by Charles Todd
“Did Miss Whitman try to usurp Agnes French’s place, do you think?”
“Never deliberately so. She was just a child, father absent, lonely and looking for an ordinary family life.”
“Absent?”
“Yes, her father was Royal Navy. Her mother died in childbirth, and she was left with her nurse when he went back to sea. He could hardly take her with him. And to tell truth, I think Valerie was happy enough as it was, running in and out of the house, playing with the French children. She never seemed to notice that she lacked a mother, or that her father was generally away. Everyone made a pet of her, and her sunny disposition, her sweet nature, endeared her to the staff as well.”
Rutledge took out the miniature now, and showed it to MacFarland. But while the tutor admired it, he said, “I don’t know who the sitter is. Sadly. A lovely child.”
Rutledge was on the point of thanking him and leaving when MacFarland said, “You know, I had nearly forgot. Something happened years ago. I expect the children never knew about it because they were upstairs in the Nursery asleep. I was talking to Mr. Laurence French. I’d come to be interviewed for the position of tutor, you see, and after dinner, we left Mr. Howard French in the drawing room and withdrew to the study to finish our conversation about my experience and references. Suddenly a man came bursting into the house. He shoved aside the maid who’d answered the door, and he ran up and down the passage, flinging open inner doors, shouting for Mr. French. Mr. Laurence and I hurried out into the passage to find this strange man with his hands around Mr. Howard’s throat, on the point of throttling him. Mr. Howard backed up, forcing us into the study again, and I entered the fray, trying to pull the man off him. I’d just succeeded, with Mr. Laurence’s help, when the man broke away from us and pulled out a knife. He lunged at Mr. Howard, but Mr. Laurence threw himself in the way and was stabbed in the chest. Mr. Howard cried out in fury, and between the two of us we were able to disarm the man without anyone else getting hurt. I can tell you I was in a state of shock, I’d never dealt with anything like that. Anyone could have been downstairs—Mrs. French—the children—guests, if there had been any—right in the midst of the brawl. Someone would have got badly hurt.”
“What happened next?”
“I sent the housemaid who had opened the door for the footman and the coachman while Mr. French attended his son. Thank God the wound scored his ribs but did no greater damage. All this while, the intruder was babbling in a language I didn’t know, but Mr. French said it was Portuguese and he began questioning him. It was quite dramatic, couldn’t have lasted more than five minutes from start to finish. But I felt I had battled with that man for hours.”
“Did anyone summon the police?”
“Just the doctor. Mr. Howard French had a cut over one eye, the intruder had a split lip, and Mr. Laurence French was bleeding from that chest wound. I was luckier: only my hands were badly bruised.”
“Was this Dr. Townsend?”
“His predecessor. And he gave the man something that made him more manageable. I was asked to stay the night, and in the morning the man was gone. I don’t know what became of him. When I asked, I was told the incident had been handled by the police. But no one ever questioned me.”
“Did French tell you why this man was so angry?”
“Apparently his father—Howard French—had decided to grow his own grapes in Madeira and bought a large farm for the purpose. The previous owner had lost his wife to cholera and he didn’t have the heart to go on. He sold the land to Mr. French for what was then considered to be a fair sum. But the owner’s son, who was in prison in Portugal, felt that he had been cheated. When he was released, he came to Madeira, nearly killed his father, and threatened Howard French. He was tried and convicted but escaped when he was on his way to a Portuguese prison. Somehow he traced the family to England, and he came to Essex demanding justice. He must be dead by now. He was about forty years old when he came to Dedham.”
“Still, he could have passed his feeling that he was cheated on to another member of the family. Do you know, was the vineyard where the farm had been more valuable?”
“I have no idea. I shouldn’t be surprised. It was probably what the man wanted, to be paid the difference. If he’d been intent on killing French, he could have done it more efficiently with a knife or a pistol. Instead he went for his throat.”
