by Charles Todd
The question was, how would Markham view this new development?
Rutledge was to find out sooner rather than later.
Markham had left word with Sergeant Gibson to send Rutledge to his office as soon as he came in.
Rutledge made his report as objectively as he could, bringing in what he had learned about Diaz, what he’d discovered in the French motorcar, and what conclusions he’d drawn from the facts available to him.
Markham listened without interrupting, his face unreadable. When Rutledge had finished, the Acting Chief Superintendent leaned forward in his chair and said, “I told you that motorcar of yours would lead you down the primrose path. Here you’ve been haring all over England, and there’s nothing to show for it but an old man with a past. What about the woman in St. Hilary whose handkerchief you found under the seat of the motorcar? That’s a great deal more damning than this nonsense about the mental patient.”
“I can’t see how she could have killed the man we found in Chelsea, put him into Lewis French’s motorcar, driven him to London, and then left the motorcar in a quarry in Surrey before making her way back to Essex.”
“There’s an invention called the bicycle, man. She could have made her way to the nearest railway station or even into London for that matter, taken a train north, and got off a station before her own. Have you looked into that?”
Rutledge had not.
“Well, then, be about it. Put Gibson onto it or Fielding, or one of the other men at your disposal. It’s critical to learn if she was on that train or not. If she was, she’s damned.”
“I’ll see to it at once,” Rutledge told him, “but meanwhile, I’d like to check the prison records of the men who live in Mrs. Bennett’s house. Diaz couldn’t just hire a killer from a costermonger’s wares. He has to have someone who could point him in the right direction. Who knew someone who would be willing to kill.”
“Precisely why we investigate the trains first, Rutledge.” Markham lifted a file from the five or six at his elbow. “Report to me as soon as you have.”
Dismissal.
Rutledge left with a nod, walking down the passage to his own office, listening to Hamish rampant in his mind, listening to his own doubts.
Gibson was busy. Rutledge went to Fielding, a steady man with long years of experience in deploying people to search out information. For it would take a contingent to do what Markham wanted.
Fielding listened to Rutledge’s information, taking notes, rubbing the top of his bald head as if it would help him plan, then finally looked up with a nod.
“Yes. I agree that she’s not likely to take a train in Surrey, not if that’s where she left the motorcar. A small station, never very crowded? Someone is likely to remember her, especially if she’s young and pretty. London is bigger, people everywhere, the stationmasters and their minions busy. She could slip through unnoticed. And you’re right, it’s some little distance from Surrey, on a bicycle. But men who drive lorries will take pity on a damsel in distress, trying to arrive home before her mother knows she’s been out with a young lad. Or perhaps she claimed her mother was ill, and she had to go to her. Finding this lorry driver will be needle and haystack work. My suggestion is, we begin in London, and if we can spot her here, then we’ll worry about the lorry driver later. Now then, experience leads me to believe it would be helpful to know the name of the dead man. We could cast a wider net.”
“We don’t have it.”
“Is she a strong enough woman to pedal a bicycle for miles?”
“The ground is relatively flat.”
“Indeed. And what’s become of the bicycle?”
“Abandoned, at a guess. Or she may have decided to take it along. To account for it later.”
“Absolutely. Yes. And now her description, if you please.”
Rutledge gave it. Fielding raised his eyebrows. “A pretty young woman. Yes, very helpful, that. And where will you be meanwhile?”
“I’m going back to St. Hilary. There are some loose ends to clear away.” Rutledge gave Fielding the name of the inn in Dedham.
“I remember Dedham. Such a pleasant town. Hard to believe it could harbor a murderess.”
When Rutledge reached Dedham, it was very late. He had to rouse the night clerk to beg a room, and it was on an upper floor, eaves sloping down to the windows, giving it the feeling of walls closing in. He opened a window to let in the cool night air, tried to shut out Hamish from his mind, and settled himself to sleep through what little was left of the night. But the deep Scots voice, unrelenting and intolerable, kept him awake. In the end, he got up and sat in a chair by the window listening to the night sounds of the town until he fell asleep as a false dawn brought color back into the world.
There was one question that he needed to put to Miss Whitman: who else had been in her cottage the night that someone was killed with Lewis French’s motorcar?
He found her coming back from market, a basket of early apples over her arm.
She slowed as she saw him waiting in the churchyard, near the wall, where she couldn’t miss him.
“You again,” she said, her voice carrying to him where he stood.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“You’ve found Lewis, then. And he’s dead.”
“What makes you believe that?”
“It’s the only reason I can think of that would bring you back to the churchyard.”
He stepped over the wall and was walking toward her. “He’s still missing.”
Miss Whitman frowned. “That’s not like him. He’s always busy.”
“It’s possible he struck the man we found dead. And he’s afraid the police will be waiting to take him up.”
She shook her head. “That doesn’t sound like Lewis, either. If it was an accident, he’d have said so.”
“And if it wasn’t? If it was deliberate?”
“No, he has no enemies. Why should he have killed that man?”
