Todd, Charles (42 page)

He moved slowly among them, looking at the dates—going back to the seventeen hundreds, weathered but still legible—and took note of one in particular. A small memorial chapel stood just beyond the graves, and inside he found pews, an altar, and a memorial window set in the thick wall high above it. It showed a young soldier in khaki, standing tall and unafraid against the backdrop of the veldt, his rifle across one knee, his gaze on the horizon. The commissioning date on the brass plaque below it was 1903.

Leaving the chapel, Rutledge followed the path down a hillside toward a tiny cove. Here was Evering's sailboat and a strip of sand beach protected from the wind. The sun touched the emerald green water as it ebbed, and it was shallow enough to see the bottom. There was almost a subtropical climate in these sheltered slopes. Rutledge could easily understand why flowers bloomed here before they did on the mainland. These islands were Britain's most westward outpost, and as he looked out at the cluster of St. Anne's neighboring isles, he found himself wondering what lay submerged between here and Cornwall. The south coast was full of tales about vanished lands, swallowed up by the sea.

There were half a dozen small cottages on the island as well as the main house, tucked beneath another fold in the land, and he could see the wash blowing on lines in the back gardens. Staff? Or the families who worked on the estate? From the sea these cottages would be invisible, the ancient protection of island dwellers the world over from the depredations of pirates and raiders. But neither could they see the Evering house from here or the cove or even the docking of the mail boat. Evering could be sure there were no witnesses to his comings and goings.

Satisfied, Rutledge walked back to the house and lifted the knocker on the door.

The middle-aged maid again answered his summons and left him to wait in the parlor for Evering to join him.

"You might be interested to hear," Rutledge said, as soon as Evering walked into the room, "that it was Davis Penrith who killed his partner, Harold Quarles."

"I am interested. That was an odd pairing if ever I saw one." He gestured to a chair. "I can't imagine that you came all the way out here to tell me that."

"Penrith told me that on his most recent visit here, you reluctantly informed him that Quarles was having an affair with Penrith's wife."

"Did I? I hardly think so. I don't travel in the same circles. If there has been gossip, I would be the last person to hear it."

"Or the first person to make it up."

Evering laughed easily. "Why should I care enough about these two men to make up anything?"

"Because they let your brother burn alive when they could have saved him. Because—according to Penrith—it was even possible that Quarles had engineered his death. I don't know why. But having spent four years in the trenches, I find myself wondering why the two most inexperienced soldiers in that company survived when no one else did. Unless they were hiding and Evering threatened to have them court-martialed for cowardice. Apparently the army went so far as to make certain Penrith's rifle had been fired."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know how my brother died."

"I believe you do. Someone brought his body home. It's there, among the family graves."

"The stone was set over an empty grave, to please my grieving mother. You'll find no bones beneath it."

"We can order an exhumation to find out. But it would be simpler to wire South Africa and ask the authorities if your brother still lies where he was buried at the time of his death. There will be a paper trail we can follow. Signatures..."

"Yes, all right, I was in South Africa for a time, and I made the arrangements for my mother's sake. It was not an experience I care to remember. But I learned nothing from the military authorities there. Possibly to spare my feelings."

"You knew when you first went to James, Quarles and Penrith exactly who these two men were. And they were well aware that you knew. I think that's why they allowed you to invest in Cumberline. To teach you a lesson."

He sighed. "That well may be. On their part. I couldn't say."

"I think you deliberately told Penrith lies about his wife and Harold Quarles, knowing that would be the one thing that would set them at each other's throats. I think you didn't really care which one killed the other. It was revenge you were after."

"This is a very unlikely story. Not one you can prove, certainly."

"It's my belief that you followed Penrith to Hallowfields, and watched him kill Quarles. And then it was you who put Quarles's body into the rig in the tithe barn. I don't know how you learned that it was there. But you've been planning your revenge for some time. You might have heard the story of the Christmas pageant from anyone. It would be interesting to take you back to Cambury and see how many people there recognize you as an occasional visitor."

"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.

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 straw."

"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."