Proof of Guilt iir-15

by Charles Todd

  “Your name, sir?”

  “Rutledge,” he said. “I’m looking for Lewis—Lewis French. He isn’t at his house, and it was suggested that he might be here or that Miss Townsend knew where he was going. It’s urgent that I find him. A matter of business.”

  “One moment, sir.”

  Two minutes later, a young woman came to the door. She was fair, with blue eyes—and quite pretty.

  “I’m told you’re looking for Lewis. I thought he’d left for London. Is something wrong?”

  He looked up the street where an elderly couple was strolling in their direction, enjoying the warm evening. “May I come in?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  She ushered him into a formal room where she offered him a seat, and then she hesitated before taking one herself, as if doing so would encourage him to stay longer than he should.

  “I was told at the firm in London that I could find Lewis French here in Essex. But apparently he’d already left some days ago. His sister couldn’t help me, but she thought you might know his plans.”

  That seemed to surprise her. “Did she? Well, I’m afraid I don’t know anything myself. He was here on the Thursday before he left, for lunch, and he told me that he expected to get an early start for London the next day. He needed to reach his cousin in Madeira. He said something had come up that he wanted to discuss with Mr. Traynor.”

  “I’d heard that Mr. Traynor was on his way to England.”

  “Yes, but his travel plans were indefinite, and Lewis didn’t want to wait for his arrival.”

  “Did he seem upset about whatever it was he needed to discuss with his cousin?”

  “Not—upset. I had the feeling he was more annoyed, out of patience. He said he’d always wondered how he was going to solve the problem if it ever came up, and now that it was actually here, he could see he needed help. The clerk Gooding seemed to be the person Lewis always went to when he wanted advice, and I suggested that he telephone London rather than make the trip. But he shook his head and said that even Gooding couldn’t work any magic here. Then he changed the subject, and we talked about other things.”

  . . . he’d always wondered how he was going to solve the problem if it ever came up, and now that it was actually here, he could see he needed help . . .

  It would be easy to jump to the conclusion that what had disturbed Lewis was the sudden appearance of a member of the illegitimate line of the family. And if his mother had indeed been fearful that her husband was a philanderer, then he would have been primed to believe whatever he was told.

  Had he met this man? What had happened? If the other man was dead, had Lewis French killed him and then disappeared?

  Except for the watch, there would have been nothing to connect the French family with the dead man.

  On the other hand, Lewis’s problem could be a question of dealing with a shipping firm that was no longer satisfactory or changing bank managers. A matter in which the partners themselves would have to make a decision.

  Hamish said, “Or how to deal wi’ his sister, and her increasing outrage.”

  An interesting point. She herself had told Rutledge that she had quarreled with her brother before he set out for London.

  Miss Townsend was still speaking. “Are you a friend of Lewis’s? I don’t believe I’ve heard him mention your name.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Rutledge said. “I’ve only known him . . . officially.”

  Her face was lit by a smile. “I know very little about the business side,” she admitted. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted Port or Madeira. My father doesn’t care for wine or spirits.”

  “Yet you are marrying a man whose livelihood is wine.”

  “My father understands that. Of course he does. His feelings are personal.”

  Rutledge had run into this sort of thing before. He’d have been willing to bet that someone in the elder Townsend’s family had been a drunkard.

  “I’m so sorry I couldn’t help you,” Miss Townsend was saying.

  It was dismissal, but he’d learned more than he’d counted on.

  “Do you know if Mr. French was wearing his watch when you had lunch with him?”

  “His watch?” She was completely lost. “Should I have had a reason to notice it?”

  “No, not at all. I was thinking that perhaps he’d mislaid it—it could explain why he’d missed our appointment.”

  She smiled, her face clearing. “Lewis is always on time. No, there must have been some other reason.”

  He was just preparing to thank her and take his leave when the door opened and a portly man with fair hair and a mustache came into the room.

  “Mary, I was told someone called.”

  “Papa, this is Mr. Rutledge. He’s looking for Lewis. Something to do with the firm.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Thank you for your help, Miss Townsend. It’s possible I just missed him in London. I’ll try again. Good evening, sir.”

  Rutledge made his escape before Townsend could ask more questions than he was prepared to answer. And as he was opening the outer door, he heard the man’s voice saying, “You have no business entertaining a stranger without a member of the family present. Furthermore, I shall tell French that he’s not to send his business acquaintances—” The rest was cut off as Rutledge stepped outside.

  As he walked back to the motorcar, he swore under his breath. Neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring . . . Why did the dead man have that watch? Or to turn it around another way, why was Lewis not wearing the watch? It was a symbol of who and what he was. Not something he was likely to give up easily.

  Hamish said, “Unless it was no’ for verra’ long.”

  It occurred to Rutledge that French had palmed the man off with the watch and then looked for a chance to run him down. Then why hadn’t he recovered the watch first thing? Had he been interrupted?

  And that brought up another missing piece of property—Lewis French’s motorcar. Had there been enough damage to make it impossible to drive into London without questions being asked? Was it somewhere in England where an unwitting smith was making repairs so that French could reappear? It would be impossible even for Gibson to trace such a small shop.