But he did have an enemy, Hamish was pointing out. And if the man had tried to kill Lewis first, he’d have been justified in running him down.
That still didn’t explain Lewis’s disappearance.
Rutledge took a deep breath. “Do you live alone, Miss Whitman?”
“I have for some time.”
“Do you have servants?”
“A daily who comes three times a week. A woman who prepares my lunch and my dinner. I am perfectly capable of cooking my own breakfast.”
“And can they swear that you were at home the night that Lewis French went missing?”
She looked away then. “I doubt it. The women are sisters. They live here in St. Hilary. Their brother took ill in Thetford, and they asked to go to him. They were away for the weekend, and for most of the week that followed, taking turns nursing him. Very inconvenient for me, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Why should anyone think I would kill Lewis French?” She was suddenly angry. “I didn’t love him, you know. I don’t know that I loved Michael. He went to war so long ago that sometimes I have trouble remembering how I felt.”
“Then why did you agree to marry him?”
“It was expected, I think. Even the Queen was engaged to one brother and married the other.” Her voice was strained.
“Pride can be hurt as quickly as one’s heart.”
She turned back to him. “Yes. Pride.”
He probed a little deeper, aware of some undercurrent that he couldn’t quite put a finger on. She had all but grown up with the French family, and yet she lived here in this modest cottage with only a daily and a cook. She had been engaged to both brothers, which meant she had the blessing of the family. And yet a doctor’s daughter was more socially prominent.
“Are you related to the family? A cousin, perhaps?”
She smiled. “Not at all.”
Against his will, he said, “Because of the handkerchief, the Yard is nearly convinced that you are in some way responsible for Lewis Fr
ench’s disappearance and the death of a man whose body was found in Chelsea.”
Her head to one side, she studied him. “You’re a policeman. You must have dealt with the very worst sort of person. Do you really believe I’m capable of murder?”
Hamish’s voice was loud in his ears, drowning out the bells in the church tower marking the hour. “ ’Ware!”
And Rutledge heeded the warning.
“I’ve told you. There’s no mark of Cain to guide us in finding a killer.”
She turned, walking away. “Then come and take me into custody when you’re ready.”
He watched her go, and just as she reached for the latch to open her door, he asked in a quiet voice that would carry to her and not to the neighbors, “Afonso Diaz. Do you by any chance know the name?”
She had said all she intended to say to him. She shut the door firmly behind her, leaving him with no choice but to return to his motorcar and drive away.
There was another call he intended to make this morning.
Miss French was in her garden, he was told when he arrived at her house, and Nan, the maid, had answered his knock.
And he found her there, a pinafore over her dress to protect it as she worked among the roses in a garden shaped like a half-moon.
Looking up, she recognized him and said quickly, “Well? Have you found my brother?”
“Not yet. We’ve located his motorcar. It was in Surrey.”
“Surrey?” She frowned. “We don’t know anyone there.”
“As far as I can tell, it wasn’t your brother who abandoned his motorcar in a chalk quarry.”
“Aband— I think he cared more for that motorcar than for me. I don’t believe you.”
“Nevertheless, it’s true. And I’m afraid I must ask you a few questions as a result.”
She wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist, pushing away her hair, and said, “The summerhouse. Over there.”
He followed her to a round Greek temple set on a slight rise that enabled her to view the garden in comfort. Cushioned bench seats followed the rail, and she took one side, offering him the other. From this vantage point he could see that there was a ten-foot section only just added to one side of the garden. The earth was different there, indicating that it had been plowed recently.
“This must be a spectacular view when all the plants are in bloom,” he commented.
“Yes, I’ve worked on it since I was twelve or thirteen. But you aren’t here to admire my roses, are you? What is it you want to ask? And please hurry, I’d like to finish my work here before the day grows too warm.”
“Are you sure there’s no one in Surrey? Someone—perhaps a girl—your brother knew and you did not.”
“It’s quite possible. But I have no idea where he met her or who she may be. It won’t be as easy to jilt Mary Ellen Townsend. Her father has been very happy to tell everyone that his daughter is marrying a French. He won’t care to eat those words.”
“I was told Miss Whitman ran free in this house as a child. And that she was engaged to your elder brother before his death. There must have been a connection somewhere, or Laurence French would have looked for better prospects for his elder son and heir.”
“I wasn’t for that engagement, but then no one asked my opinion. I thought he could do far better.”
“In what way?”
Goaded, she said, “Whatever you heard about Valerie playing here as a child, she isn’t one of us. Her father was a Naval officer, that’s true. But her mother was the daughter of the firm’s chief clerk, Gooding. Because her mother died in childbirth, and her father was always off in the South China Sea or somewhere just as distant, my own mother felt sorry for her and brought her here to play with us.”
Rutledge turned away to look out over the garden so that she couldn’t read the expression on his face.
It was damning, that bit of news. Valerie Whitman had admitted that she didn’t love Lewis French. But if she had married him, she would have become one of the family. No longer the daughter of the firm’s chief clerk.
