the telegram back in its envelope, he locked it away in his valise and went to find Pendennis.

Even with an umbrella borrowed from the inn, he arrived at the police station with his trousers wet almost from the knees down.

“Nasty day,” Pendennis said as Rutledge set the umbrella aside and looked up.

“Good God, man, did you run into a door?” he added, seeing the side of Rutledge’s face.

“There was someone outside the vicarage last night.”

“That’s what Daniels told me. I went up there this noon, to see how Vicar was. Mrs. Daniels tells me he came to his senses in the night and spoke to you.” He was clearly asking to be told what the injured man had said.

Rutledge was pleased to see that Mrs. Daniels and her husband had kept their word. “He was confused to find himself in a bed in the sitting room. And with a broken leg among his other injuries. That tells me that he hasn’t remembered the attack. Whether he will or not, I don’t know. But he dreamed about it later, and called out in his sleep. Most of it was unintelligible.”

It was the truth, as far as it went.

Pendennis nodded. “It’s not surprising, is it, that the shock of what was done to him wiped it out of his memory. The wonder is, he’s alive. Did you get a look at whoever it was outside?”

“Far too dark.”

“Will he try again, do you think?” Pendennis glanced at the gathering dusk outside. “Should I count on staying there tonight? You look as if you could do with a rest. Sir.”

“No, I’ll go back myself. But he was armed, whoever he was, Pendennis. Remember that.” He gestured to his face. “He hit me with a revolver.”

“In the war then?”

“Possibly. Yes,” he added, remembering the field glasses. “An officer.”

“I’ve tried, but I can’t think of anyone here in the village who would want to harm Vicar. People have come up to me, shaking their heads, as bewildered as I am.”

“Have you spoken to Trevose?”

Surprised, Pendennis said, “As a matter of fact, I have. He appears to be in the dark as well.”

“Whoever this is, I’m beginning to think he knows more about this village than he should, if he’s a stranger. Why else would he want to be sure the vicar is dead? If Toup has never seen him before, he could be in Plymouth or Warwick or Carlisle by now and none of us the wiser. Even if the vicar can give us a description.”

“I don’t know what to think.” He reached across his desk for his notebook. “I’ve been asking people about seeing St. Ives at night. The odd thing is, they don’t want to talk about it. And I don’t think they are afraid. At least not of St. Ives.”