Proof of Guilt (18 page)

He was not likely to succeed in London for very long. But Markham wasn’t Rutledge’s immediate problem.

Forty-eight hours. That would hardly see him to Essex and back.

He felt trapped.

Hamish said as Rutledge walked into his own office and closed the door, “Ye ken, he didna’ give you any more time on purpose.”

And that was very likely the case.

Rutledge had warned Gooding. That was all he could do.

Traynor’s disappearance put paid to any focus of attention on Diaz. The point could be made that Diaz had never threatened Traynor’s family and had had no reason to attack them because it was Howard French who had bought the Diaz property for his vineyards. The Traynors had come into the firm in the next generation.

There was still Fielding and his search for the owner of the bicycle. Rutledge had stopped by the Yard the night before, after setting Gooding down, and left the photograph of Valerie Whitman on the sergeant’s desk.

Unable to sit still, he got up and went in search of Fielding. He was told that the sergeant had come in early and then left again.

With the photograph, surely.

Rutledge went back to his own office and sat there staring out the window, waiting for the sergeant to report.

But it was after three o’clock in the afternoon when Fielding finally appeared. He was out of breath from taking the stairs two at a time, his face slightly flushed.

“The man on the luggage van that night—when the bicycle was brought to him—was back in London today. I showed him the photograph. He was quite taken with it. He thought the woman in it had very likely left the bicycle. It was ticketed as far as Thetford, and no one has claimed it. It’s still there.”

“He was certain—or thought it very likely.”

“I don’t know. To tell you the truth, he’d said the woman’s hair was brown, he thought. And it looks brown in the photograph. He thought her eyes were brown. And they look brown in the photograph. She was pretty. And she appears to be pretty in the photograph.”

“Her coloring is rather different. Her eyes, for one, are hazel.”

“Yes, well, in a hurry in a poorly lit station, they could have seemed to be brown.”

“He must see hundreds of people every week. Why should he remember her, that long ago?”

“He says, because the bicycle fell and broke his Thermos of tea.”

“I can see that that might stay in his memory. But the person, after the fact?”

“Yes, I take your point. Still, he says it’s Miss Whitman, and there’s nothing to be done about it.”

“And he’s willing to swear that he saw this woman, that she handed over the bicycle?”

“I’ve sent a constable to take his statement.”

“What was she wearing?”

“Dark clothes. That’s all he remembers.”

Rutledge took a deep breath. “You must give this information to Markham.”

“Yes, I know.” Fielding frowned. “Is— I need to ask you, sir. Is this woman a friend of yours?”

“I met her for the first time when I interviewed her in St. Hilary.”

Fielding’s face cleared. “Well, then. I’ll be about my duty. As soon as Constable Dean brings me the van guard’s statement, I’ll take it directly to the Acting Chief Superintendent.”

“There’s one other link I need to be clear about. Hold up that statement until I get back, will you?”

“If you say so.”

“What I intend to learn could reinforce the guard’s statement.”

“Yes, of course. That’s sensible. I’ll hold off, then.”

“Thank you.”

Rutledge waited until Fielding had gone, then quietly left the Yard. He met no one in the passage or on the stairs, and felt like a felon slinking out to his motorcar. He had forty-three hours, and he intended to use every one of them.

Chapter Fourteen

H
e drove as fast as he dared, but a storm broke just north of London, and he was forced to pull over. Wind tossed tree limbs, littering the streets of the village with leaves and puddles of heavy rain when it came. He could feel the shoulder of his coat getting wet and raced for the door of a tea shop while he could, watching the storm from its windows, then asking for a cup of tea until it passed.

Frustrated at the loss of a precious hour, Rutledge lost another where a tree had been blown down across the road, sent around on a detour that seemed to go on forever before it led him back to the main road.

Finally the outskirts of Dedham were in sight, and the sun came out. He drove on to Thetford, and at the station asked to see the bicycle in Left Luggage.

It was a lady’s bicycle, black and ordinary. He had wasted time coming to see it.

Thanking the man behind the grille, he turned back toward Dedham, then went on to St. Hilary.

He stopped first at the French house, and it was late enough that Nan answered the door herself.

