Proof of Guilt iir-15

by Charles Todd

  He rather thought that her kindness was self-serving, but the boy Luke appeared to be happy enough, and certainly if he was well fed and cared for, he would regain his health here more quickly than in a crowded tenement.

  “Where do you find your staff?” he asked again.

  “We contact various institutions, asking if they have inmates who would benefit from a second chance. Luke Simmons suffers from tuberculosis, he grew up in the worst slums in Manchester, and what he needed was country air, which we have in great plenty. We have a man from a mental institution—Afonso Diaz—who as you know is our gardener, with the help of Bob Rawlings, who is also interested in growing things. Sam Henry drives the motorcar for me—as you can see, I’m crippled. Harry Bray is a wonder in the kitchen. He and Davy Evans 252 keep us fed. Evans had been in prison so long he forgot how to live a normal life without bars and locks and warders. He wandered the grounds for days, simply looking at freedom. It was very touching. He was the two hundred and fifty-second prisoner by the name of Evans in the Welsh jail, and he likes his number used even in conversation.”

  “Do your staff keep in touch with the world they lived in before they were—er—incarcerated?”

  “Most of them have no one other than us. That’s why they’re here. Bob sometimes writes to his brother, but I gather they have little in common. Bob told me once that they had different fathers.” She smoothed her skirts with her fingertips. “Can you tell me why you are curious about our little family?”

  “Has anyone on your staff left the house recently? For an extended period of time?”

  “Harry does our marketing, of course, since I can’t. Sam takes the motorcar for petrol. I don’t see that that’s a problem. They are never away for more than half an hour.”

  “And Afonso Diaz?”

  “I don’t believe he’s set foot outside the gates since he arrived. There’s a language barrier, you know.” She smiled. “The flowers and vegetables don’t seem to care.”

  But just how strong a barrier was it?

  “I’d like to speak to him, if that’s possible.”

  She turned to one of the men beneath the tree. “Would you fetch Afonso, please? Mr. Rutledge would like to speak to him.”

  “I’d prefer it if Luke took me to find him,” Rutledge interjected.

  “Yes, of course. It will save Afonso walking back to us. How kind of you.”

  Rutledge went to the front of the house and gave Luke the message regarding Diaz.

  The boy set off at a trot, and Rutledge followed. They walked away from the house and toward a shrubbery that he could see in the distance. Beyond was an orchard that was heavy with fruit. So heavy, he discovered when he’d gone through the gate, that several branches had been broken by a storm, their leaves already drying.

  A man stood on the ground shading his eyes, looking up at a younger man, who was doing the pruning. The saw bit through the limb, and it came crashing down.

  The younger man said, “A pity. They’re nearly ripe, those apples. I’ll have one when I’m off this ladder—” He broke off as he saw Luke coming down the break between lines of trees, leading Rutledge toward them. “Who the hell’s that?” he demanded, starting down the ladder.

  The other man turned to see and said something under his breath.

  Rutledge reached them, nodded to the younger man, then said to the elder, “Mr. Diaz?”

  There was a pause, then the man said, “I am,” in a deep voice that was heavily accented. But Rutledge had a feeling his English was better than he was willing to admit. He’d had twenty years to learn in an environment where Portuguese was never spoken, and at times he’d communicated with his doctor. What’s more, he’d been to university; he wasn’t an untaught farmer’s son who could hardly read or write in any language.

  “Will you walk with me a little way? I’d like to speak to you privately.”

  “Does Mrs. Bennett know you’re here?” his companion demanded, his eyes narrowed. “She doesn’t care for strangers coming into her property.”

  Luke said helpfully, “That’s Bob.”

  “It was Mrs. Bennett who asked Luke to take me to you.” He considered Bob, a short man with strong, broad shoulders and the belligerent nature of an undersize bulldog. “How long have you been working for her?”

  “Four years, if it’s any of your business.”

