No Shred of Evidence: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery

Dedication

For Carolyn Marino . . .

for so many reasons, professional and personal, we’ve lost count,

and

For Danielle Bartlett . . .

who is absolutely awesome. There’s no other word.

Contents

1

Near Padstow, Cornwall

Autumn 1920

I
t was a warm day for autumn, the sun shining from breakfast through the early afternoon, an unexpected break in the weather.

Afterward no one could be sure who had first suggested going out in the boat.

Very likely our last chance until the spring. What do you say? Don’t you think it will be a lark?

And so the four young women staying the weekend at the Place mounted their bicycles shortly after luncheon had been cleared away and went down to the river landing that belonged to the Grenvilles. There they took out the rowboat.

They were proficient at it, having done it many times before. Taking turns rowing, they went upstream some distance until they could look into the back garden of the house belonging to Elaine’s family. Someone was on the terrace—her brother?—and they tried shouting to attract his attention, but he couldn’t hear them. Or perhaps he didn’t wish to. And then they turned downstream again.

They were only a matter of yards from the landing where they had taken out the boat when Sara said, “Look. That man. He’s trying to get our attention.” She pointed toward a small dinghy a hundred yards closer to the village. They could just see the man in it, standing up without regard to safety, waving frantically.

Kate said, frowning, “Is he in trouble, do you think?”

Elaine shielded her eyes. “Is that Harry? Surely not, he wouldn’t be so foolish.”

Victoria, at the oars now, said nothing, too busy trying to bring the boat in toward the landing to turn for a look. So she claimed afterward when it was over.

Reaching out for Sara’s arm, Kate said, “Does the boat ride too low in the water to be quite—natural? I think we ought to have a look.”

“Whoever it is, he’s only trying to flirt,” Victoria told them, bringing in one of the lines. “It’s too far to go. Think about rowing all that way back.”

“No, truly, we should have a look.” Kate turned to Victoria. “I’ll take the oars if you’re tired.”

“He’s still waving,” Sara reported, looking over her shoulder. “And the boat
is
lower. Victoria, I think he’s foundering.” There was alarm in her voice now.

Kate reached for the oars, but Victoria refused to give them up.

“Victoria?” Kate said. “Whoever it is out there, Harry or someone else, what if there
is
something wrong?”

“Oh, very well. A fool’s errand if you ask me.” She passed over the oars and sat back, her mouth turned down in what looked for all the world like a pout.

Kate wasted no time. Rowing swiftly, letting the current take her but not too fast, keeping control, she gained on the now visibly sinking craft. But it was going down more rapidly as it filled with water.

Elaine exclaimed, “Look, it
is
Harry, Victoria. That’s the
Sea Lion
’s dinghy, I’m sure of it now. I don’t understand—what’s happened to it?”

“I hope Harry, whoever he is, can swim,” Sara was saying anxiously. “I don’t think we’ll be in time.”

Elaine’s hands were clenched on the gunwale of the boat. “What will we do? If he’s in the water?”

“If he goes under, Victoria is in the bow, she can watch that we don’t overshoot him,” Kate managed to say, intent on the effort she was making. “If we can take him aboard without swamping ourselves, the village will be closer than trying to reach the Grenville landing again. And we can find help for him there.”

“Don’t say
if,
” Elaine begged. “I can’t bear to watch him drown.”

“Then keep your weight well balanced, Sara, Elaine, and let Victoria guide us in,” Kate urged. “But help her. We don’t want to lose him.”

It appeared now that the man was standing in water—his boat had vanished under him. And then as the boat sank toward the bottom, he was sucked down with it. Too fearful to leap out of it, he simply stood there, stark terror on his face, letting it happen.

And then he was gone. Elaine cried out in alarm, and Kate put her back into the oars, trying to reach the man as soon as he came up.

“There he is,” Sara called suddenly, pointing.

“Where?” Victoria cried. “I don’t see him.” And then they were upon him, on their left.