He hadn’t considered how he would approach the maid. It was not something that he could simply walk in and ask.
How loyal are you to your mistress? Would you cover up a murder for her sake? Would you go so far as to act as an accomplice? And where have you hidden the body of her brother?

With Hamish humming in the back of his mind, Rutledge smiled. “It’s late, I’m afraid, but it’s rather important—”

“Miss French has already gone up to bed, sir. Unless it’s urgent. She’s been that upset, hearing that her cousin is missing as well. Mr. Gooding informed her this morning.”

“I understand. As a matter of fact, it’s you I’ve come to speak to.”

“Me, sir?”

“Just a few questions that could help us in our search for Mr. French.”

“Anything I can do, sir.”

“Tell me again about the night Mr. French left.”

“There’s not much to tell. He came down to dinner as usual, and afterward he and Miss French had a few words in the study. I don’t know what it was about, but it ended with Mr. French going upstairs to change to his driving clothes, and then I heard the door slam behind him.”

“What did Miss French do?”

“She was in the sitting room, and she ran out after him. I don’t know what was said. The motorcar drove away, but she didn’t come in. I went out to look for her after a while, and she was in the little Greek temple, and she was crying. I asked her to come in out of the night air. She refused, said she thought he would come back and she wanted to wait. She dismissed me, but I got up again close to two o’clock, and she was in bed.”

“Asleep?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

Rutledge considered what Nan had told him. There had been enough time for Agnes French to kill her brother. If he had come home again and found her in the rose garden, if the quarrel had been renewed, she could have rushed to the motorcar and turned it in the heat of her anger and run him down as he walked away.

But then why had the bit of cloth he’d discovered under the French motorcar matched the dead man’s clothing, and not French’s?

There was the possibility that in his mad need to leave the house behind, French could have hit someone else on the road and suffered a seizure because of it. And his sister had let him die.

That would explain everything.

He said, intending to catch the maid unaware, “Who took the dead man to London, left him there, and then abandoned the motorcar in Surrey?”

She frowned. “I’ve never been to Surrey, sir. Are you meaning Mr. French? Is he dead, sir? Is that why you’ve come, to tell Miss French?”

“No,” he said, feeling the tension in his shoulders from the long drive and the weariness of knowing he had wasted more of his forty-eight hours than he could spare. “We haven’t located Mr. French.”

“I’m glad, sir. I didn’t want to be the one to wake Miss French and tell her.”

He changed the subject. “Did Miss Whitman have a bicycle? Do you remember it?”

“Yes, sir, she and Mr. Michael would go off together, pedaling their bicycles and stopping somewhere for lunch. Just an ordinary bicycle, sir. Nothing special about it. She rather liked it, because Miss French’s father had given it to her one Christmas.”

“Thank you, Nan. I don’t think we need to disturb your mistress after all.”

He turned to go, and she wished him a good night.

He drove as far as the dark churchyard and walked for a time between the gravestones. He couldn’t help but see that Miss Whitman must be awake because there were lights in one of the upstairs bedrooms.

Standing there watching the light, he said aloud, “He’s going to have her taken up for murder. Markham. And her grandfather as well. Where the bloody hell is Lewis French? Or saving that, where in hell is his body?”

Hamish, who seemed to be standing just behind his shoulder in the soft darkness, said, “It’ull do no good to lament. Ye still have half your time left.”

But what to do with it?

Rutledge walked back and forth under the trees, barely missing some of the older, sunken stones as he paced.

Markham wouldn’t allow him to search for the connection between Diaz and a killer he could have hired.

But there might be a way to do it without prejudice.

The light in the upstairs bedroom finally went out.

Hamish said, “Ye’ve lost the distance a policeman must keep from his suspects.”

“I don’t know that I have,” Rutledge said. “It’s just hard to believe, that’s all. There’s been nothing—absolutely nothing—that points to her except circumstantial evidence.”

“And yon photograph,” Hamish said. “The van guard has said so.”

At that moment, the cottage door opened, and Miss Whitman, a shawl around her shoulders, came out and walked down the path to her gate.

He stood there watching her. Waiting to see where she might go.

But she crossed the street and came into the churchyard.

“Are you there?” she asked, peering into the darkness beneath the trees. “It’s you, isn’t it? I saw you from my window as I blew out my lamp. Are you waiting for morning to take me into custody? Is that why you’re come to St. Hilary?”