  “Actually, it is my business.” Reaching into his pocket, Rutledge took out his identification, holding it so that both men could see it clearly.

  Luke whistled. “Cor! Scotland Yard.”

  “I think Mrs. Bennett is expecting you,” Rutledge said to the boy. “The photographer? I’ll have no trouble finding my way back to the house.”

  “Oh. Yes.” Luke, obviously torn between duty and curiosity, hesitated for a few seconds, then turned away. He walked slowly, scuffing in the thick grass under the trees.

  Rutledge waited until he was out of earshot, then repeated, “Mr. Diaz? If you will walk with me?”

  Diaz glanced at Rawlings, then without a word followed Rutledge back toward the gate.

  Diaz was not what Rutledge had expected. The image he’d had of a man bursting into the French house, threatening the French family with a knife, and then being wrestled to the ground and disarmed was far from the reality.

  A small, wiry man with a naturally dark complexion and nearly white hair, he had deep-set, black-lashed, dark eyes that struck Rutledge as still young in spite of the hands and elbows knotted with rheumatism. His back was straight, and his clothes smelled of applewood smoke.

  When they reached the gate, he regarded Rutledge, then said with resignation, “Am I being returned to the clinic?”

  “Mrs. Bennett appears to be very happy with your work. I’ve come to ask you how you feel today about the firm of French, French and Traynor.”

  “That was long ago. Today I am old, tired. They will not let me return to Madeira to die. I would like that very much. It is all that matters to me now.”

  Hamish said, “But he didna’ live there verra’ long.”

  It was a good point. The boy Afonso had gone to the Portuguese mainland to school, had got himself into trouble there and served out his prison sentence there.

  And for a man who purportedly knew very little English, he had circumvented Rutledge’s question very neatly.

  There was, Rutledge thought, more to Afonso Diaz than met the eye.

  But suspicion was not proof of any wrongdoing. The question remained—had his years in an asylum changed him for the better? Or the worse? He had not been mad, not in the accepted sense. But he had been shut up with the mad.

  “Have you had any contact—directly or indirectly—with the French family since your release?”

  “I don’t understand ‘directly or indirectly.’ ”

  Rutledge waited for a beat before rephrasing the question. He would have wagered that Diaz knew perfectly well what the words meant. “Have you written, spoken to—even on the telephone—or seen a male member of the French family since your release?”

  “I can think of no reason to do this.”

  “Have you asked anyone else to write, speak to, or call on any member of the family for you?”

  “I know no one in England, except for the Senhora and the people at the asylum. Who would I ask to do such things?”

  Rutledge changed tactics. “Do you hold Lewis French to blame for his grandfather’s decision to purchase your father’s land?”

  “I do not know this Lewis French.”

  Which was true, in the literal sense. Diaz had never seen the French children when he came uninvited to the house. But he could have made it his business, since his release, to find out what had become of the senior members of the family. The Bennetts must read the London papers. And at some point, French’s name would have been mentioned in connection with a charity event or business meetings on exports and imports, or even a social gathering.

  “If it could be arranged for you to
return to Madeira, would you be willing to leave England straightaway?”

  Something stirred in the back of the man’s eyes. Rutledge could have sworn it was a smile.

  “Yes.”

  Because his work was done? French was dead?

  There had been a Portuguese contingent in the last two years of the war, but Rutledge had had no personal contact with them. He had been told that they were good men but that their music had been dark and fatalistic.

  It offered him no key to this man standing patiently waiting for his next question.

  Diaz had come to England alone, knowing very little of the language, and yet he’d found his way to Dedham to demand what he believed was his right.

  “When your father died, did he leave you any of the money he’d been given for the farm in Madeira?”

  “When I went to prison, he told me he owed me nothing.”