She might have been willing to let Lewis French go if she hadn’t cared for him. She herself, in Rutledge’s opinion, could have done far better than French, judging by what little he’d learned about the man.
But was she as willing to let go that leap into a different world? Wealth. Social standing. A house in London.
Miss French was saying, “I often wondered how she could attract both Michael and then Lewis. It was amazing to me. Yes, she was always underfoot, they were used to her. It’s not as if she’s actually pretty, like Mary Ellen Townsend.” It was said enviously. “I could have understood it if Michael had fallen in love with her.”
Rutledge was still considering the ramifications of the connection between Valerie Whitman and Gooding when he realized that Miss French had asked him something.
Turning back to her, he said, “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I asked if you thought Valerie was pretty.”
What she read in his face brought a deep flush to her own. “You do, don’t you? You’re just like the rest of them, even my father.”
“I’m a policeman,” he said. “Involved with a murder inquiry. It doesn’t matter what I think.”
“But it does,” she said viciously. “If I’d killed Lewis and buried him there in my rose garden, you’d believe it quickly enough. But if Valerie has killed him for jilting her, you’ll not. You’ll make excuses and look for flaws in the evidence, and put off taking her into custody. Why is it,” she went on, the venom in her voice pinning him where he was, “that some women can be forgiven anything? There were times when I hated my father and my brothers. They never saw me. If I’d suddenly become invisible, they wouldn’t have wondered what had become of me until they needed me to look after Mama or keep the house open and ready for them whenever they took it into their heads to come to Dedham—”
She broke off, as if she suddenly realized where her outburst was leading. Breathing hard, she stared at Rutledge, and then turned her back on him, one hand on the railing, the other already groping for her handkerchief. “Go away. Just—go away.”
He glimpsed the edge of the pretty square of linen as she gripped it tightly, and saw in one corner the dark red embroidered rose, the petals just open and a drop of white-thread dew on one of them.
Hamish was urgently trying to tell him something, but he turned without a word and walked around the house to the drive, where he’d left his motorcar.
Shaken by the woman’s angry words, he wondered if he had indeed been looking for flaws in the evidence, twisting and turning it because he didn’t want to believe that Valerie Whitman could be a murderess.
If Afonso Diaz was simply an old man waiting to die and go back to his native country in the only way open to him—in a coffin—then he, Rutledge, had failed to do his duty in a proper and timely fashion.
His doubts and Hamish’s violent rumbling in his head carried him all the way back to Dedham and the inn.
And still he sat there in the tiny telephone closet for all of ten minutes before reaching out, taking up the receiver, and putting a call through to the Yard.
Chapter Twelve
Fielding was finally tracked down and brought to the telephone. Rutledge, waiting impatiently, said at once, “Any news?”
“Early days,” the sergeant replied. “But there was a bicycle put on the train here in London on the night in question—that’s to say, the night after you found the body in Chelsea. We’re still looking into that, sir. Male or female, the man doesn’t remember, only that the bicycle’s rear wheel knocked over his Thermos of tea as he was loading it and sent the tea rolling away. He was afraid to drink it after that for fear the Thermos had broken inside, and he was still angry about that. He does recall that it was a woman’s bicycle.”
“He’s quite sure about that?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I’m looking into who might have bought a ticket to Dedham or the vicinity.
But I daresay whoever it was used a false name.”
Rutledge suggested it before he could stop himself. “Or put the bicycle on board without any intention of claiming it in the end.”
“There’s an idea, sir. I’ll look into that as well.”
Rutledge thanked him and ended the call. Restless and unwilling to sit still, he drove back to St. Hilary and went to find the curate.
Williams had made progress on painting the Rectory. Rutledge followed the wet spills around the side of the house to the kitchen gardens and found the curate just beginning to paint the trim on the porch there.
Williams was whistling to himself as he worked and broke off to see who was coming. “Inspector. You’ve called often enough that I feel I should offer you a coverall and a brush.”
Rutledge laughed. “You’ve done nice work on your own.”
“Yes, well, that’s the new description of a clergyman. Jack-of-all-trades. I couldn’t ask the church warden to have the Rectory painted when there’s so much needing to be done in the church. Not when I’m young and fit.”
“Thinking of getting married, are you?”
Williams blushed. “Um—there isn’t gossip already, is there?”
“None that I’ve heard. Are you?”
The curate changed the subject. “What brings you here this morning?”
“I don’t really know,” Rutledge told him truthfully. “I’m in a quandary about the missing Mr. French. Ever hear of anyone called Afonso Diaz?”
“Who is he when he’s at home?”
“He’s from Madeira.”
“In that case, the French family ought to know. That’s where they do business.”
“Thank you. The other problem is, what has become of Lewis French? He’s been gone away too long, without a word to anyone. Someone must know the answer to that. He’s got a business in London that needs his attention. He’s expecting his cousin to arrive in England at any moment. He has a fiancée who must miss him.”