He walked toward her. “I came looking for something that would explain the unexplainable. French isn’t the only one who has vanished. Traynor has gone missing as well.”

She sucked in a breath. He could hear it.

“Dear God. And you think my grandfather and I have done these things.”

“No. I think—I thought I knew who was responsible. But there’s no way to prove it. And I’ve come to the end. I won’t be the one to take you into custody. They’re sending me to Staffordshire. But it will happen. I’m sorry.”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “It will happen.”

She stood there, a black silhouette against the starlight that lit the street and the front of her house.

And then without a word she turned and walked away.

Rutledge watched her until she had gone inside and closed the door behind her before turning toward his motorcar.

Apropos of nothing, Hamish said, “They burned witches.”

But Rutledge wasn’t to be drawn. This time he ignored the voice in his head and resolutely turned toward the London road.

Chapter Fifteen

T
ired as he was, Rutledge drove all night, and when he reached London he went not to the Yard but to Chelsea.

He stopped the motorcar some distance from the place where the body was found and walked the street again.

Why here? Why had this been the best site to leave an unwanted corpse?

Why not in Bloomsbury or Whitechapel or on the Heath?

Hamish said, “Until ye ken his name ye willna’ know.”

And there was nothing he could do about it. So far.

He walked on. None of the constables who had interviewed residents of this street or the ones on either side had come up with any information that was useful. If anyone had secrets, they had kept them well. The constables were experienced, men who knew Chelsea. And they had shaken their heads over the collected statements, telling Gibson, “If there’s a connection, we haven’t found it.”

Rutledge had reached the house belonging to Mr. Belford.

It was where he’d been going from the time he left St. Hilary.

The maid who answered the door told him that Mr. Belford was in, but she would have to inquire if he was receiving visitors.

After several minutes, she came back to ask Rutledge to follow her.

It was the same room where he’d spoken to Belford before.

The man was standing by the cold hearth, hands clasped lightly behind his back, his expression bland.

“Good morning.” He considered Rutledge. “You’ve driven how far? Not from the Midlands, I should think. And you haven’t been to the Yard, or you would have shaved and changed your shirt. Your expression is grim. Is there another body on this street that my staff has not remembered to mention to me over my breakfast?”

Rutledge smiled. “Not another body, no. But a conundrum, I think.”

“You’ve come for information, then. As I didn’t know the man before he was murdered, I can tell you nothing.”

“You were right about the watch. It was very helpful. Sadly, it didn’t belong to the man in whose pocket it was found. Nor does he appear to have any connection with the man whose watch it was. But now the watch’s owner has gone missing and his cousin as well, two men who have no reason to disappear and who seem to have no enemies.”

“Interesting indeed.” Belford took the chair across from the one he’d offered Rutledge. “Why do you think I should know the answer to this riddle?”

“Because,” Rutledge answered, “I have looked into your past. As you must have looked into mine.”

“Yes. I’ve learned to leave nothing to chance. You had an interesting war.”

“And you as well. Although you left no footprints to follow.”

Belford laughed. “Yes, well, I do try. I had no more success identifying your body than you did. I don’t care for . . . messages . . . left near my house.”

“If I tell you the entire story, can I do so with the assurance that it will go no further?”

“Of course. It goes without saying. But first I’ll ring for tea, shall I?”

When it had been brought in and Belford had poured two cups, he reached into a cabinet to one side of the door and brought out a bottle of whisky, adding a small amount to each cup.

“As a rule I eschew alcohol. But I rather think you can use it,” he said.

“Quite.”

Rutledge began with the body on the street, the direction the watch had taken him, and what he knew about the French family. He brought in Diaz and what had become of him after the confrontation with Howard French and his son years before. As he went on to describe the asylum and then Mrs. Bennett’s charitable endeavors, he saw Belford shake his head. He explained Valerie Whitman’s connection to Gooding, and the quarrel between Miss French and her brother.

Finally, considering what he had said, he decided that he had been both objective and fair.

“You’ve looked into the men who were Mrs. Bennett’s staff? Where they were imprisoned, why, and with whom?”

“The Yard felt that there was nothing to be gained by doing that.”