  Rutledge drove back to the Sun, once an old coaching inn, and took a room for the night. It was too late to return to London anyway, and he could put the morning hours to very good use here.

  It was nine o’clock when he rang the bell at the French house. Nan opened the door and at once looked beyond Rutledge, as if expecting to see her mistress alighting from the motorcar.

  He said, “I’m afraid Miss French has decided to stay in London for a few days. I’ve come to ask—did Mr. French leave his motorcar here or take it with him to London?”

  She stared at him.

  “The problem is, we can’t seem to find him in London. If the motorcar is still here, perhaps he took a train.”

  Her face cleared. “I believe he drove himself, sir. He usually preferred it.”

  “Then very likely he stopped off to visit a friend.”

  “He could have. He wasn’t expected in London for several days.”

  “And you saw him leave?”

  She looked away and then back at him. “He left in the evening. He and Miss French had had words about readying the house for Mr. Traynor. I heard the door slam, and Miss French went out after him. Then she came back, dismissed me for the night, and went into her room. I thought she’d been crying and didn’t want me to see.”

  “Did they often quarrel? Miss French and her brother?”

  “Not often, sir. But she felt sometimes that he was unappreciative of all she did. And I must say, it was true. She told me once that she didn’t envy Miss Townsend.”

  “Where were they to live when they married? Here? Or in London?”

  “I expect in London.”

  He thanked her and left.

  Coming out of the drive, Rutledge saw the curate, Mr. Williams
, peddling his way. He waited for him, and Williams pulled up by the iron gates.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” the curate asked.

  “Yes, thank you. Are you going into Dedham? I’ll give you a lift.”

  “Nice of you! Shall I lash the bicycle to the boot?”

  “Yes, you’ll find rope in there.” When Williams had finished and joined him in the motorcar, Rutledge said, “I haven’t known Lewis French long. What sort of person is he?”

  “Nice enough chap. I think the elder brother, Michael, was the pick of the family. Everyone had high hopes for him. But then he didn’t come home from the war, more’s the pity. Lewis has made a go of the firm, and his fits seem to have lessened with age.”

  Rutledge had forgot that Miss French had mentioned her brother’s seizures. “Were they severe?”

  “Not as a rule. But a time or two they were very bad. If he were very upset, the spells were worse. Dr. Townsend had to be called in once. French had bit his tongue rather badly. You’ve been asking a good many questions about the family, and French in particular. And you listen, which encourages confidences. Perhaps it’s time to ask who you are?”

  There was nothing for it but to give the curate a fair answer.

  “My name is in fact Rutledge. And I’m an Inspector at Scotland Yard.”

  There was stunned silence. His companion turned to look at him, then stared straight ahead.

  He could see the curate remembering everything he’d told Rutledge. A lonely man—there had been no sign of a wife—he’d talked freely, trusting that his instinct about people was right, and this stranger was what he seemed.

  “Forgive me. I hope I have done no one any harm,” he said at last, then paused. “If the Yard is involved, then we must be dealing with murder. Are you here about the victim? Or the killer? And what does the French family have to do with this business?”

  “A dead man turned up on a quiet street in London. There was no identification, and we were at a loss to explain how he got there, where he’d died, and most urgent of all, who he was. But he was carrying a rather unusual timepiece. Somehow, whoever emptied his pockets missed it. Or for all we know, left it there on purpose. We investigated the watch, and it turned out the owner was one Lewis French. We thought we had identified our man. He was not French, as it happened. Still, we needed to know how he’d come by French’s watch. But we haven’t been able to find Mr. French. Or the motorcar in which he left his house over a fortnight ago.”

  “Dear God.” As the whole of what he’d been told sank in, Williams shook his head.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you. But have you spoken to Miss Townsend? Could she tell you where French had gone? Surely he wouldn’t hare off on a whim without saying something to her. It’s my understanding that he had planned to be here at least a week. That was the impression he gave when he came to services that first Sunday morning after he arrived from London. He told me there was a problem at one of the farms on the estate. Worm, he thought, and he was to speak to a man in Dedham about replacing the infected wood.”

  “And did he, do you know?”

  “I expect he must have done, as later in the week I saw the carpenter’s dray turning into the farm lane as I was coming back from visiting one of our parishioners.”

  That was the thing—in a village as small as St. Hilary, there were eyes everywhere. But if he was returning to London, French would have gone in the opposite direction, through Dedham.

  “The assumption is that he stopped off to visit a friend on the way to London, and since he wasn’t expected to return to French, French and Traynor straightaway, he didn’t think to tell anyone his plans. But that seems odd to me. Gooding, the senior clerk in London, hasn’t heard from him, and French had had a telephone put in at the house here expressly to allow him to stay in touch with his clerk whenever he was in Essex.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this. Not at all.”

  “Precisely why the Yard has sent me here. Until now I’ve been very careful not to raise any alarms. But it’s important to start a search now. He could have been set on and robbed. He could be injured or unable to report what happened.”

  “Have you spoken to our constable here in St. Hilary?”

  “I stopped at the station yesterday. He wasn’t in.”

