“Why,” Hamish wanted to know, “did Penrith deny they’d served atall or knew each ither before London?”
Rutledge reached for the report and went through it again, looking for what injuries had sent Quarles to hospital for such a long recovery.
He found it, a short notation in Gibson’s scrawclass="underline" burned in attack, nearly lost hands.
Mrs. Quarles must have discovered this as well, if she hadn’t already known about her husband’s service in South Africa. Hardly sufficient reason to demand a separation. And even if Brunswick had learned of it, few people would care, even if he shouted it from the rooftops.
Hamish said, “It doesna’ signify. Let it rest.”
Rutledge turned to the paperwork on his desk, concentrating on the written pages before him. In his absence there were a number of cases where he would be expected to give testimony, and he marked his calendar accordingly. Then he read reports of ongoing inquiries where the sergeants in charge were collating evidence and passing it on for a superior to inspect. He made comments in the margins and set the files aside for collection. Three hours later, he’d come to the bottom of the stack, and the report that Sergeant Gibson had prepared about the military backgrounds of Quarles and Penrith.
The sergeant had summarized the material in his usual concise style, and his oral report had matched it. Rutledge tossed the folder back on his desk for collection and filing, and sat back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.
Hamish was restless, his voice loud in the small office, rattling the windows with its force. Rutledge warned, “They’ll hear you in the passage,” before he realized he was speaking aloud.
But Hamish was in no mood to be silent.
Rutledge reached for a folder again, realized it was Gibson’s report, 282
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and tried to read it word for word in an effort to shut out Hamish’s tirade. Gibson in his thoroughness had attached a copy of Penrith’s military service record to support his notes.
It was nearly impossible to concentrate, and Rutledge shut his eyes against the thundering noise in his head. The last line on the page seemed to burn into his skull, and he flipped the folder closed, shutting his eyes and trying to concentrate.
It was several minutes before his brain registered anything more than pain.
He wasn’t even certain he’d seen it, but he lifted the report a last time and tried to find it, first in the summation, and then in the military record itself.
And almost missed it again. Lieutenant Timothy Barton Evering.
The name of the officer in charge when the train was attacked.
Gibson, for all his thoroughness, had had no way of knowing that it mattered. Rutledge had been searching for different information, and it was only because the sergeant was not one to leave any fact undocumented that the name was even included.
Rutledge stood up, the sheet of paper still in his hand, and went to find Gibson. But the sergeant had gone out to interview a witness for one of the other inspectors.
Rutledge went back to his desk, took up the file, reached for his hat, and left the building.
He found Davis Penrith in his office. Brushing aside a reluctant clerk, Rutledge opened the door instead and strode in Without waiting for Penrith to take in his abrupt appearance, Rutledge said, “I thought you told me you didn’t know an Evering. That he was Quarles’s client.”
“I don’t—”
“The officer in charge of the train ambushed out on the veldt was Timothy Barton Evering.”
Penrith’s mouth dropped open. It took him several seconds to recover. Then he fell back on anger. “What are you doing, searching through my past? I’m neither the murder victim nor a suspect in his death. You’ll speak to my solicitor, Inspector, and explain yourself.”
“Timothy Barton Evering.”
“He’s dead, man! There were no other survivors.”
“Then who is Ronald Evering? His son?”
“I don’t know any Ronald Evering. I told you, the investors in Cumberline were Quarles’s clients, not mine. Now get out of my office and leave me alone!”
Rutledge turned on his heel and left. Back at the Yard, he left a message for Chief Superintendent Bowles that he would not be in the office for the next three days, went to his flat, and packed his valise.
It was a long drive all the way to Cornwall. Rutledge had sufficient time to wonder why it mattered so much to tie up a loose end that in no way affected the outcome of a case that was already concluded. All the same, action had improved his headache, and that in itself was something.
Penrith had given incomplete answers three times. Once about where his father had been curate, once about Quarles’s background, and again about Evering. Whatever it was that Mrs. Quarles knew and Brunswick had been determined to ferret out, Davis Penrith must know as well.
There was a secret somewhere, and whether it had a bearing on this murder or not, it connected three people who on the surface of things had nothing in common.
Hamish said, “Do ye think the three acted together? If so, ye’re a fool.”
“Why has Penrith felt compelled to lie to me? If I’d gone to Hampshire looking for his past, I’d have found only a five-year-old boy.
If I’d gone to Sussex, I’d have discovered that the grown man had served in the Army. And there was nothing in the legend of Harold Quarles about his military career, short as it was. He’d have used it if it had in any way served his purpose.”
“They were no’ deserters, they didna’ need to hide.”
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“Precisely. Constable Wainwright’s father called Penrith the sole survivor of that massacre on the train. Yet Quarles survived as well.”
“It was Penrith who was pointed oot to him.”
“Yes, the handsome young soldier who reminded Wainwright of the Prince of Wales: slender and fair and a hero. What was Quarles doing while Penrith was being a hero? Why wasn’t he one as well? His wounds were serious enough to keep him in hospital for a long time.
And back in London, why didn’t Penrith’s heroics become as famous as Quarles’s escape from the mines? It would have stood him in good stead in many quarters.” He drove on. “What will one Ronald Evering have to say about his own investment in the Cumberline stocks, and his father’s dealings with Penrith and Quarles?”
22
T he sea was rough, and the mail boat bucketed through the waves like a live thing, fighting the water every foot of the crossing.
Rutledge, shouting to the master over the noise of the sea and the creaking of the boat, asked him to point out St. Anne’s.
“That one, you can barely see the top of it from here. It’s our third port.”
“Do you know the Everings?”
“These many years. Visiting, are you?”
“An unexpected guest,” Rutledge said, watching the little island take shape. But it was another hour and three-quarters before they reached the tiny bay that was St. Anne’s harbor, and their voices were suddenly loud as the wind dropped and the seas smoothed in the lee of the land.
“Evering must not have got word you were coming today,” the 286
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master said, lighting his pipe. “The house usually sends down a cart for visitors.”
“Are there often visitors?”
“Not often. Ronald Evering’s the last of the family, and not much for entertaining.”
Rutledge watched as the man maneuvered the small craft toward the stone quay and efficiently secured it to the iron rings that held it against the fenders.
“Off you go,” he said to Rutledge, nodding to the path that ran down to the harbor. “Up there, cross the road, and when you see the arbor, follow the path to the house. Would you mind carrying up the mail? It would save me a trip.”