  Now that, Rutledge thought, was interesting. If Diaz had lost his inheritance because of his fall from grace, it was well before the family vineyards had been sold to the English firm. It was possible that he had come to England for a very different reason from the one everyone had believed. Of course there was the language barrier at that time, but Rutledge was fairly sure the French family must speak Portuguese fluently in order to do business in Madeira and on the mainland. Whatever the doctor and the police were told, Howard and Laurence French would have understood what was driving this man. The land had been taken away before he’d had a chance to redeem himself in his father’s eyes. And his father, after the sale, had remained adamant about an inheritance.

  Why hadn’t Howard French or his son told the authorities the whole truth?

  Attempted murder—attempted revenge—would have brought Diaz into the courtroom to face trial. But they had chosen to send him to the asylum.

  Rutledge realized that they must have been very afraid of him—and afraid to trust the courts to keep him away from them. The only safety lay in putting him somewhere they could rely on his being locked up for good.

  And as far as Rutledge was concerned, studying the closed face in front of him, this man had a better motive for killing Lewis French than anyone he’d interviewed in St. Hilary.

  The problem was going to be proving it.

  How had Diaz managed to leave this estate without his absence being noted and reported to the clinic by the Bennetts?

  Or would they have done so? Their experiment was succeeding against the odds. If one of their staff was involved in any crime, it would mean the end of their comfort.

  Diaz was still waiting for the next question, clearly in no haste to end their conversation.

  Rutledge nodded. “Thank you. I’ll come back if there are any more questions.”

  “I have nothing to hide,” Diaz said, then as an afterthought, he added “Sir.”

  The game was over when Rutledge reached the lawn again. Mrs. Bennett was closeted with the photographer and was not to be disturbed.

  Rutledge turned to Luke. “Do the members of the staff leave the estate for any reason?”

  “No, sir. Even the doctor comes here when he’s needed.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Dr. Burgess.”

  “Do any of the inmates send or receive letters?”

  “Most of us have no one to write to,” the boy said. “Much less anyone who cares enough to write to us. Mrs. Bennett always tells us that we are her family now. We don’t need anyone else.”

  “That’s very kind.”

  “I think,” the boy said, practical as well as honest, “it’s not kindness so much as knowing we don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Rutledge had said nothing to Mrs. Bennett about calling on Dr. Burgess. And so he had not asked her where the doctor’s surgery could be found, assuming it must be in the nearest village.

  To his surprise when he pulled up in front of the first surgery he came to, the name on the board was not Burgess. He went inside anyway and asked the woman behind the desk if she could direct him to the right place.

  She frowned as if displeased by his question, saying only, “He lives on Blackwell Street, just off the High, next to the shoemaker’s shop.”

  Rutledge thanked her and went to find Blackwell. It was more a lane than a proper street, narrow and running off at an angle several streets past the square. He found the shoemaker easily enough but was surprised to see that Burgess lived in a modest house with no surgery attached.

  He knocked at the door, and after a time it was opened by a slender, once-handsome man whose bloodshot blue eyes and overlong, graying hair told their own tale. But his voice was not slurred as he said, “What is it you want?”

  “I’m looking for Dr. Burgess,” he said.

  “And I am he. I no longer practice medicine in this community. If you need care, see Dr. Preston. He’s on the High, you can’t miss his surgery.”

  “Are you still able to practice medicine?”

  “That, sir, is my business and not yours. I bid you good day.”

  But Rutledge had his boot in the door and said, “I was just at Mrs. Bennett’s house.”

  Burgess paused. “We had an agreement, she and I. I would treat her staff, as Dr. Preston would not, but no one else. Neither friend—nor foe.”

  “Why did Dr. Preston refuse to serve her staff?”

  “If you’ve been there, I don’t have to tell you that the good doctor suggested to her that convicted felons and madmen caused his other patients some disquiet. Poppycock. He’s afraid of them himself.”

  “I’ve come to your door because I need to talk to you about one of her staff.”

  Burgess made to close the door again. “I cannot discuss my patients.”

  “You can discuss your personal relationships with them. My name is Rutledge, and I’m from Scotland Yard.”

