by Charles Todd
“Scotland Yard? I can’t imagine why you should wish to speak to me.” She moved past him, opened the gate, and was walking up the path to her door before he could stop her.
“Miss Whitman?”
She turned quickly, her eyes wary. “How did you know my name?”
“I told you. I’m a policeman. It’s my business to know such things.”
“Then what is it that you want?”
“I’m trying to find Lewis French. It’s urgent that I speak to him as soon as possible. It could even be that he’s in some trouble. I might be able to help him, if he is.”
“If he’s in trouble, I’m the last person he’d turn to. I can’t think why, if you know my name, you would believe I could tell you anything. His sister lives between here and Dedham. You should speak to her.”
“She’s in London at present. I asked the curate, Mr. Williams, if there was anyone else who knew the family well. He gave me your name.”
“But he knows I’ve been—estranged from the French family.” She shook her head.
“You were close at one time. You’ve been engaged to both brothers.”
“Michael was going off to war. We’d known each other for ages, and it seemed natural to make promises. I can’t tell you now if it was love or just the need to cling to something sane in a mad world. In any event, when Michael was killed, I think Lewis proposed because he’d always wanted anything his brother had. Once he had it—in this case me—he tired of it quickly.”
“But you accepted his proposal, did you not?”
“Michael was dead, it came as a shock, and I was silly enough to think my life was over. My grandfather told me I’d be happy with Lewis, and certainly he was kind and caring and there. So many of my friends were killed. Men I’d known from childhood. Like Michael they’d marched off to war as if it were a great adventure. Then they began to fall, one by one. Mons, Ypres, the Somme, it was horrible, and no end in sight. Three of my friends were already widows—”
She broke off, staring at him. “Why am I telling you these things? They won’t help you find Lewis.”
“You said, once he had something of Michael’s, he tired of it quickly. Did that include the firm?” That could easily explain Lewis French’s disappearance.
Miss Whitman considered the question. “It was still a new toy at that time. Now? I couldn’t tell you. Ask Miss Townsend.”
“I’ve spoken to her. French appeared to be himself, the last time she saw him. Perhaps he’s tired of her as well.”
“I doubt it. She never belonged to Michael.” A smile flitted across her face, warming her eyes. “I doubt he could jilt her, anyway. You haven’t met her father.”
But he had. Another possible reason behind a sudden disappearance?
That would also mean giving up position and his wealth. It might be easier to wed Miss Townsend, relegate her to Dedham, and go on with his life in London as he pleased. Would it be as easy to relegate a wife as it was a sister? The answer to that would lie in the strength of mind of Miss Townsend. Or whether her father would be pleased to keep her close by.
Miss Whitman had turned to go inside. He wanted to keep her there talking, but his concentration had been broken by the question of the relationship between Lewis French and his fiancée.
Hamish said, “Yon dead man.”
Rutledge began, more bluntly than he’d intended, “I drove Miss French to London because we’d found a man dead on a street in Chelsea. We had every reason to believe it was French.”
Valerie Whitman turned back to face him.
“Was it Lewis?” Her expression was unreadable. Her hat shadowed her eyes now, and he couldn’t see their color, whether the green had changed to brown.
Was there a need to know—the fear of what he would answer? Or only curiosity?
“She very courageously went with me to the hospital morgue. Because you see, he had no identification, but he was carrying Lewis French’s watch in his pocket.” He took a deep breath. “It was not her brother.”
After a moment, Miss Whitman asked, “Then why was he carrying the watch? I don’t understand. Is this the trouble you think Lewis might have got himself into? Do you think he had something to do with this man’s death?”
“I don’t know. Yet. Miss French told me that her mother had always suspected her father of affairs with other women—”
“She did. I remember it,” Miss Whitman interrupted.
She stood there, the sunlight on her hair under that summer hat, her teeth catching the edge of her lower lip as she considered him.
Rutledge waited.
And then she said, “I won’t invite you in. But I will walk in the churchyard with you.”
Surprised, he opened her gate and held it for her to pass through. They crossed the road in silence and went through the gate in the wall, where trees offered a little respite from the sun.
“Let me see your identification,” she said, and he gave it to her.
Handing it back to him, she said, “I will talk to you for Agnes’s sake, but not for Lewis’s. I knew Agnes French very well once upon a time. She took care of her mother even when Mrs. French couldn’t recognize her own daughter. Strangely enough, she could always remember her sons. She was a woman of nervous disposition who gave her husband and her children a very difficult time. Mr. French was away a good deal, of course. And she imagined that he must be having an affair. In London, in Madeira, even in Lisbon, where he went sometimes on business. I never believed it could be true. Surprisingly, he was devoted to her.”
“That’s interesting in light of something I’d heard, suggesting it was her father-in-law, Howard French, who had had an affair when he was quite young. There was a child of the union, who was adopted elsewhere. Which has led me to wonder if the dead man could have been a descendant of that child. There was a slight resemblance to the portrait of Howard French that hangs in the offices of French, French and Traynor. In fact, it was that likeness coupled with a watch that does belong to French that sent us searching for him. But he’s missing. And so is his motorcar.”