He was struggling in the water, mouth wide, arms flailing.

“Careful,” Kate shouted, striving to steady the boat. “Victoria, grab his arm.”

But the rowboat was going to overrun him.

Kate shipped the oars and reached out. A cold wet hand clasped hers in a death grip, nearly pulling her into the water. And then Sara had his other hand, and they were literally dragging him closer as the rowboat rocked dangerously.

“Stay where you are, Elaine, or you’ll overturn us,” Kate shouted as the third woman turned to help. “Victoria—
do something
.”

Victoria sat there, staring at the drowning man, then fumbled in the bottom of the boat.

Kate thought she was reaching for a rope, but Victoria lifted one of the oars, raising it awkwardly, and lost control of it in midair. In a flash it fell, coming down with a wet sound, an audible slap as it struck the floundering man’s head.

Kate and Sara cried out in the same moment, as the man visibly jerked in Kate’s grip, and she almost lost his hand. “Pull,” she shouted to Sara. “For God’s sake,
pull
.”

The oar was dragged clear, and Kate heard it clatter into the bottom of the boat as she and Sara got the man to the side and tried with all their strength to pull him in.

He was heavy with water, his head lolling, blood from a cut running down his pale face, and Kate knew at once that he was unconscious, unable to help them and at the same time almost impossible to hold.

From somewhere on the shore, they heard a shout, and Kate looked up to see a man dressed in the clothes of a farmer frantically shucking off his coat and boots, then diving into the cold waters of the River Camel.

He struck out with smooth, swift strokes, reached the boat after what felt to Kate like an eternity, and clambered aboard on the far side, rocking them perilously and dripping water all over their skirts. Then he was thrusting his way between Sara and Kate, reaching out to pull the man in by the collar of his coat, groaning with the dead weight, and then with a mighty effort that nearly swamped them all, he managed to heave the half-drowned man over the gunwale. Kate grabbed a leg and pulled, and then, without warning, the man came flying into the boat, landing hard, knocking Kate, Sara, and his rescuer after him into the well in a tangled heap of limbs.

Kate called frantically, “The oars—Elaine, the
oars
.”

And with an effort that left her red in the face, Elaine found the one that Victoria had dropped and was trying to drag the other out from under the four bodies at her feet, just as Kate, Sara, and the farmer managed to sort themselves out. Water was sloshing about in the well of the rowboat, and they were all shivering now. Harry never moved, and Kate was trying to hold his face up, out of the water, just as Victoria got up and edged her way to Sara’s place at one of the oars.

“I’ll row. We’ve too much weight to make it back to our landing.”

Elaine was busy trying to fit one of the oars into the rowlocks, and the farmer was kneeling over Harry now, pressing his hands on the man’s back. He coughed up some water, but lay still.

“He’s breathing,” his rescuer reported, and helped Kate lift him to turn him on his back.

Sara made a sound, quickly choking it back, as she looked down on the man in the well. She was pale, wet to the skin from shoulders to knees, her hair coming down and straggling across her cheeks. “His face . . . Why is there so much blood? Did he strike one of the thwarts?”

There was a gash on his head, and it was bleeding profusely. Kate, ignoring the cold wind that seemed to have come up without her noticing it until now, bent down and tore lengths of linen from her petticoats and handed them to the farmer. Without a word he roughly bandaged the wound, and then finally, his chest still heaving for air even as he shivered violently, he sat up to face his companions.

They were only halfway to the village landing, but a crowd had collected there, staring out at the river and the boat making its erratic way toward them. Small at first, and growing larger by the minute as news spread.

Slowly looking at each of the four young women in the rowboat, the farmer demanded sternly, “Why the hell were you trying to kill that man?”

2

R
utledge had just returned from Derbyshire. Sitting at his desk, he wrote out his report, enclosed the statements taken by the local man, and was just dropping the file into his outgoing box when the door of his office opened and Sergeant Gibson stepped in.