  “I don’t know that he’ll be much help,” Williams said skeptically. “He knows his patch, and if anything had happened to French near St. Hilary, he’d have heard something by now. He keeps his ear to the ground. But he hasn’t said anything, has he?”

  “He would have no reason to be looking for French. I have to begin where he was last seen.” He let the silence between them lengthen. He didn’t think the curate had ever encountered murder, for he still appeared to be taking it all in. Then he asked, “Was French’s father—or grandfather for that matter—ever involved with other women?”

  “Involved with—not to my knowledge. And I’ve heard no gossip in that direction. How does this fit into murder?”

  “Sometimes people left out of a will are vindictive. I understand that that watch has some significance in the family. Perhaps it has more value in that direction than if it were sold. If a thief tried to sell it, many jewelers would be suspicious.”

  “I see where you’re going here. Still, why had your London victim been stripped of his identity?”

  “There’s the possibility that someone else hired him to steal the watch. And when it came to turning it over, the thief got suddenly greedy.”

  Or whoever killed him had decided that he knew too much?

  “Then why did the thief’s killer leave it?”

  “Because it was now tainted. Most especially if anything had happened to the owner, Lewis French.”

  “Oh dear. I quite see now why you’ve been reluctant to raise the alarm until now. And I also understand what took Agnes French all the way to London. If her brother wasn’t here, he had to be in London. I’ll be happy to help in any way I can. But I must ask to see your identification. You will understand why.”

  Rutledge pulled to the verge. They were nearly into Dedham, and this was the widest place in the road. He took out his identification and passed it to Williams. The curate examined it with care, then handed it back to Rutledge.

  “Thank you. I don’t believe I’ve ever encountered anyone from Scotland Yard before this.”

  Rutledge could see that Williams wasn’t certain whether to consider this an honor or a curse.

  After a moment the curate added, “To be honest with you, I can’t think of anything I might know that would be helpful to you. None of my parishioners has any deep dark secret that might lead to murder.”

  Rutledge found himself thinking that if there were secrets, no one would consider confiding them to Williams. He was rather naïve for a man who had fought in the war and then turned to the church for his livelihood.

  “There must be someone else who knows the family well.” Rutledge reached for the brake and let in the clutch, moving out in the sporadic traffic on its way into Dedham.

  “I never knew Michael, of course. But his tutor is still alive, and he lives in a small house here. He was also Lewis’s tutor, I believe. And there’s Miss French’s governess, but her mind isn’t what it once was. Sad, really, but she’s up in years. Michael French went to call on the tutor whenever he was on leave, or so Miss French told me. But Lewis finds him too dull to visit, I’m afraid. Sorry.”

  “Still, I’ll keep the tutor in mind, if this inquiry isn’t closed one way or another soon.”

  “With French dead? God save us, I hope not.”

  It wasn’t until Rutledge was waiting for the curate to remove his bicycle from the boot that Williams said, “There is someone. I should have thought—she was engaged to Michael, and then to Lewis. Only she broke off the engagement quite suddenly. She’s known the family for years. She might be able to help you.”

  Chapter Seven

  The name Williams gave him
was Valerie Whitman. She lived in the village of St. Hilary, and according to the curate her house was easy to find, just across from the church.

  Agnes French had mentioned another woman when first Rutledge had called at the house, telling him that if something had happened to her brother in St. Hilary, she would look first at his jilted fiancée. At that point, Rutledge had still believed French was dead in a London hospital.

  Now Williams was telling him that Miss Whitman herself, not French, had ended the engagement abruptly.

  He was more inclined to believe the curate than Agnes French, whose view of the broken engagement would have been colored by her brother’s feelings. Still, jealousy had been the motive for murder in more than one instance. And who had or hadn’t ended the engagement didn’t matter. What had come after that did.

  Rutledge was fairly certain he’d noticed the Whitman house earlier, a pretty cottage with roses clambering up the sunny wall and overhanging the porch. Nothing to compare with the Townsend house in Dedham, but large and comfortable enough to indicate that Miss Whitman was Lewis’s equal. And he found it easily.

  But the quandary was, while he had been able to approach Miss Townsend and Miss French’s maid, even the curate, using the excuse that he was trying to find French, Rutledge could hardly ask Miss Whitman if she knew where he’d got to. The general assumption would be that they had had no contact since the broken engagement. And he had no idea on what terms they had parted or how she felt about French now.

  If he believed Agnes French, her feelings had been murderous.

  He wasn’t happy with the plan of knocking at the door in official inquiry until he knew a little more.

  And so he left the motorcar by the empty Rectory and walked in the St. Hilary churchyard while keeping an eye on the Whitman house.

  His vigilance was rewarded. A young woman came out the door with cut flowers in her hand and walked down the path to the garden gate.

  There was no certainty that this was Valerie Whitman. He had neglected to ask Williams if there were sisters. But it was a place to begin.

  She continued down the road to a cottage near where the High Street made a slight turn to accommodate the Common and went up to knock at the door. He moved to the far side of the churchyard so that he could keep watch. She was admitted, and she stayed the proper fifteen minutes, returning without the flowers.