up.'
'What about a vehicle, once he did?'
'He keeps his motorcar on the Cornish mainland. It's no use to him on St. Anne's.'
Rutledge nodded and changed the subject. They came alongside the quay at St. Anne's, and Rutledge helped the master tie up. There was no mail for Evering this trip, and Rutledge walked up the hill with his mind on what he was about to say. But before walking through the arbor gates, Rutledge took a brief tour around the small island, following the road until it became a lane and then a path.
The Evering family graves were tucked in a fold in the hillside, protected from the prevailing winds, and covered with flat stone slabs rather than the more conventional stones. When the winter gales washed across the island, they were less likely to erode.
He moved slowly among them, looking at the dates-going back to the seventeen hundreds, weathered but still legible-and took note of one in particular. A small memorial chapel stood just beyond the graves, and inside he found pews, an altar, and a memorial window set in the thick wall high above it. It showed a young soldier in khaki, standing tall and unafraid against the backdrop of the veldt, his rifle across one knee, his gaze on the horizon. The commissioning date on the brass plaque below it was 1903.
Leaving the chapel, Rutledge followed the path down a hillside toward a tiny cove. Here was Evering's sailboat and a strip of sand beach protected from the wind. The sun touched the emerald green water as it ebbed, and it was shallow enough to see the bottom. There was almost a subtropical climate in these sheltered slopes. Rutledge could easily understand why flowers bloomed here before they did on the mainland. These islands were Britain's most westward outpost, and as he looked out at the cluster of St. Anne's neighboring isles, he found himself wondering what lay submerged between here and Cornwall. The south coast was full of tales about vanished lands, swallowed up by the sea.
There were half a dozen small cottages on the island as well as the main house, tucked beneath another fold in the land, and he could see the wash blowing on lines in the back gardens. Staff? Or the families who worked on the estate? From the sea these cottages would be invisible, the ancient protection of island dwellers the world over from the depredations of pirates and raiders. But neither could they see the Evering house from here or the cove or even the docking of the mail boat. Evering could be sure there were no witnesses to his comings and goings.
Satisfied, Rutledge walked back to the house and lifted the knocker on the door.
The middle-aged maid again answered his summons and left him to wait in the parlor for Evering to join him.
'You might be interested to hear,' Rutledge said, as soon as Ever- ing walked into the room, 'that it was Davis Penrith who killed his partner, Harold Quarles.'
'I am interested. That was an odd pairing if ever I saw one.' He gestured to a chair. 'I can't imagine that you came all the way out here to tell me that.'
'Penrith told me that on his most recent visit here, you reluctantly informed him that Quarles was having an affair with Penrith's wife.'
'Did I? I hardly think so. I don't travel in the same circles. If there has been gossip, I would be the last person to hear it.'
'Or the first person to make it up.'
Evering laughed easily. 'Why should I care enough about these two men to make up anything?'
'Because they let your brother burn alive when they could have saved him. Because-according to Penrith-it was even possible that Quarles had engineered his death. I don't know why. But having spent four years in the trenches, I find myself wondering why the two most inexperienced soldiers in that company survived when no one else did. Unless they were hiding and Evering threatened to have them court-martialed for cowardice. Apparently the army went so far as to make certain Penrith's rifle had been fired.'
'I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know how my brother died.'
'I believe you do. Someone brought his body home. It's there, among the family graves.'
'The stone was set over an empty grave, to please my grieving mother. You'll find no bones beneath it.'
'We can order an exhumation to find out. But it would be simpler to wire South Africa and ask the authorities if your brother still lies where he was buried at the time of his death. There will be a paper trail we can follow. Signatures…'
'Yes, all right, I was in South Africa for a time, and I made the arrangements for my mother's sake. It was not an experience I care to remember. But I learned nothing from the military authorities there. Possibly to spare my feelings.'
'You knew when you first went to James, Quarles and Penrith exactly who these two men were. And they were well aware that you knew. I think that's why they allowed you to invest in Cumberline. To teach you a lesson.'
He sighed. 'That well may be. On their part. I couldn't say.'
'I think you deliberately told Penrith lies about his wife and Harold Quarles, knowing that would be the one thing that would set them at each other's throats. I think you didn't really care which one killed the other. It was revenge you were after.'
'This is a very unlikely story. Not one you can prove, certainly.'
'It's my belief that you followed Penrith to Hallowfields, and watched him kill Quarles. And then it was you who put Quarles's body into the rig in the tithe barn. I don't know how you learned that it was there. But you've been planning your revenge for some time. You might have heard the story of the Christmas pageant from anyone. It would be interesting to take you back to Cambury and see how many people there recognize you as an occasional visitor.'
'It would be rather stupid of me to visit Cambury, don't you think? Strangers stand out in small villages, people are curious about them. No, if I went to the mainland, it was only to hear news that never reaches us here on St. Anne's. But save yourself the trouble. You can ask the master of the mail boat. I didn't leave the island.'
'You have your own boat. Your staff would know whether you were here or on the mainland.'
'While you're here, you must ask them.'
Which meant, Rutledge was certain, that they would lie for him. Or were paid well to do so.
'It's going to be very difficult, I agree. But I know the truth now. You'll be summoned to give evidence at Penrith's trial. Will you call him a liar, under oath? Will you deny ever telling him about his wife and Quarles?'
Evering walked to the cabinet that stood between the windows. Opening the glass doors, he reached in to align the small figure of a man seated in a chair, his yellow waistcoat tight across his belly, one hand raised, as if in salute. 'I have nothing to fear. I'll gladly give testimony. Under oath. It's far more likely that Penrith knew about that contraption you speak of. Not I.' He closed the cabinet door and this time turned the key in the lock.
Evering, unlike Penrith, was not likely to break.
Rutledge said, 'Does it bother your conscience that Quarles was murdered and Penrith will hang? And that you are very likely responsible?'
'I hardly know them. I won't lose sleep over their fates. I'd like to offer you tea, again, Mr. Rutledge, but I think perhaps you'd prefer to await the mail boat down at the quay. It is, as you can see, one of our best days. The water in fact is beautiful. Admiring it will pass the time. There are a number of interesting birds on the islands. You might spot one of them.'
Rutledge picked up his coat and his hat. 'Thank you for your time.' He walked past Evering to the door, and there he stopped. 'Quarles has a sister, you know. And he has a son. Penrith has a family as well. You are the last of your line. You may have found a way to destroy your brother's killers, but revenge is a two-edged sword. Survivors are sometimes determined-as you well know-and somehow may find a way to finish what you began.'
Evering said, 'I have no interest in vendettas. Or vengeance. I can tell you that my mother was of a different temperament and would have stood there below the gallows to watch Penrith die. There are many kinds ofjustice, Mr. Rutledge. As a policeman you are concerned with only one. Do speak to Mariah on your way out. She'll confirm- in writing if need be-that I never left St. Anne's.'
Rutledge did speak to the maid. She gave her name as Mariah Pendennis. And she told him, without hesitation or any change of expression, that it was true, Mr. Evering had been on St. Anne's for a fortnight or more, as was his custom this time of year.
'The man's guilty,' Rutledge told Hamish as he leaned against a bollard, waiting for the mail boat. 'As surely
