Proof of Guilt (17 page)

Chapter Thirteen

R
utledge made good time to London, and he arrived at French, French & Traynor just as Gooding was locking the door for the night.

Rutledge called to him. “Can I give you a lift?”

The senior clerk hesitated, then said, “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

He got into the motorcar and heaved a sigh. “You’ve come more quickly than I expected,” he said. “Still, we could have talked in my office.”

“Yes, I’m sure that would have been best. Why were you expecting me?”

“Didn’t they tell you at the Yard? I called because I’ve had word of Mr. Traynor. I reported it as soon as I’d heard.”

Traynor. The other partner in the firm. Expected any day from Portugal.

“Yes, all right. Tell me.”

“We’ve been waiting for word regarding his arrival. With Mr. French still missing, I thought it best— Several days ago I took it upon myself to contact our representative in Lisbon. I had a response today. Mr. Traynor had indeed left Madeira and arrived in Lisbon. Political matters in Portugal are rather uncertain at present, and he and Mr. French had agreed it would be wise to take certain steps to protect the firm’s interests.”

“What interests?”

“Primarily banking. Mr. Traynor saw to it that the bulk of our funds in Lisbon were transferred to an account here in London, but there was also some concern about the reliability of shipping if the situation grew worse. That too has been resolved. According to our man of business, Mr. Traynor then arranged to travel on to London, and he sailed three weeks ago. It doesn’t take three weeks to reach England from Lisbon.”

“Go on.”

“He’d taken passage on a Greek vessel bound for Portsmouth. Our man of business saw him off, and that’s the last word we’ve had of him. I contacted the shipping line’s agent in Portsmouth. There’s no doubt Mr. Traynor came aboard. In fact he had dinner with the captain on his first night. When the
Medea
docked in Portsmouth on Saturday morning, as scheduled, Mr. Traynor’s luggage was in his cabin, ready to be taken ashore along with that of others disembarking, and there was a gratuity for the cabin steward in an envelope. When it was discovered several hours later that the luggage hadn’t been claimed, it was put into storage. A trunk and two valises. Meanwhile the cabin Mr. Traynor occupied was cleaned for passengers just coming aboard, and all was in order.”

It was a clear and concise report.

Rutledge turned to stare at Gooding. “Was he carrying the firm’s money from the Lisbon bank?”

“No, sir, that came through channels while he was still in Lisbon, as it should have done. But where has Mr. Traynor got to? He hasn’t come here, he hasn’t arrived at the London house—he’s simply vanished. With this information in hand, I contacted the Yard today and asked for you. In fact, I stayed late in the hope that you were making sure my information was correct before coming here tonight.”

R
utledge, still sitting in the motorcar in front of French, French & Traynor, asked Gooding to repeat every detail.

Then he said, “Have you been to Portsmouth yourself?”

“No, I haven’t. I felt it would be better to let Scotland Yard see to it.”

“And you’re quite certain the dead man you were taken to see is not Mr. Traynor.” But, Rutledge told himself, the timing would be off.

“He hasn’t been home since the war, sir, but I’d know him anywhere. I’ve known him since he was born.”

“Have you spoken to Miss French?”

“Indeed, sir, I saw no reason to worry her.”

“I’ve been away from the Yard all day. I’d like to use the telephone in your office, if you don’t mind. It will save time.”

Gooding got down, unlocked the door, and led the way to his office. Rutledge, sitting in the chair behind the man’s desk and reaching for the telephone, said, “If you’ll leave me here for a few minutes?”

“Of course.” The clerk withdrew, quietly closing the door behind him with the skill of a trained butler.

Rutledge’s first call was to Sergeant Gibson, who reiterated what Gooding had just told Rutledge. “The information is on your desk, sir. You’d already left Dedham when Mr. Gooding contacted the Yard.”

“Has anyone spoken to the harbormaster in Portsmouth?”

“Yes, sir,” Gibson reported. “The missing man disembarked—he wasn’t onboard when his cabin was cleaned—and his luggage was off-loaded with that of the rest of the departing passengers. When no one claimed it, it was put into storage. A trunk and two valises.”

“And every other passenger on the manifest is accounted for.”

