No Shred of Evidence: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery (10 page)

He got up, walked across the chilly floor, and with the heavy tongs set more pieces of coal on a fire that had gone cold and gray in the grate. It took matches, some stirring with the poker, and determined patience before it caught enough to lick at the kindling. Then he sat there and watched it until the blaze was bright and warming. He held out his hands, then stood up and went to the window.

A pale light told him where the river was, and he realized that the sky was beginning to clear.

The salvage firm would be able to start searching for the Saunders boat.

Still looking out at the river, he heard Hamish’s voice as clearly as if the Scot stood just behind his left shoulder.

“What if there isna’ a boat out there?”

Rutledge answered him aloud, as he often did when he was under a strain: “That could send Kate and the others to the gallows.”

R
utledge had just finished his breakfast when there was a stir outside. He had chosen to sit by the windows, and he rose to see what had attracted attention.

A boat was coming upstream, and he recognized it. The men from the salvage yard had arrived. It passed the landing and continued up the river.

He tossed his napkin on the table and went out to watch. He could feel the curiosity in the onlookers, some of them silent, others speaking in low voices. He thought they probably guessed what the crew was searching for. It was obvious that a number of the watchers believed this attempt had been initiated by the police to corroborate Trevose’s belief that Saunders had been in the Grenville boat from the start.

His own tension mounted as the crew finally dropped anchor and leaned over the railing on both sides, peering down into the water below. Then they moved several yards upstream before looking again. And there they prepared for their first dive. It was an agonizingly slow process. Unfolding the heavy suit, helping their man clamber inside as the hoses were checked and rechecked, and then finally screwing down the helmet.

Three more times they moved upstream, bringing in the diver each time and divesting him of the heavy helmet. Then the ritual of leaning over the rail began the process all over again before sending him back down. Rutledge, watching the sun glinting on the bulbous copper and brass helmet as the man descended once again, felt cold, his claustrophobia at the thought of being in the man’s weighted shoes almost making him turn away.

But on this dive, he had been down only a matter of minutes before he signaled to be hauled on board again. As soon as his helmet had been removed, there was a conference on deck, as if determining what to do next.

Rutledge had the uneasy feeling that they were giving up, that there was nowhere else the dinghy could have sunk out of sight, except there in the main channel.

And then they were lifting the helmet over the man’s head again, bolting it in place, and sending him below, now lowering chain and other gear after him. Twenty minutes later he broke through to the surface, this time towing a chain behind him.

By God, they’ve found something!
Rutledge thought.

Constable Pendennis came to stand at Rutledge’s elbow. “Who summoned the salvage firm?”

“I did, when I was in Padstow.”

“I’d have seen to it, sir. Save for the storm yesterday.”

Rutledge didn’t answer him.

The chain was brought in along with the diver, and the crane on the back of the boat began to winch whatever the diver had found up out of the river.

There was something close to a sigh passing through the growing crowd of watchers as the winch groaned and clanked, the sounds carrying across the water.

Something barely broached the surface and sat there, still invisible, for a good ten minutes, and then it was lifted free of its grave with great care, streaming water and river mud before it was gently swung aboard the salvage craft.

The
Sea Lion
’s dinghy.

The watchers had fallen silent.

The crew bent over it, examining it. Impatient now, Rutledge stood there, counting the minutes. And then they divested the diver of his suit, stowed their tackle, and finally pulled up the anchor, heading back downstream.

Rutledge ran for his motorcar, ignoring Pendennis, who turned as if to follow him, and drove up to the High Street on his way to Padstow.

By the time he’d reached the town, after driving to the nearest crossing up Little Petherick creek, the salvage boat had returned to its moorings and the dinghy was being winched ashore.

Rutledge joined the owner of the firm.

Henry Kelsey turned to greet him. “There she is,” he said. “You can see the lettering.”

On the stern of the dinghy was the painted inscription
SEA LION, Padstow
.