“Chief Superintendent wishes to see you, sir. Is that your report? I’ll just take that, then, shall I?”

“I was looking forward to going home for an hour. I haven’t had time to change my clothes.”

“I expect the Chief Super won’t take long,” Gibson said enigmatically.

Rutledge, glancing at him on his way out the door and down the passage, said, “What is it?”

“I don’t know, sir. And that’s the truth.”

But Rutledge had a feeling he knew very well.

He knocked lightly at Chief Superintendent Markham’s door, then opened it at the single word, “Come.”

“Rutledge, sir. You wished to see me?”

“There’s a tangle in Cornwall, complaints to the Home Office, requests for the Yard to send someone. I don’t like it. Not our place to sort out every assault in the kingdom. Finished your report on Derby, have you?”

“Yes, Sergeant Gibson has it.”

“Good. Then get yourself down to Cornwall and find out what this is all about. And be quick about it, I don’t see a need to hold their hand any longer than necessary.”

Rutledge didn’t want to go back to Cornwall. His memories of his last inquiry there were still too strong, and he had hoped not to see the Duchy again.

“There are men here at the Yard who know the Duchy far better than I do. I should think they would be able to judge the situation more accurately.”

“The Chief Constable specifically asked for an outsider.”

Rutledge felt himself groan inwardly. This could only mean that a referee was needed, not a policeman.

“If that’s your decision—” he began, but Markham cut him off.

“It is. Leave as soon as you can.”

Which meant as soon as he was dismissed. Markham shoved a thin folder across the desk. “Four young women of good family accused of attempted murder. Victim was known to them. Witness saw what happened. The local man reported that the victim had been in the boat with the young women, and while they were out of sight on the river, they threw him overboard and tried to keep his head under. When that didn’t work, they used an oar to try to kill him. That’s what put him into the coma,” he said. “What’s more, he’s still unconscious and unable to tell his side of the story. I must say that on the surface of it, it looks bad for the four women. Your task is to find out why they could have done such a thing, and if there’s any evidence to the contrary. Problem is, in an inquiry like this, there’s often a history that makes it the devil of a matter to sort out. Do the best you can to get to the bottom of it. I don’t want to hear of more favors being called in by the likes of County families feuding with each other and the courts. You’re not going to be very popular, whatever you do. But you have the weight of the Yard behind you, and I expect you to see it through, even if this was truly attempted murder.”

Easier said than done, Rutledge thought as he picked up the folder. Markham nodded to him and he was dismissed.

Closing the door behind him, Rutledge went to his own office, tied up the loose ends awaiting his attention, and then rose to leave.

Sergeant Gibson was standing in the passage just outside his door, one hand lifted to knock.

“Gibson.”

The sergeant said nothing, falling silently into step beside Rutledge until they were well out of earshot of the Chief Superintendent’s office.

“You aren’t the first to be sent to Cornwall,” he commented with a sideways glance at Rutledge.

“Indeed?” Rutledge turned to stare at him. “Who went before me?”

“Inspector Barrington. He had a heart attack the day after he arrived. Dead.”

Rutledge stopped short. “I hadn’t heard.” He’d known Barrington from before the war. Older, quiet, and lately often out of breath, as if he’d been running and hadn’t quite caught it again.

“There’s a wife,” he said to Gibson. “And children, as I remember. Grown, I think.”

“That’s right. We’ve taken up a collection for them. Inspector Barrington was speaking only last month about retiring. He said it was time.”

Rutledge reached into his pocket and handed Gibson some notes. “Add that for me. I’m sorry. He was a good man. Steady.”

“He was that. Thank you, sir, I’ll see the family gets this. Funeral is next week, I’m told. If you’re back in time . . .”

“Yes. Leave the information on my desk. I’d like to be there.”

They parted company at the head of the stairs, Gibson returning to his desk and Rutledge running lightly down the steps and out the door. His motorcar was not far away, and as he walked briskly toward it, he swore under his breath.

