Free No Shred of Evidence: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery by Charles Todd

when he opened his eyes.
    Rutledge had seen enough. He thanked Mrs. Saunders and followed her husband out of the room.
    Out of earshot on the stairs, Rutledge said, “Does your son live with you?”
    “He did before the war. And for some months after he came home. Now he has a cottage of his own just a few streets from here.”
    “And so you aren’t aware of his comings or goings?”
    Saunders stiffened.
    Rutledge said, “For instance, if he takes his boat out or looks in on the bank in the village or in Rock, across the river. If he attends a party or has friends in to dine.”
    Innocuous pastimes, the sort of ways a young unmarried man might spend his time.
    Saunders relaxed. “That’s true. We didn’t know he was in Heyl village. Not until word came.”
    “Does he take his boat out often?” They had reached the hall at the foot of the stairs. Rutledge noted that he was not invited to return to the parlor. But then Saunders appeared to be dead on his feet from worry and lack of sleep.
    “Not the larger one, although in the summer he tries to make a few weekends for sailing down the coast.”
    “Did he take the smaller one to row up to Heyl village?”
    “I can’t imagine why he would do that, dressed to spend time at the bank. He has a horse, an Irish mare. Pretty little thing.”
    “Is the dinghy still tied up here in Padstow?”
    “I’ve no idea, I have hardly left my son’s side. Certainly I had no time to worry about boats.”
    “How well did your son swim? Do you know?”
    Saunders looked away. “Not very well. He never took to the water as a child. Short distances. He preferred to be on the water, not in it.”
    Which confirmed Rutledge’s earlier assumption.
    “What was he wearing when he was brought to the doctor’s surgery?”
    “One of his dark suits, white shirt. Tie. What he’d expect to wear to do business.”
    “It was a Saturday. Is the bank open on a Saturday afternoon?”
    “It is not. It closes at twelve. But there may have been a private meeting with someone thinking of buying a property. That sort of thing.”
    “Or perhaps to go calling on a friend?”
    “Yes, that too. Although Harry doesn’t have many friends in the village. It’s not—comfortable—when your father owns the bank.”
    “I can understand that. How well does your son know Victoria Grenville? Or Elaine St. Ives?”
    The man’s mouth drew into a thin line. Then he replied, “I would have said, before last Saturday, that he and both young ladies were friends. Not close perhaps but most certainly on civil terms.”
    “Before last Saturday,” Rutledge repeated in a thoughtful tone of voice, adding, “Miss Grenville is now an heiress. She would be considered quite a match for anyone in Cornwall. It wouldn’t be unheard of for your son to wish to press his suit.”
    “Nonsense!” Saunders snapped. “He will most likely find a wife in London banking circles.”
    But not many fathers would be irritated by a liaison with a cadet branch of the Grenville family, one who owned an estate as fine as Padstow Place and had probably owned much of the town itself in the distant past.
    Saunders opened the door. “Good day, Mr. Rutledge. I hope to hear from you very soon in regard to the attempted murder of my son.”
    “I’ll keep you informed, of course,” Rutledge answered pleasantly and went out the door, leaving Saunders himself to shut it behind him.
    He wasn’t certain whether Saunders actually believed that the four women accused of the attack on his son were guilty or whether in his fear and doubt he wanted someone to blame for that still form lying upstairs in his wife’s room.
    Rutledge drove on into the Old Town, left his motorcar in the yard of a pub, and walked down to the harbor. It was busy today, people coming and going, the shops doing a brisk trade, and a few women sitting or standing by the water, enjoying the view as they talked with acquaintances.
    When he asked several of the men who were