“Well, of course, wherever he is, he must be driving. He hated trains. The fact that you can’t find the motorcar surely means he’s off on a personal errand of some sort.”
They had walked as far as the French mausoleum. She stood looking at it with sadness in her eyes, and he could feel her slip away from him, her mind elsewhere.
“It would be nice if things were that simple,” he said, answering her suggestion about the errand. “You mentioned a grandfather. Do you have any other family?”
“I didn’t agree to talk about myself,” she said sharply, turning toward him.
“You told me that you’d been close to Agnes French ‘once upon a time.’ What caused the breach between you?”
When she didn’t answer, he went on. “Was it the engagement to Michael—or the breaking off of your engagement to Lewis?”
Miss Whitman shook her head. “I don’t know. It was a sudden coldness. I wondered if Lewis had said something. I tried to put as good a face on it as I could, but I was jilted, you see. Yes, Lewis was a gentleman, he let me cry off. He walked into the cottage one afternoon, stood there in front of me, and said, ‘I’ve changed my mind. I don’t think we’ll suit after all. Besides, there’s someone else. I leave it to you to think of a reason why we should no longer wish to marry.’ He waited only long enough to hear me say, ‘Yes, all right, if that’s how you feel.’ He replied, ‘It is.’ I handed him his ring, he thanked me with a cool little bow, and that was that.”
Rutledge found himself thinking that Lewis French was a fool.
And he was reminded all at once of his own bitter memories. Jean had been eager to leave him. She had broken off their engagement without even telling him, although he’d known he couldn’t marry her as he’d been in the spring of 1919. And she had been in such a hurry to leave the clinic after seeing him there for the first—and only—time. It had turned out for the best,
but it had been impossible for him to accept that when, suffering from shell shock to the point that he couldn’t eat or sleep or think, he had needed an anchor, a connection to reality.
He would have given much to know whether it had only been Valerie Whitman’s pride that had been hurt. Or had the pain gone deeper? He had known that too, when Meredith Channing had traveled to Belgium to nurse the ruin of a man she believed to be her missing husband.
“A woman scorned . . .” Hamish’s voice startled him. Rutledge glanced quickly at Miss Whitman to see if she had heard it too. But she was staring up at the church tower, where a pair of rooks were circling and calling.
“There’s a pair that lives in the tower,” she said, changing the subject. Then: “I really must go.” And she turned back toward the High Street.
“I’ll walk with you as far as your gate,” he said, following her, although his motorcar was in the opposite direction. “If you think of anything that might be useful in discovering the whereabouts of Lewis French, please send word to the Sun Inn in Dedham.”
“I’m not likely to. I’ve already told you. Speak to Miss Townsend.” This time he could hear anger behind her words.
They continued in silence to her gate, which he opened for her to pass through. As he was closing it again, she said, “I’d rather not let it be known that I spoke to you. I have no right to discuss the French family with anyone.”
“There’s no need,” he said. “For anyone else to know.”
“Not even Mr. Williams,” she said, after considering the matter, her head to one side, the sun touching those honey gold lights in her hair. Rutledge wondered if she knew how she looked in the sunlight. “He sometimes forgets that a priest’s duty to his parishioners extends beyond the secrets of the confessional.”
And he had indeed forgot, Hamish reminded Rutledge. Because the man from London had been such a good listener . . .
Why had Miss Whitman told him so much? For reasons of her own?
Without another word, she was gone, walking briskly up the path and into the house. She didn’t look back.
He watched until the door closed and then stood there at the gate a moment longer.
On his way to the motorcar, he surprised himself thinking again that he wouldn’t have chosen Miss Townsend over Miss Whitman. If he had been Lewis French.
The inn in Dedham was on the telephone, and Rutledge shut himself into the tiny closet to put through a call to the Yard.
When Gibson had been found and brought to the instrument, he said to Rutledge, “You’ll be interested to hear Mr. Belford’s background.” Without waiting for a reply, he went on. “He was in the Military Foot Police. An officer.”
Which explained his easy recapitulation of the evidence surrounding the dead man. He was accustomed to setting out the facts in an orderly manner, for an inquiry.
“Anything else?”
“Not so far. His record was exemplary, according to my sources. And he doesn’t appear to have any connection with French, French and Traynor. Although he’s been to Lisbon, oddly enough. Something to do with deserters.”
That was food for thought, although Rutledge wasn’t prepared to see a connection. Yet. But if Belford was behind the death of the man on his street, it would have been to his advantage to try to lead the Yard astray.
And he hadn’t.
Unless he had lied about recognizing the body. If so, where had the dead man come by the watch?
“Has French turned up at his London house or at the wine importers?”
“We’ve asked the constables in each street to keep an eye open for him, and they report daily. No sighting so far. And the constable in the City by the wine importers sometimes stops in at the neighboring firm to see a friend there. According to this friend, the chief clerk has been trying to contact Mr. Traynor to tell him what’s happening here. And Mr. Traynor hasn’t responded. The clerk has been that upset.”
Mr. Gooding had a great deal of responsibility on his shoulders. He would prefer to have some sort of direction, but he would not have been the one to gossip. Someone in his office must be talking to the neighbor. Gooding would not be pleased. Still, it gave the constable access to information.