He’d returned to the Yard in June 1919, still shaken by the war, still finding his feet in this very different world of civilian life after four appalling years in the trenches. Only half healed physically and mentally. And Chief Superintendent Bowles, Markham’s predecessor, had sent him first to Warwickshire and then to Cornwall, two very difficult inquiries that had drained him emotionally. He had had to deal with a drunken, shell-shocked ex-soldier in Warwickshire, the only witness to the murder of an officer on leave. And in Cornwall, he had come face-to-face with the secret life of Olivia Marlowe. He hadn’t known then who she was, but her war poetry under the pseudonym of O. A. Manning was still so vivid in his memory that it had been something of a shock to realize she was dead. He had found it hard to put that case behind him too. Bowles, he was certain, had deliberately sent him to investigate both murders, knowing somehow that it would be a test of his ability to return to the Yard.

Less than two years ago that was. And yet it seemed like yesterday to him. He had promised himself he would never cross the Tamar into Cornwall again.

He tried to tell himself that Padstow was not particularly close to the Marlowe house. And besides, he’d heard that no one lived there now. It had been closed up.

It was cold comfort as he put his valise in the boot of his motorcar, shut the door to his flat, and set out for the West Country.

It was a long journey. He spent the night near Plymouth, tired still from his drive back from Derby. But that night, as he tried to sleep, Hamish kept him awake.

Hamish MacLeod, the young Scot he’d been forced to execute in the summer of 1916 for directly refusing an order. A God-bereft night, well into the battle on the Somme, the Germans bombarding the British lines, and then the British guns returning fire. In the end they’d caught their own lines in the barrage, killing what remained of Rutledge’s company and nearly killing him as well. He’d been left with the shock of shooting one of his own men, left with the knowledge that the rest had died in a futile attempt to take out the machine gun nest before the order to attack at dawn—Hamish had told him over and over again how hopeless it was, but he couldn’t listen, he couldn’t disobey his orders. One company against the lives of hundreds of others? It was war, military necessity. And so he had persevered, aware of the cost, aware of the waste, aware of the insanity and only too aware that he was unable to do anything to stop any of it.

He hadn’t dealt well with Corporal Hamish MacLeod’s death. Shell-shocked and too long in the line himself, he’d barely kept his own head through that horrendous summer, and the voice of the young Scot had taken up residence in his mind, like a living man, dead though he was. Rutledge’s punishment for leading so many over the top and watching them die. The merciless demands of rank and the pounding day and night of the guns had taken their toll. His measure of guilt for surviving when neither Hamish nor his men could.

He’d brought the voice home from France with him. Wishing he could have brought the living man and so be free. But there was no freedom after all, and in the end he’d been told by Dr. Fleming that he would have to learn to cope with that voice—or go mad.

He had thought, surely, that he was mad already. All the same, he knew that if he gave in to that madness, if he took out his service revolver from where he’d kept it safe in his trunk, killing himself would mean killing Hamish a second time, taking him with him into the dark. It was all that had kept him alive, that single fear.

This night, listening to the voice warning him not to cross the Tamar, to turn back to London before it was too late, he knew it was good advice. But he was an officer of the Yard now, and unable to refuse a direct order.

The alternative was to resign.

But the Yard, for all its shortcomings, had kept him alive too, forcing him to cope at any cost or face admitting to the world that he was a victim of shell shock. A man lacking moral fiber. A coward. No longer fit to be a policeman . . .

At dawn the next morning, he crossed the River Tamar, and a line of O. A. Manning poetry ran though his mind, welcoming him against his will.

This river

Does more

Than cut off the world.

It is a wall to shut it out.

For here I am at peace, I know this land,

And I am safe

In this, my house above the sea.

Only she hadn’t been safe there. She had been driven to suicide, with her half brother Nicholas.

T
here was still the drive across Cornwall to Padstow on the north coast. The roads were not the best. Having eaten no breakfast, he had stopped in a village shop for a pasty hot from the oven, and in the pub bought a jar of Devon cider to drink with it.