“Yes, sir. I asked specifically. The records showed that Mr. Traynor had dined at the captain’s table the first night out, dined alone the second evening. The night before they docked at six in the morning, the purser saw Mr. Traynor on deck, smoking a cigarette. He spoke to Traynor, who told him he was watching for landfall, because he hadn’t been back to England since before the war. The purser didn’t see him disembark, as he was busy about his duties, but Traynor’s cabin when it was cleaned showed signs of orderly preparation for departure, and no indication of struggle or any other problem. It was assumed he had gone ashore as expected.”

“And he seemed to be acting naturally when he was seen moving about the ship? Nothing to show that he was fearful or worried?”

“So it appears, sir.”

“Call them back. Ask them to open that trunk. Locked or not.”

There was a moment of silence, then Gibson said, “You think he might be inside?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“Sad to say, sir, they have.”

When the sergeant had disconnected, Rutledge called the Yard a second time, asking for Fielding. But he was not in.

Hamish said, “Twa men, partners in the same firm, missing. It’s no’ likely to be coincidence.”

“No,” Rutledge said. “But how did anyone here in England reach Traynor on that ship?”

“Ye ken, it wasna’ necessary. They had only to wait for him to disembark.”

Which eliminated Diaz, if he had never left the house in Surrey.

But Traynor would have gone with Gooding. He knew the man and trusted him.

The question then was, why not take the trunk and valises with them? It would have been easy enough to drop them into the Thames later. Possibly along with Traynor’s body.

Still, it was foolish to kill both partners so close together, drawing down suspicion on the heads of whoever had done it. Unless it was feared that when the partners got together, some discrepancy in accounts or other misdeeds would come to light.

Back to Gooding.

Rutledge rose, went to the door, and called. The clerk came out of one of the other offices and said, “Did you reach the Yard?”

“They confirmed your account. What I don’t understand is why anyone would wish to kill both partners. I can see that one might wish to be rid of the other; it happens. Still, the two men serve very different purposes. One manages London, the other Madeira.”

“You haven’t found the body of either man,” Gooding pointed out quietly.

“Not yet,” Rutledge agreed.

“Until you do, I refuse to give up hope.”

“Can you continue to manage the firm without them?”

“Not for an extended period, no.”

“What about Miss French? Does she have any authority to act on behalf of her brother and cousin?”

“I don’t know, sir. The question has never arisen. She’s never been to Madeira. She knows nothing about that side of the business, or how the wine is made.”

“There must be managers there. Otherwise Mr. Traynor couldn’t have left.”

“There are. But Mr. French and Mr. Traynor were body and soul of the firm, like their fathers before them. It’s different, their roles. It’s what’s kept this firm alive since the time of Mr. Howard. He was a very unusual man, Mr. Howard. It’s his legacy, you see. And he laid it out for his heirs to follow.”

Listening to the clerk, listening for any indication that he was capable of taking over French, French &Traynor, Rutledge heard only a man’s concern for something he’d given his own life to. But then he’d be stupid to crow too soon . . .

It was the nature of his business, Rutledge thought, to be suspicious. To weigh every expression and every word, to watch the eyes and the way the body betrayed itself. To listen to the voice, a change of tone as a person lied. And still, he would have sworn that Gooding was sincere.

But this had been a very clever scheme, whoever was behind it. And he found himself thinking that Gooding had to be a clever man, intelligent and capable, to have kept his place at French, French & Traynor for so many years.

He said, filling the silence that had fallen, “There’s no more we can do tonight. I’ll drive you home.”

Gooding took out his ring of keys and began to lock the door to his office. He said as Rutledge watched, “My granddaughter has written to me.”

“Indeed?”

“She has told me about the handkerchief. While many were made for her, I’m sure Miss Delaney used the same patterns for others.”

“She’s dead,” Rutledge said baldly. “And the woman in the shop didn’t seem to think it was likely, as these were particular clients—ones who regularly ordered their favorite patterns. There were other choices available to those who came in off the street.”

He saw Gooding glance at the portraits as they made their way to the outer door. The man said, as he turned the last key, “She isn’t a murderer. But I suppose now, with Mr. Traynor missing as well, you will consider me one as well.”