“Do you remember if you ever heard the intruder’s name?”
“I could have done and never realized it. I don’t believe he spoke any English. Or if he did, I never heard him. At any rate, I was hired on the spot, for what I’d done to try to help Mr. French fight him off. Something good came of a rather nasty shock.”
“And Mrs. French—was she aware of what had happened?”
“She was upstairs resting. She hadn’t come down to dinner, in fact. But she must have heard the uproar, because the housekeeper later told me she was convinced an irate husband had come to the house. At any rate, she went to bed for a week, refusing to see anyone, even the children. It was given out that she was suffering from a migraine. Naturally I kept my mouth shut. It was a good position, one I was happy to have.” MacFarland shook his head. “I’m sure this has nothing to do with present problems. Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it to you. But it came rushing back, the way memories sometimes do.”
“And you’re quite sure the children were unaware of the intruder?”
“Absolutely. Michael never spoke of it. Lewis heard something, most likely the carriage being brought around, but had no idea what it was all about. If the man had appeared an hour earlier, he would have found the children downstairs saying good night to their father. I shudder to think about that.”
“Did you wonder what had become of the man?”
“Yes, I’m as curious as the next person. But there was my position, you see. I couldn’t ask. Since nothing more was said, I assumed he was taken to London and dealt with there. It would have been the best way to avoid gossip. Besides, the man was as mad as a hatter.”
Rutledge wondered if that was why MacFarland had been hired on the spot, rather than for his resourcefulness in coming to French’s aid—to prevent him from gossiping.
He thanked the tutor and took his leave. Hamish was saying in the back of his mind, “The person to ask is yon clerk. Gooding.”
It was a very good idea.
Rutledge was walking back to fetch his motorcar when the local constable came peddling toward him.
“There you are, sir!” he called out with evident relief. “There’s been a summons from London.” As Rutledge turned to wait for him, Constable Brooks added, “A Sergeant Gibson, sir.”
The constable slowed, got off his bicycle, and fell in step with Rutledge. “The Yard telephoned the inn. They were fairly certain you were out, but the sergeant was insistent. The inn sent for the police, and when Dedham didn’t have any luck finding you, Sergeant Gibson told the constable to look in St. Hilary. He came to me, and we went off in different directions, looking for you. I saw your motorcar in the Rectory yard, but I didn’t know which way you’d gone from there.”
“I’m to call the sergeant? Or return directly to London?” Rutledge couldn’t believe that Chief Superintendent Markham had grown that impatient. But it was the only reason he could think of that Gibson hadn’t left any message.
There was nothing for it but to go back to Dedham and put in a call to London. The two men walked toward the church together, Brooks leading his bicycle. As he was passing the Whitman cottage, Rutledge glanced that way. He could have sworn that he saw a curtain twitch in one of the front windows.
Had Miss Whitman also seen the motorcar on Church Lane and kept an eye out for him, to be forewarned if he came knocking at her door again? He’d waited for her in the churchyard the last time.
Rutledge encountered the constable from Dedham near the gates to the French estate and offered him a lift back to Dedham.
But the man couldn’t tell him any
more than Brooks had.
They reached the inn, and Rutledge went directly to the telephone closet. When the call was put through to London, Sergeant Gibson answered almost at once.
“Rutledge here.”
“Sir, there’s been a development. The Chief Superintendent wants you back here to have a look.”
“You can’t give me more information?”
“Sir, I was told not to. Ears.”
The telephone exchange. Then it had something to do with St. Hilary.
“I’ll leave at once.”
“Thank you, sir, and I’ll tell the Acting Chief Superintendent that.”
Rutledge fetched his valise from his room, settled his account, and went on his way.
It was late when he reached the Yard, but the sergeant was waiting for him.
Without a word, Gibson handed him a folder.
Rutledge read it through, then looked up. “When was it found? Lewis French’s motorcar? Are you sure it’s his?”