“That’s the Saunders lad’s boat, the
Sea Lion.
Pretty little craft.” He pointed out past the harbor where a number of boats swung at anchor. “That’s her, the black bottom and white trim. A pity. Word came with the milk this morning that he died last night.”

“Where did he keep the dinghy?”

“At a private landing just west of the town. Before you come to Prideaux Place.”

“Is it there now?”

“ ’Course not, there she sits.”

“In police matters, it pays to be sure.”

“No, I’d recognize her anywhere. And you might wish to have a look.”

Rutledge followed him to the dinghy. It smelled of silt and river water, some of the boards already beginning to swell.

“Look here.”

Under the seats, almost impossible to see, were a series of small holes.

“They wouldn’t have brought in enough water at the start for him to notice. But eventually he’d begin to sink.”

“How far could he have gone with those holes?”

“It would depend. If someone had plugged them with twists of paper, let’s say, these would have soaked through soon enough and begun to come out a bit at a time. The point being, it would seem to me that whoever did this wanted Saunders to find himself well out to sea or up the river before he reckoned he was in trouble. And then the more water he took on, the faster he’d sink. And look here,” he said, pointing to a place in the stern. “He’d have coiled the rope after untying the boat, and dropped it here. And there’s a larger hole. No idea what that was plugged with. But as the boat took on water, that would open up too, and he’d go down fairly quickly.”

Rutledge looked at the signs that Kelsey was pointing out.

“If the boat was in water, these plugs could have come out long before Saunders next took his boat out.”

“He pulled it up on a bit of sand. See the scratches on the bottom.” Kelsey had several men turn the craft. “No, someone wanted him to sink in yon dinghy.”

“Someone wanted to kill Harry Saunders,” Rutledge said finally, straightening up.

“That’s what it looks like to me. In all my years in this business, I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” He bent down again and touched the largest hole. “I’d give much to know what it was that had been used as a plug.”

“So would I. It might lead us to whoever did this.”

But the boat’s discovery halfway between Heyl and the Padstow Place landing confirmed the account that the four women had given of Saunders being in trouble, the boat sinking under him.

Rutledge thanked Kelsey and paid for his services, asking him to keep the boat in his yard for a day or so and say nothing about the damage. Then he got directions to the small landing where the dinghy had been tied up.

He found it without any trouble, just west of the town. There was a house above the landing, and Rutledge went up to the door. No one answered his knock, and he walked on down to the water’s edge.

Over his head the gulls wheeled, shrieking in glee at the sight of a possible meal being tossed their way. He counted five varieties, from herring gull to the smallest, the common gull, warily skirting their larger brothers.

For centuries the fishing industry had fed the gulls of Cornwall, and when the ships came in, the heads and entrails of the catch drew cats, dogs, and gulls to partake of the feast. To many people, the gulls were the souls of fishermen lost at sea, coming in once more with the fishing boats.

Rutledge wondered if some summer visitor had fed these, and the birds had remembered.

The landing was no larger than the one at Padstow Place, and it had space to tie up two small craft, one on either side.

The other one lay on its side on the sand to the left of the landing. A length of canvas covered it from stem to stern, and it appeared not to have been taken out for some time.

Where the Saunders dinghy should have been was bare sand. He went over to it and squatted, looking at the spot and the surrounding area. He could see that the boat was often dragged up above the waterline. The sand was more compact, and a little lower than that around it. Getting to his feet, he walked out on the landing to where the water lapped at the end, again scanning the area.

Had someone intended to sabotage the other boat, and by mistake worked on Harry Saunders’s instead?

He went back to where the dinghy should have been. Who would want to kill Saunders? This was hardly a place where Victoria would bring her friends. The house was only a little larger than a cottage, and so were its nearest neighbors some forty yards away. The sort of places someone might use in summer and shut up all winter. The roof was made of Delabole blue, a pleasing contrast with the cream whitewash on the walls.

While other parts of the Duchy boasted tin and copper mines or clay pits or granite quarries, the vast Delabole slate quarry was all that this part of northern Cornwall had in the way of industry.