The local people had watched him warily, this man from the outside world. They questioned him as he made his purchases, and seemed glad to see the back of him when he pulled out of the village and found the next turning.

At the approach to the many-arched ancient stone bridge over the Camel in Wadebridge, he stretched his legs, then finished the last of the tea in the Thermos he’d refilled in a town he had passed through shortly before dusk. The shop had been about to close, but the owner had been willing to put the kettle on again. Standing there now, looking at the bridge, he thought about the man who had built it.

The ford over the Camel in the little town of Wade had claimed more than its share of lives. So dangerous was it that a chapel had been put up on each side of the crossing. People could pray for a safe journey over—and pray again in thankfulness for having survived. It was a clergyman who saw the need for a bridge instead of walking through the swift water, and in the 1400s, it had been built, a marvel in its day with all the arches stretching from one side to the other. And it was still a marvel when Oliver Cromwell took it during the Civil Wars, fully aware of its strategic importance.

Tonight it was quiet, and empty save for a cat trotting briskly across. She looked up as she passed his motorcar but otherwise paid no heed to him. Smiling, he got back behind the wheel for the last leg of his journey.

It was very late when he reached the village of Heyl, named for where the river broadened. According to the file Markham had given him, it was to the landing here that the four women had rowed after the near-drowning had occurred. The street was dark, no lamps to light it, as there were in London. Inspector Barrington had been staying at a small inn just before the village’s center. Rutledge thought it must be used most often by travelers hiking the coast paths or following the Camel down to the sea. It was not particularly picturesque.

A fair man of forty-five or so answered Rutledge’s knock and peered out at him as if seeing a ghost.

Rutledge smiled, though he didn’t feel like it. “I’m down from London,” he said pleasantly. “I’m told Inspector Barrington’s room is still available.”

“It’s true. They sent for his things. I boxed them up myself. But there’s no one to take them off my hands.”

“I’ll see to them. May I look at the room, please?”

Shielding his lamp with one hand, the man gestured toward the stairs. Carrying his valise, Rutledge mounted them. The inn, from what he could tell by lamplight, was probably a hundred years old, built of good Cornish granite, with paneled walls, a bar to one side of what must be the dining room, and a smell of damp about the lot.

The passage up the stairs was dark and silent except for their footsteps.

“Here,” his guide told Rutledge, pointing to his right.

Rutledge pushed open the door nearest him and stepped inside.

To his relief, claustrophobic as he’d been since the war—he’d been buried alive when the shell had blown his sector into the night sky—he saw in the glow of the lamp that the room was quite large, with a pair of windows, an ornate wardrobe that could have been Jacobean, and a sturdy bed with a gay floral coverlet.

“This will do nicely,” he said, and meant it. As the man lit the lamps, Rutledge asked for water and a basin to wash off the dust of travel, and then shut the door on the sleepy innkeeper when that was done. For a moment, he simply stood there in the middle of the room.

He’d been told that Barrington had died in the dining room below, gasping for air and then falling to the floor. But he’d been brought up here to his room while Dr. Carrick was sent for, and he was pronounced dead here.

Not one who believed in ghosts, Rutledge had seen men die, and dealt with the dead more times than he cared to remember. Still, he’d known Barrington fairly well, and met his wife on several occasions.

But the room was clean as a pin, the coverlet looked as if it had been freshly laundered, and Rutledge was tired. He undressed, opened the curtains to look out at the gleam of moonlight on the Camel, and went to bed.

If Barrington shared his dreams, he knew nothing about it.

T
he next morning it was clear that news of his arrival had spread quickly. His breakfast was accompanied by stares, as if everyone feared he too would fall facedown in his eggs.

When the meal was over, he asked the man who had shown him to his room the night before—who had brought his tea and introduced himself as Joseph Hays, the owner of the inn—if there had been any papers in Inspector Barrington’s belongings.