Proof of Guilt iir-15

by Charles Todd

  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

  Tired 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.”

  Rutledge’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?”

  The hooded eyes considered him. “We have handled no such case for the French family.”

  Again that twist of words that solicitors could offer so easily in place of whatever truth they possessed.

  Perhaps there was no love child.

>   But then again, Hayes could be right. Howard French’s father had dealt with the matter on his own, and quite successfully, leaving no records for the future to find. Was that how French himself had learned to deal equally successfully with Afonso Diaz?

  “I’ve a dead man and the motorcar that ran him down. But he isn’t French. Who is he? I wish I knew. When I do, I’ll know whether Gooding and his granddaughter or Afonso Diaz is responsible for his death. It would save time—and a great deal of misery for everyone—if you would deal honestly with me,” Rutledge said. He rose and walked to the door.

  Hayes made no move to stop him.

  Rutledge left his motorcar and walked through the City, aimlessly for the most part.

  He had stepped out of bounds, speaking to Belford. And he had more or less coerced Hayes into finding out what he wanted to know. But he’d meant what he said to the solicitor. That going through channels would take six months. He didn’t have six months. Hayes could find the answer in a matter of days. He’d dealt with the solicitor in Funchal before, and while a request to know the contents of the elder Diaz’s Will would appear to be rather odd, Rutledge was sure that Hayes could couch it in terms that seemed reasonable.

  And if Rutledge found that Diaz could pay, that murder for hire was possible, then how he had obtained the information was less important than its impact.

  Turning, he retraced his steps to the motorcar, the sun warm on his back, his mind clearer. Except for Hamish, whose Covenanter soul was never comfortable with supping with the devil.

  Chapter Sixteen

  His forty-eight hours at an end, Rutledge presented himself at the door of Markham’s office and, after the briefest hesitation, resolutely knocked.

  “Come,” the Acting Chief Superintendent said, his tone of voice indicating that he was busy.

  Rutledge stepped inside the door. “Inspector Rutledge reporting, sir,” he said when Markham didn’t immediately look up.

  When he did, he pushed back his chair and gestured to the one opposite. “That business in Staffordshire? The police there found the murderer this morning, just before dawn. He was asleep, mind you. Soundly asleep after what he’d done. I can’t fathom it, can you?”