meet you this afternoon.' She got up and went inside, leaving Rutledge with his thoughts.
4
Ronald Evering stood by his bedroom window that same morning, watching the small mail boat make for the harbor at St. Anne's. There was only one passenger on board; he could pick out the blue jacket and white trousers of Davis Penrith, who was standing amidships, his face turned toward the landing, his fair hair blowing in the wind.
The launch came in, tied up, and Davis stepped ashore, looking up the winding hill that led to the only large house on the island.
Evering wondered what he was thinking.
No doubt gauging how many pounds this venture might bring him. Was he so foolish that he thought he would be trusted again with a small fortune? Did he feel no twinge over cheating a man twice-of his brother and of his money? Apparently not, or he wouldn't have come.
Evering turned away from the window and went down to await his guest in the hall, but the memory of his mother's corpse lying there at the foot of the stairs prodded him to move on to the stone steps of the house.
St. Anne's was one of the smaller of the inhabited Scilly Isles. The Romans had come here, and then the Church, and finally Cornish- men looking to make money any way they could. Cut flowers had become the latest source of wealth, for they bloomed here earlier than anywhere else in England, and so they had been very much in demand for country houses and London weddings. The war had put an end to that, of course. Getting perishable flowers across to the mainland and to their hungry markets had been impossible, what with workmen gone to fight or to factories, the government taking over the trains for troops and the wounded, and the German menace out there waiting to sink whatever vessel sailed into their sights.
He doubted that the market for fresh flowers would be as profitable again, not the way it was before 1914. It would be too costly now, workmen's wages too high, and no one was entertaining on the scale they once had done. Great vases of flowers in every room, profligate and beautiful, were a luxury now, even for the wealthy.
He was glad his father hadn't lived to see this day. He had mourned his elder son, then given his only remaining child all that he had dreamed of for Timothy-a fine education, this house, and a love for the Scilly Isles that in the end had come to be the strongest bond between them.
If this day bore fruit, the senior Evering would have lost both sons-one to murder and the other to an unconscionable act that would damn him.
For an instant he was torn. Penrith hadn't seen him yet. Let him knock at the door, and when no one answered his summons, go back to Cornwall and thence to London, cursing a wild goose chase. Or tell him to his face that it had been a mistake, there was no money left to invest after all.
Evering turned and went back inside.
It would seem too-eager-to be seen waiting by the steps.
Invisible in the quiet parlor, he soon heard shoes crunching in the shell walk that led through the trellis gate up to the door. At the sound of the bell, he counted to ten, then he himself opened the door to Penrith. Welcoming him as his father would have done, with an old- fashioned courtesy Evering was far from feeling.
It's not too late…
Penrith stepped into the cool hall and said plaintively, 'I thought perhaps you'd have sent a cart to meet me. The boatman said it was usual.'
'Alas, the horse is lame. But the exercise will have whipped up your appetite. Breakfast is waiting in the dining room.'
'I could do with a cup of tea.' Penrith followed him down the passage to the dining room, its windows looking out to sea, where nothing stood between the stone walls of this house and the great expanse of the Atlantic.
Penrith took his tea standing up, looking out at the cloudless sky. 'Is that a bank of sea mist out there on the horizon? I didn't notice it from the boat, but of course we're higher here. I can tell you I wouldn't care to be caught in one of those. I've heard tales of what it would be like-dank and damp, like cotton wool. Worse than a London fog. No wonder the Cornish coast is famous for its shipwrecks. I see the boat has continued on its rounds-I thought it might stay on for a bit. How long before it returns to St. Anne?'
Evering smiled, deliberately misunderstanding him. 'I promise you we'll have more than enough time to discuss our business.'
'It must be quite lonely here. I should think you'd open your London house for the summer,' Penrith went on as he set his cup down on the table and accepted the plate Evering was holding out to him.
'Not in summer. That's the best season for us. Next winter perhaps.' Evering shrugged. 'That is to say, if I am luckier in my investments than I was the last time and can afford to open the London house again. Surprisingly enough, I've never found it lonely here. Perhaps because I was born in this house.'
He searched Penrith's face for signs of-what? Something, any- thing-a conscience, a reason to put a stop to what he was about to do.
But all he read there was impatience and greed.
'I brought the papers you asked for. I think, given the state of business these days, that we've got something to offer. Something that might well recoup that earlier loss. Something with long-term potential, and an excellent rate of return.'
'That would certainly be desirable. Frankly, I could use the income. But you told me much the same story the last time, and look where it led.'
'Yes, well, we apologized for the Cumberline stocks. No one was more surprised than I when they went down with a crash. I lost money myself.'
Evering raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He had heard rumors that Penrith and his partner had had a miraculous escape. A word of warning in the right ear at the right time… But not passed on to clients. Not this client, at least.
Penrith took his filled plate to the foot of the table and sat down, picking up his serviette. 'I say, this is a wonderful spread. We're still trying to get decent food in London. You have a fine cook, as well. My compliments.'
They ate their meal in a drift of light, stilted conversation, touching on events in London, the state of the economy, the worsening situation in Russia.
'No money to be made there,' Penrith said with a sigh. 'You'd think, given their way of looking at land reform, that they'd put it to good use. In my view, they're going to be hard-pressed to feed their own people. And their factories, such as they are, produce only shoddy goods. Europe isn't going to be back on its feet for another dozen years, if I'm any judge. But there are opportunities in South America. Cattle. Coffee. Mines. That sort of thing. It's what I intend to talk to you about.'
Thus far Penrith had made no mention of his business partner, and the omission was glaring. Evering brought him up instead.
'And what is Quarles doing, to keep himself out of trouble?'
Penrith grimaced. 'I daresay he manages. We no longer handle joint ventures. Which is why you contacted me, I think? You never liked Quarles.'
Nor you, Evering thought, but was silent.
They finished their meal and adjourned to the study. It too looked out across the sea, but there were other islands in this direction, scattered blue smudges. Penrith glanced toward the long bank of mist one more time before sitting down. There was some anxiety in his face, as if he was trying to judge how far it had advanced since last he had measured it.
'Let's get down to business, shall we?' Evering asked.
'By all means.'
The next two hours were spent in intense exposition of the properties that Penrith had brought for discussion.
Evering listened carefully to everything he was told, then sat back with a frown.
'I don't know-' He pulled at his lower lip, a study in uncertainty.