“Any new information for me?” Rutledge asked.
“There’s been another query from Norfolk, asking if we know anything about their man. He’s still missing. And we had a new name sent in by the police in south Devon. It doesn’t appear to be very promising.”
“Just now there’s more than enough to keep me busy here.”
He rang off, then walked out of the inn directly into the path of Miss French.
She had taken an early train, he guessed, because she was still dressed for traveling. A motorcar for hire had just deposited her in front of the inn’s door.
Looking up as Rutledge’s shadow fell across her path, she said, “Oh. It’s you.” As if she had been expecting to find someone else waiting for her. “Have you found my brother?”
“Not yet.”
A look of irritation crossed her face. “It’s so like Lewis to leave everyone waiting on his convenience. He’s probably stopped to see Henry Jessup. They were at Cambridge together, and Henry’s getting married in November. Lewis had expected Henry to ask him to stand up with him.”
“Where can I find Henry Jessup?”
She frowned. “I believe he lives near Hatfield. He’s a solicitor. Lewis told me he wasn’t a very clever one. Still, he’s joined his father in a partnership, and so it probably won’t matter whether he’s clever or not.”
“Have you met this man?”
“No, Lewis seldom brought his friends home. My parents were very ill toward the ends of their lives, and it couldn’t have been pleasant for young men looking for a country weekend to have to tiptoe about for fear of waking the invalid. And there’s no shooting here to amuse them.” She looked around. “I’ve missed my breakfast—I can’t eat anything on a train the way it bounces about. And Nan isn’t expecting me.”
With a nod she walked past him and into the inn.
It took him twenty minutes to run down the firm of Jessup and Jessup. It was indeed on the outskirts of Hatfield. A woman answered the telephone, asking his business.
Without giving his name, he asked to speak to the younger Mr. Jessup.
“He’s just come in. A moment, please.”
And then Jessup was on the line, a deep voice that sounded as if the speaker was recovering from a summer chill.
“I’m trying to locate Lewis French on an urgent matter. Is he by any chance with you?”
“Gooding? Is that you? You don’t sound like yourself,” Jessup replied.
“The name is Rutledge.”
“Ah. Well, I must tell you that French isn’t here. Nor has he been for some weeks.”
“There was a possibility that he had stopped over with a friend on his way back to London from Essex without telling either Mr. Gooding or his sister of his plans.”
“I see. Yes, that does present a problem, doesn’t it? I wish you luck. And I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”
Rutledge put up the receiver. He didn’t think Jessup was lying. So where, then, was French?
As he was leaving the telephone closet, he glimpsed Miss French in the dining room. She had called the waiter to her table and was pointing to something on her plate. He realized that she always seemed unhappy with her lot in life, and as the waiter carried away her plate, she sat there looking at her teacup with a frown, as if it too had failed to satisfy her.
He considered asking her for the names of other friends, and then she looked up and saw him through the glass doors.
She beckoned to him, and he went into the dining room to speak to her.
“Did you find Henry Jessup? Was Lewis there?”
“I located Jessup,” Rutledge answered, “but he hadn’t seen your brother in several weeks.”
“He must be lying. I can’t think why, except that Lewis was angry with me
when he left, and he has probably told Mr. Jessup not to let on that he was there.”
“I rather thought he was telling the truth.”
She sighed. “It’s so typical. He’s left me to make all the decisions about our cousin’s visit. I don’t even know when to expect him or how long he’s to stay with us. It’s really unfair.”
Just then the waiter returned with her Scotch eggs. She inspected them closely and then nodded in resignation, as if she couldn’t expect any better of the cook.
Rutledge waited until the man had left and then asked, “Is there anyone else he might have visited?”
“How can I know? I told you, I haven’t met most of his friends. Michael at least wasn’t so selfish, he’d bring friends home from Cambridge sometimes.” That brought a shadow to her eyes, and she said sharply, “My breakfast is getting cold. Please leave me alone.”
He thanked her and was turning away when she added, “It’s not a friend, is it? He— There’s a woman somewhere. He jilted Miss Whitman for Miss Townsend. Not surprising, of course. Miss Townsend is the daughter of a doctor, after all. But he can’t seem to settle.” She viciously stabbed her Scotch eggs. “There must be someone else, and he doesn’t want anyone to know!”
“What will become of you, if he marries and brings a bride home?”
Tears stood in her eyes. “He’s not that mean. I’ll have a home. He’s told me so. For as long as I live.”
Rutledge left then, walking out of the dining room, through Reception and out to the motorcar.
Telling Miss French that she would have a home as long as she lived was tantamount to telling her she would very likely spend those years as a spinster, with no hope of marriage. And who would she meet if her brother never brought home any eligible men?
The information he was gathering about Lewis French did not paint a pleasant picture.
If there was indeed a third woman involved in the man’s disappearance, it would be impossible to track her down unless she was related to one of Lewis’s friends. She couldn’t be in St. Hilary, or in Dedham, surely, where gossip would quickly have found her out by this time. Lewis French was too well known.