“We were told not to take any steps until you were back in London. The Surrey police found it in a chalk quarry yesterday morning around dawn. Light reflected from the bonnet, and the constable went to investigate. Lads sometimes go to that quarry to drink, and there had been a fight or two recently. He found the motorcar instead.”
“Had it been tampered with?”
“Not as far as he could tell. But he thought it had been there for some time. He checks the quarry most days, but doesn’t go deep inside unless he sees signs that someone has been prowling about again.”
“How did he identify it?”
“He didn’t. His first thought was that the owner had come there to take his own life. It had happened once before. And so he searched a bit. Finally he went to find a telephone and put in a call to the Yard.”
“Did he, by God! Good man.”
“The Acting Chief Superintendent sent me along to have a look. It fit the description we had of Mr. French’s motorcar. Chassis number, and so on. And there was a dent in the near-side wing. After I’d had a look at the vehicle, we searched the quarry more thoroughly, but there was no sign of a body. To tell the truth, I’d expected to find one. It seemed to me that whoever put the vehicle there hoped the Yard would still be looking in London for the motorcar until the corpse had decomposed. Once I was satisfied, the local man put a constable on to watch the site, and I came back to London to tell you what had been discovered.” Gibson hesitated. “Only, when I tried to reach you last evening at the inn, they told me you weren’t a guest there. Sir.”
“I’d gone first to Norfolk. No answers there. Standish hasn’t come back and there’s been no word from him.”
“I don’t think the Acting Chief Superintendent will be best pleased. He seems to have his heart set on finding French somewhere in Stratford St. Hilary.”
It was a warning.
“Yes, I know. He was certain the motorcar was there as well. Most particularly, he’s pointing toward one of the women. In my view, Agnes French could hardly disappear from her home long enough to dispose of her brother, take a dead man to Chelsea, and then leave the motorcar in Surrey. What’s more, she’d have to find her way from Surrey back to Essex. Her household would know if she had gone away without warning.”
Hamish said, “It wasna’ the sister yon Acting Chief Superintendent believes is guilty.”
Rutledge nearly answered him aloud, biting off the retort at the last second and covering it with a cough.
Gibson made no comment. Norfolk had seemed a reasonable line of inquiry to him as well. Now he was having second thoughts.
On the other hand, the Acting Chief Superintendent was new and an unknown quantity, and Gibson’s first loyalty was to himself. He and Rutledge had always had an uneasy truce, both men doing the best they could under the capricious Bowles, both of them well aware that they couldn’t afford friendship. Bowles would have seen that as collusion, and it would have cost both men dearly.
With only a few hours’ sleep, Rutledge was back at the Yard before eight the next morning, to find Gibson waiting for him on the street, as arranged. The sergeant had very little to say, getting into Rutledge’s motorcar with a grunt and settling down for the drive.
The silence lengthened, lasting until they reached the Surrey chalk quarry. It was well off the main road, down a muddy lane that was overgrown. At the end of it, the great white face loomed above a bed of rubble. It appeared to have been a hill once, before this side had gradually been cut away.
“According to the local man, the quarry was abandoned because it was increasingly unstable. A workman was killed scaling the face.”
The constable guarding the site recognized Gibson and let them through. And the motorcar bounced and jolted over the rubble to where the other vehicle stood.
It was covered with a light dusting of chalk, like summer snow. Rutledge realized that the intent of whoever had brought the motorcar here was to drive it as close as possible to the high face, so that the next major collapse would cover the vehicle. But there must have been a minor fall as the driver was maneuvering the motorcar into position, for the idea had hastily been abandoned. On the whole, Rutledge couldn’t judge just how long the motorcar had been there. From the start? Only a few days?
They got out and clambered over the hummocky chalk. Much of it was darker, more the color of dingy cream, but there were newer, whiter bits as well. As they got closer, their shoes collected the white dust, and Rutledge noted ruefully that his trouser legs were not far behind.