“A pity,” said Belford thoughtfully. “Because if Diaz wanted to kill, he would have listened to these men, their idle conversation, their experiences during their incarceration, the mates they met in prison, their lies and their boasts and their truths. And gleaned what he needed from them. Finally he would have made his choice as to which person to approach. It’s a matter of trust, you see. Diaz cannot afford to be wrong. He will have only one chance.”

“He’s written no letters, mailed none. Received none.”

“But the man who goes to market could easily drop a letter into the postbox.”

“How did he come by stamps?”

“Someone cleans Mrs. Bennett’s house for her. A single stamp is rarely missed.”

“And the response?”

“In the market basket, of course. Or whoever collects her mail could easily pocket one letter appearing to be addressed to Mrs. Bennett herself.”

“All right. I expect the man who does the marketing is the primary person he trusts. The man who cleans will not know why the stamp is needed, only that it is. And the man who mails letters and collects return post could be one and the same.”

“Exactly my thinking. The fewer who know, the less chance there is of trouble.”

It was much as Rutledge had thought. And this was not why he had come to see Belford. He presented his request carefully.

“My problem is finding out who this man may know. Or if he is indeed the contact. There could be another person involved, someone who insists on staying in the shadows. But I think the courier, the man who posts and collects the letters, will try to learn what he can. If only to protect himself.”

“In his shoes, I’d do the same. And in the long term this could blow up.”

“How would Diaz be able to hire a killer? As far as I know, he has no money. Nor do I think any of the men around him have funds of their own.”

As he said the words, Rutledge realized that he had believed Diaz when he said his father had disinherited him. It was worth looking into.

“You have a list of names?”

Rutledge gave them from memory, and taking a small black notebook from an inner pocket, Belford jotted them down.

“I can’t guarantee that what I discover will help you,” he warned, closing the notebook and restoring it to his pocket.

“Nevertheless, it’s worth a try.”

“It’s a rather nice riddle, this one of yours. I much preferred such cases when I was in the war. I read law, did you know? And found it damned dull.”

Rutledge smiled. His own father was a solicitor, and he had not wished to follow in his footsteps. He wondered if, when all was said and done, he’d joined the police for the same reasons that Belford had, lying to himself about his concern for the silent victim.

He had not been surprised that Belford had so quickly agreed to help. That unidentified body on his street, so close to his door, had been the motivation, not any eloquence on Rutledge’s part. Rutledge had few illusions about Belford. But he needed the man’s help.

He had finished his tea, and now he rose to leave, thanking Belford for his hospitality and his time.

Belford accompanied his guest to the door. “Good hunting. I will let you know as soon as I learn anything useful.”

“Thank you.” Rutledge had no doubt at all that Belford could find him wherever he was.

It was not a connection he intended to cultivate, but it was going to be very useful in the present circumstances.

Hamish was not in agreement. “Ye’ve supped with the de’il,” he said as Rutledge walked back to where he’d left his motorcar.

“And he who sups with the devil needs a long-handled spoon.”

“Aye, ye tak’ it lightly. But when he’s satisfied about yon body, it’s possible ye’ll never hear a word of what he discovered.”

“On the contrary,” Rutledge said, pausing to turn the crank. “He’ll want to gloat. He didn’t make a career of the Army. I find that interesting. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn he’s now MI5.”

R
utledge’s next call was on the solicitor who handled the affairs of French, French & Traynor.

Word had already reached them that Traynor had gone missing, and they were unwilling initially to entertain taking on a request from Scotland Yard.

Mr. Hayes said, “Our first responsibility is to our client, French, French and Traynor. It’s a tremendous undertaking. There’s pay for the workmen in Funchal, shipping contracts coming due, decisions to be made about the staff here, and a review of the men in charge of the winery out there. I shall be sending a senior clerk to Madeira to ensure that everything continues to run smoothly, but he knows very little about how the wine is made. I shall have to employ an expert to examine the situation there. Added to everything else is the language. It isn’t English.”

“I understand that this has stretched the limits of your chambers. But I must know if Afonso Diaz has inherited money from his father or if he was disinherited. His father’s Will should be a matter of record in Funchal and possibly even in Lisbon. As the solicitors for French, French and Traynor, you have dealt with Portuguese law from time to time. You will know how or where to find the information. And find it quickly. If the Yard pursues the matter, it must go through channels, and I’ll be lucky to have an answer in six months’ time.”