“Tell me where else I should look,” Rutledge answered him, his voice sharper than he intended it to be.

“I don’t know. I would have said that the partners had nothing to fear from anyone. But I see too that this business is hard on the heels of Mr. French deciding not to marry Valerie. It smacks of revenge. The truth is, I was glad he changed his mind. They wouldn’t have suited. She might have been happy with Mr. Michael. He was a good man. But not with Mr. Lewis.”

“Why?”

Gooding got into the motorcar as Rutledge turned the crank. His words were nearly lost as the motor turned over and caught.

“Mr. Lewis wanted someone like his sister, compliant, willing to remain in the background when not required to act as hostess. I’m afraid Valerie has more mettle. Still, she was the granddaughter of a clerk in his firm, regardless of the fact that her father was a Naval officer and came from a very fine family. Miss Townsend is the daughter of a doctor. She has been under her father’s thumb and will accept Mr. French’s will as her own.” He gave Rutledge directions to his house in Kensington, then said, “If you take me into custody, what will become of the firm? I have to ask. The junior clerks are not— They don’t have the experience to deal with unexpected problems.”

“There appear to be no other suspects. According to you, the
Medea
came in on a Saturday morning. You could have met the ship and dealt with Traynor without anyone suspecting that he’d landed. Unless you have someone who can vouch for where you were that morning.”

“I live alone.” Gooding took a deep breath. “Well. There is nothing to be done. But I will not let you touch Valerie. She has done nothing wrong. If I must choose between her and the firm, I will not hesitate.”

“She was in St. Hilary when Lewis French disappeared. Were you?”

Gooding opened his mouth, then shut it again. Which, Rutledge assumed, meant that there were witnesses who could answer that question—one way or the other—and the man was not going to give the Yard their names.

Hamish said, “Ye’ve driven him into a corner. It’s no’ wise.”

But Rutledge had already shown the clerk the forces arrayed against him. And that too had been unwise. He said, as they approached the street where Gooding lived, “If you do something foolish, you will not be here to protect her when the burden of guilt falls on her. And as an officer of Scotland Yard, I cannot.”

“I have no wish to kill myself. I can still hope that one or the other of my employers will turn up alive and well.”

“There’s still the dead man from Chelsea.”

“Ah yes. But he cannot be laid at my door. Or Valerie’s. Not until you know who he is.”

With that the man got out of the motorcar, crisply thanked Rutledge for bringing him home, and went inside his dark house without looking back.

Lights bloomed in the entry and then in a room left of the door, and Rutledge, watching Gooding’s progress through the house, wondered if he was suddenly afraid of the dark.

A
cting Chief Superintendent Markham, weighing the facts at ten the next morning, shook his head. “There’s no alternative but to bring in both Miss Whitman and her grandfather.”

“There appears to be none,” Rutledge agreed. “But we’ve got a body without a name or a past, while the two missing men haven’t turned up alive or dead. How do we charge Miss Whitman or Mr. Gooding, if there is no proof that a crime has been committed? At least not yet.”

“On suspicion of murder. It may be that they’ll tell us what we need to know, if only to avoid the hangman.”

Rutledge was once more fighting a rearguard action. But there was nothing else he could do.

He said, “There’s Miss French. She has lived in the shadow of her brother and her cousin and the firm for as long as she can remember. She wouldn’t have been the only woman to decide that she would like to take charge of her future.”

“She has staff. You’ve said as much yourself.”

“I’ve yet to determine whether that staff is loyal to her or to her brother, who pays their wages.”

“All right then, find out. But don’t dawdle over it. I’ll give you forty-eight hours.”

“Meanwhile, if Sergeant Gibson could ask if any other unclaimed bodies turned up the weekend that Traynor landed in Portsmouth, or after French was reported missing, it might make our task easier.”

“Fair enough. But that’s all the time I’m giving you. There’s a matter in Staffordshire that could well require an Inspector from the Yard. I want you available.”

Rutledge thanked him and left.

Markham was running the Yard as he had run his Yorkshire police, taking the lead in examining and solving each case. Without the personal contact with witnesses and suspects, depending on his own instincts to interpret what he read in reports.