  Burgess stared at him. “Are you, indeed. Well, come in, then. We’ll see whether you’re right or I am.”

  Rutledge followed him into a comfortable sitting room. It was clearly kept tidy for visitors, but in the passage leading to it, there was the lingering odor of stale whisky. Hamish said, “It’s no’ good whisky. He canna’ afford the best.”

  Taking the chair that Burgess casually pointed out, Rutledge said, “I’m not particularly interested in the health and well-being of your patients. What I should like to ask is whether without Mrs. Bennett’s knowledge you have carried messages or made telephone calls for any one of them.”

  “For one thing, I’m not on the telephone. And for another, I am not employed to deliver the post. I deal with the physical needs of my patients. Their connections with anyone outside the walls of the Bennett house are not my concern.”

  “But they are mine,” Rutledge told him flatly. “Afonso Diaz had an altercation with two male members of a prominent family. He was carrying a knife at the time, and used it on one of the men in the room before he was disarmed. The son of that man has disappeared—since Mr. Diaz was released from the clinic and given employment with Mrs. Bennett. Mr. Diaz has the best motive to harm the son—now an adult—and it’s my duty to find out if he is indeed responsible. Mrs. Bennett tells me that Mr. Diaz has not left the premises. Still, I’m of the opinion that he could very well have engaged someone else to carry out his revenge for him.”

  “Diaz, is it? Odd little man.” Burgess frowned thoughtfully. “I can’t tell you whether he’s responsible or not. I most certainly haven’t been a go-between for him and anyone else. I’ve carried no messages, made no contacts.”

  “Then who in that household could have done so?”

  “Ah. It’s Mrs. Bennett’s belief that there is ultimate good in all of us. And that given a chance, a man will choose the right path as opposed to the wrong. It’s an admirable belief. I don’t subscribe to it myself. I’ve seen the best and the worst of human nature during my years as a doctor. I’ve seen depravity and despair and outright cruelty. I served in the trenches as a regular soldier un
til His Majesty’s Government in its greater wisdom decided that medical men might be more useful in caring for the wounded. And I came home with nothing to help me forget but a bottle of spirits. Followed by a second and a third until I have lost count. There are one or two of Mrs. Bennett’s staff who could probably cut her throat without hesitation. And Diaz—when he chooses to speak English—is so devious he exhausts me when we talk. I strive to keep them healthy enough to do the tasks assigned to them. Beyond that, I am neither a father confessor nor a policeman, and most certainly not a nanny.”

  “Mrs. Bennett told me that this arrangement of hers was the solution to the problem of finding suitable servants. Is that true?”

  “As far as I know, it is. She’s an invalid herself, as you may have noticed, and requires assistance.”

  “I didn’t meet Mr. Bennett. What can you tell me about him?”

  “There’s little to tell. He apparently adores his wife, for he does whatever she feels is right, and he’s probably writing a treatise on the entire enterprise.”

  “She was expecting a photographer when I called.”

  “Good lord. The woman’s run mad. It’s one thing to convince herself that this foolish premise of hers works, but quite another to broadcast it to the world.”

  “Perhaps she still needs to convince herself.”

  Burgess considered that. “God help us,” he said and rose to indicate that the interview was finished. “But I am not her keeper. I bid you good day, Mr. Rutledge.”

  Outside in the motorcar once more, Hamish said, “He’s no’ the first doctor to seek solace in whisky.”

  It was true enough. But what concerned Rutledge more than the doctor’s mental collapse was his rather cavalier attitude toward Mrs. Bennett and his patients. He treated them as needed, but washed his hands of any responsibility. He knew that some of the men could be dangerous, and he ignored that.

  But on the whole, Rutledge thought the doctor hadn’t been involved in carrying messages between Diaz and someone else. He would make a point not to involve himself, not because of any moral scruples but because his own pain demanded all the energy and resources he had.