“Yes, yes, I understand. But this man’s father sold the property quite legally and the sums due him were paid in full. We have all the paperwork required to show just that. What he chose to do with that money afterward was his own affair.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Rutledge said. “But this man Diaz is still in England. Your firm handled the business of sending him to the asylum outside of Cambridge. You know that he was treated there. You know also when the fund to keep him there lapsed and he was subsequently released. And you never told me about Diaz. You must surely have spoken to Lewis French about this matter after his brother died and the responsibility for maintaining Diaz in the asylum came up for consideration.”

“Yes, and Mr. French decided that he was no longer a risk to the family. The doctor assessed his case and reported that he appeared to be well enough not to be a threat.”

“But someone decided that he should remain in England. He tells me that he can return to Madeira only when he dies.”

“In fact, that was a provision suggested by Lewis French. He thought it wise to keep the man under his eye. In Madeira there are the winery and the vineyards. Perhaps more temptation than Diaz could cope with.”

Rutledge felt like swearing. Lewis French had not understood the threat that Diaz posed to the family. And even Diaz had alluded to the terms of his release, thinking that Rutledge must know them and who had fashioned them. Or else he had tested the waters to see just how much Rutledge did know . . .

Rutledge said to Hayes, “If you don’t find out about Diaz’s inheritance, then you have done both partners a serious injustice. The police are currently looking at the possibility that Mr. Gooding, the firm’s senior clerk, and his granddaughter have murdered the two men.”

“Mr. Gooding—” Hayes’s intimidating eyebrows shot up with his shock. “But we were counting on him to guide us—his experience—”

“He won’t be there, I assure you.”

“But Mr. Gooding—
murder
.”

Rutledge had not wanted to bring Gooding’s connection to the inquiry into the conversation, but he had had no choice.

“Scotland Yard has nothing to connect Afonso Diaz to what has happened. He is not in a position, as far as the Yard is concerned, to find and pay a killer. If I can prove otherwise, that he has the money to do this, it will go a long way toward persuading my superiors that he should be scrutinized. By the same token, Mr. French and Miss Whitman have recently ended their engagement. This could be seen in some quarters as a motive for murder.”

“I have met Miss Whitman,” Hayes said starkly, recovering. “If you wish to engage the assistance of my chambers, you will not use her name in this context.”

Rutledge was on the point of replying equally harshly when he stopped himself just in time. Hamish, in the back of his mind, was clamoring for his attention, but he ignored what the voice was saying.

“If you care at all for Miss Whitman, you will not take the risk.”

Hayes considered him. “If I do as you ask, and then I discover that I have been misled, I shall use all the connections accrued in a lifetime of service to the law to see that you are disgraced.”

Rutledge smiled. “You will have to form a queue,” he said with a lightness he was far from feeling.

“All right. I will make the necessary inquiries myself. The elder Mr. Diaz used a firm in Funchal to handle the sale of his property. I can begin there.”

“Thank you.”

“No. I don’t want your gratitude. Where can I reach you when I have learned what you want to know?”

“Call Sergeant Gibson at Scotland Yard. He’ll find me.”

Hayes was surprised. “Very well. I have made a note of it.” He jotted something in a small notebook, then set it aside.

“The Yard will arrest Gooding. Whether he goes to trial or not depends on whether there’s any way to show that Diaz still wants revenge. He’s too old to achieve it firsthand. But he can buy a killer. If there is money, he can reach any number of willing foils. For Gooding’s sake, we had better hope that he has got the funds.”

“And Miss Whitman?”

Rutledge shook his head. “There is circumstantial evidence against her. Who else could have approached Lewis French after he’d quarreled with his sister? He could have driven no farther than the churchyard, to let his temper cool. When she came to speak to him, he’d have got out of the motorcar and faced her. It would have been easy to kill him then.”

“You don’t believe that?”

“No. I doubt the K.C. assigned to try her will believe it either, but he will be charged with convicting her.”

Hayes shook his head. “You are an odd man, Inspector Rutledge.”

“I’ve learned,” Rutledge said, “that sometimes it’s the small things that matter most. Do you know what became of the love child that Howard French was rumored to have had when he was only a young man?”