Rutledge went back to scuff at the sand with his boot, on either side of where the boat might have been drawn up.

He found a large nail, the sort that might have been used to make the holes. If someone had been here at night, he could easily have lost track of it.

He moved closer to the landing, and as he did, he saw something just visible in the shadow cast by the pilings that held up the planking. He squatted, and dug at it with his fingers.

When it came up, caked with sand, he couldn’t decide what it was. And then he recognized it. A corner torn from a woman’s gown. No more than three inches in length, yet he could still see the delicate embroidery: sprigs of lily of the valley tied in a green ribbon.

Turning, he looked back toward the house. It appeared to be closed up for the winter, and when he went up to peer in the window by the door, he could see dust sheets over the furniture.

He walked on to the next house, and there too the furnishings were covered, not as tidily as in the first cottage. Here sheets had been thrown over chairs and tables to keep the worst of the dust and sand out, whereas the others had been heavier and fitted.

He went to the third of the houses that stood above the landing. There was sand on the steps, and an air of occupation. He knocked before looking in a window. A man in his seventies answered the door.

“I saw you walking about, studying the cottages. Thinking of renting that far one for the summer? The nearer one is taken.”

“I was curious about the landing.”

The man chuckled. “I provide one for those who let the two cottages, but the truth is, they’re not likely to use it. Town people, come for the summer. And more likely to drown themselves than row across the bay. Still. They seem to like the boat being there. They take photographs of the family sitting on it.”

“But there has been a second boat. Who does that belong to?”

“That’s Harry Saunders’s. He pays me a little extra to allow him to tie up here.”

“Where is the boat now?”

The man shrugged. “No idea. He comes and goes as he pleases. Took it out last Saturday a week, but I didn’t see the
Sea Lion
put out to sea. I should think it’s in for an overhaul. Wouldn’t be surprised. Good time of year for it.”

“You’re certain he took it out that Saturday.”

The man grimaced. “I’m not senile. Of course I’m certain.”

“I’m sorry, I needed to be sure of the date. Has anyone come here to look at his dinghy? Or the cottages?”

“Not of late. There’s more interest in the early spring. Letting is more reasonable now, of course, if you’re interested. It’s a nice class of visitor who comes here, you know. Last summer we had two spinsters and a newlywed couple.”

Rutledge thanked him and left, walking back to his motorcar, where he’d left it near the middle cottage.

He needed to speak to Harry Saunders’s parents, but they would be in the deepest mourning now. There were other questions he could put to Kate Gordon. She might be able to find out what he wanted to know.

Before turning back toward Heyl, he took the length of fabric from his coat pocket and dusted as much of the encrusted sand off as he could. Then he put it away again.

He made one brief stop on his way, at Dr. Carrick’s surgery.

The doctor shook his head when Rutledge asked if he knew the cause of death. “I have not conducted a postmortem, if that’s what you’re asking. Mrs. Saunders has refused to let us take her son’s body from the house. She sits there by the bed, reading to him. I agreed with her husband that we will try again this morning. For the moment, I expect it’s the kindest thing, to let her have these last hours.”

“And your best guess, as a doctor?”

“The bleeding in the brain from the blow on the head. There was nothing I could do to stop it. In the end it killed him.”

“Did he regain consciousness before he died?”

“Sadly, no. He simply slipped away. I was downstairs at the time, talking to Harry’s father, preparing him for the worst. And I heard Mrs. Saunders scream. I rushed up the stairs, but he was gone. No heartbeat, no respiration, nothing. She said she heard the silence in the room. And I expect she did.”

“Poor woman.”

“Yes, a blow for both of them.” He sighed. “But this shifts the inquiry, does it not? From attempted murder to murder. I know the Grenville family and the St. Iveses as well. They’re also my patients. This will be a terrible state of affairs now.”

“Tell me about Miss St. Ives. I understand she has a nervous disposition?”