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

that was her spirit, a natural openness and caring for others that was apparent after a few minutes in her company.
    All of them would find prison life devastating. Even if their names were cleared, there would be a shadow over them for the rest of their lives.
    But what he didn’t know—couldn’t know now, couldn’t ask—was how Kate felt about him.
    The last time he had seen her in that fall of 1914, when he was on his way to enlist in the Army, he had realized that this friendly, lively woman who had tried to help him understand Jean’s mercurial temperament had been in love with him herself. And hidden it so well that he had had no idea how long or even how deeply she’d felt that way.
    And he would not hurt her if he could help it.
    He owed that much to Kate and to Jean.
    B y the time he reached the village, the cloud over the sun had become a dark bank, and the temperature had dropped to more seasonal levels as well.
    He went to the inn and began a more thorough search of Inspector Barrington’s belongings.
    Barrington had not come for a very long stay. Two changes of clothing, nightclothes, extra pairs of shoes, an umbrella, shaving gear, a box of stationery that yielded a letter to his wife he’d begun but never finished, and his return ticket to London stuck inside a book he’d been reading on the journey down to Cornwall. Nothing in the shoes, nothing in pockets or between the folds of shirts. No loose sheets of paper, no small leather-bound notebook.
    Rutledge took out the unfinished letter and read it. He hadn’t wished to, but it represented the only contact with Barrington left to him.
    My love,
    I’ve arrived safely and set about the inquiry, but I fear Chief Superintendent Markham is wrong about dealing with this business quickly. I haven’t visited the injured man yet—he hasn’t regained his senses. But I’ve spoken to a number of the people involved. They don’t seem to agree on many of the details. He may be better able to tell me with greater accuracy exactly what occurred.
    It appears that I shall miss the Matthews’ anniversary party, worst luck. You must go and wish them well for me. Twenty-five years of marriage. Wonderful indeed.
    And it had stopped there, as if he had put it aside and expected to come back to it later.
    His wife would be glad of it.
    If the statements weren’t in his valise, where were they? And why would anyone wish to take them? Everyone knew who the victim was, everyone knew by this time that Trevose had made the accusation against the four young women. There would be no surprises in the interviews as far as he, Rutledge, could judge.
    But of course the room would have been cleaned daily. Perhaps Barrington had hidden the papers to keep prying eyes from reading them and gossiping about what he or she had seen.
    He set about searching the wardrobe from top to bottom, and then the room, even lifting the mattress from the bed and searching in the hems of the floor-length curtains before pulling up each corner of the carpet.
    Nothing. He looked behind the three pictures on the wall, went through the washstand.
    Sitting down on the bed again, Rutledge admitted defeat.
    If they were here, the statements and any notes that had been made about the interviews, if they were still in Inspector Barrington’s possession at the time of his death, why would the constable lie about not finding them?
    It didn’t matter, he told himself. He had already talked to the principals, with the exception of Harry Saunders, and he probably knew as much now as Barrington had uncovered before his untimely death.
    But it rankled. A policeman’s notes were the Yard’s business and no one else’s, until he appeared in a courtroom.
    What could Barrington have uncovered that might change the outcome of this case?
    Or to put it another way, he thought, what had someone feared he’d uncovered?
    Still, it was more likely that someone had been curious enough to take them, and didn’t know