He could see the long dent in the wing well before he reached it.
Rutledge carefully examined it, but the sergeant had been right, there was nothing linking the motorcar to the victim except for that dent.
He got down on one knee, looking up at the undercarriage, scanning the linkages.“Sergeant, my torch from the motorcar, please.”
Gibson went to fetch it and brought it to him as Rutledge, ignoring the damage to his clothing, was inching his way under the chassis. He went over every projection and rough edge he could see, touching each one with his gloved fingers. Nothing hooked or caught, nothing jammed. Just black metal.
He was about to push himself out again when he spotted it, where the housing of the motor was bolted to the frame. It was on the far side from where he’d been lying, almost invisible. But his torch beam had cast a shadow, just an outline that seemed irregular. He edged in that direction, swearing at the uneven chalk bed beneath his shoulders, and saw that a tiny square of cloth had been caught by and then wedged against the bolt.
Unless the motorcar had been put on an overhead rack, it would have been missed, and even then, dark as the cloth was, dark as the paint was just there, it would have been difficult to pick out.
It didn’t want to give up its hold on the bolt. Almost, Rutledge thought, as if it had been glued in place. A measure of the weight pulling against it as a man was dragged, jamming it there.
He slowly worked it loose, careful not to damage it further. He swore again at a lump of chalk digging into his shoulder, a little deeper with every movement he made.
Gibson, bending over to try to see what Rutledge was doing, said, “Any luck?”
Without warning, the tiny fragment of cloth fell, fluttering across his face. Rutledge almost lost it, barking his wrist against the undercarriage as he reached for it before it could drift into the uneven bed of chalk by his head.
Securing his find, he began to wriggle out from underneath the motorcar. It had been too claustrophobic by far, caught there between the heavy vehicle and the chalk, and he could feel his heart pounding now as he saw release coming.
By this time Gibson was on his hands and knees, his face alight with curiosity. He straightened, offered Rutledge a hand up once he was clear of the chassis, and said, “You found something then.”
Rutledge pulled off his driving glove, and there was the small dark square, the weave stretched and twisted from the stress put on it as it snagged.
Gibson said, “Ah,” and poked it with a finger. “Will it match the dead man’s clothing, do you think? There were several tears, as I remember.”
Rutledge dropped the bit of cloth into his handkerchief for safekeeping, folded it, and put it carefully back into his pocket. Using his gloves to dust his coat and trousers, flecking off the worst but unable to budge most of the finer particles, he said, “Did you search the interior?”
“Cursorily, to see if we could find anything to tell us who it belonged to. I told you. The Acting Chief Superintendent ordered us to wait for you.”
Rutledge gave up, putting his gloves back on. “I’ll do that, and afterward we’ll take it to London. I want Gooding, the wine merchant’s clerk, to give us a positive identification. It might shake his complacency.”
Opening the motorcar’s door, he began to examine the interior, looking anywhere that something could have fallen and escaped the killer’s attention.
He thought at first his search was a waste of time. There were no bloodstains or scuff marks to show that a body had been transported any distance in the rear seat. But then a clever killer would have come prepared with a blanket or tarp. Still proceeding methodically from back to front, he asked Gibson look in the boot.
The sergeant had just called to say that it was empty but for the tools usually kept there when Rutledge put his hand beneath the driver’s seat. He pulled out the chamois used to keep the motorcar clean, and something else came with it.
He saw that it was a woman’s handkerchief, lace edged and embroidered with a pretty design of pansies in one corner. It was smudged, as if someone had cleaned his or her fingers on it, then shoved it under the seat out of sight while he or she drove.
He held it up for Gibson to see.
“Do you think a woman could be our killer?” the sergeant asked.
Rutledge had been thinking just that. He said, “How would she lift the dead weight of a man’s body into the motorcar?”
“She has an accomplice,” Gibson answered promptly.
Standish?
