by Charles Todd
“Closer to sixty-two. French’s motorcar was found in the quarry not far from where he lives.”
“Coincidence. Look, he’d have had to take the train to London, then another to Essex, to kill Lewis French. Someone in the Bennett household would have known if he went missing for several days, and they’d have raised the alarm. Mrs. Bennett has been allowed to take in those men in her care, and she can’t afford to ignore it if one of them is absent without a damned good reason.”
“I rather think he’s hired someone to do the killing for him.”
“Why are you dragging your heels, Rutledge? Go collect the granddaughter and bring her in. Let the lawyers get at the bottom of who is guilty and who is not. We’ve made a case, it’s sound enough to bring to trial, and I don’t see the need to spend any more of the Yard’s time on wild speculation.”
It was dismissal. Rutledge got up from his chair and walked toward the door.
Markham’s voice stopped him.
“Is he likely to live, this tutor? Will he be able to testify?”
“The doctor couldn’t tell me yesterday. It was too soon.”
“Then find out while you’re there.”
The hardheaded Yorkshireman having second thoughts?
Rutledge turned. “I’ll ring you from the inn when I’ve seen him.”
Markham nodded, and Rutledge went out into the passage looking for Gibson.
The sergeant was in with Inspector Billings.
Rutledge left a message on his desk that he was leaving directly for Essex and would call as soon as he could.
Walking out of the Yard, he made a decision and went first to Hayes and Hayes, solicitors to the French family.
He had to wait nearly half an hour—the elder Mr. Hayes was with another client. Impatient, Rutledge sat in one of the leather chairs in Reception and listened to Hamish’s tirade in his ear.
When finally he was conducted to Hayes’s office, he asked, “Any news from Portugal?”
“As a matter of fact, I was going to telephone the Yard this afternoon. Mr. Diaz was cut out of his father’s Will entirely. You were right about that.”
Rutledge had expected no less. Still, it meant that Diaz, without funds to support his vendetta, would have had nothing to bargain with to arrange a murder on land, much less at sea.
Hamish said, “Blackmail?”
It wasn’t likely that Diaz had gleaned enough information from the men in service with him at the Bennett house to force a man to kill for him.
Rutledge took a deep breath. Perhaps Markham was right, and he’d been too stubborn to see it.
Hayes was waiting.
“It’s a disappointment, your news. The father had threatened, but I needed to know whether he had carried out that threat.”
“Yes, fathers often bluster, but in the end, blood tells.” The solicitor considered Rutledge. “Was it so very important, this information?”
“It was possible that Mr. Diaz had sought to revenge himself on the French family for his long years in a madhouse. I’ve reason to wonder if he was ever mad in the true sense, just murderously angry. But the fact that he received no money from his father changes the picture entirely.”
“You believe he, not Mr. Gooding, is responsible for the deaths of Lewis French and Matthew Traynor?” The hooded eyes were nearly black.
“Yes. I do. As I told you on my last visit. Diaz is old. He couldn’t physically do what Gooding is accused of doing. But he could have hired a killer. And that requires money.”
“I was surprised when Mr. Gooding was taken into custody. I’ve dealt with him for many years, and a more conscientious employee would be hard to find. But then even the most conscientious man can be driven to measures unthinkable in normal situations.”
“I’m afraid so. And now the Yard has issued an order for Miss Whitman to be taken into custody.” Rutledge rose. “Thank you for your help. I’m sorry it wasn’t better news for Gooding.”
“Miss Whitman? Preposterous. We acted for her father, you know. Captain Whitman. And a finer officer never lived. Sit down, young man.”
Rutledge, eager to be on his way to Essex, did as he was told. Something in the man’s voice had changed.
“You asked me for a particular bit of information. I found it for you. But you have just indicated that it was not the inheritance that was so urgent to discover. What you really asked of me was to find out if Diaz had funds at his disposal. Any funds. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Then you should know this. I saw no reason to tell you earlier, since it was not included in your request. Mr. Diaz is not destitute. Although his father had cut him off, he had inherited his mother’s money while still a young man, and most of it is still in the bank in Funchal, untouched because he was incarcerated first in Portugal and then in England. Here he was never allowed to speak to a Portuguese official, he was never asked if he wished to obtain legal counsel. He was simply locked up. He should have been tried for two attempts to murder English citizens, and so I felt no pity for him. The clinic must have been kinder than prison. And so the money has accrued. It’s nowhere near the sums that would have come to Mr. Diaz from his father’s Will. But it is most certainly sufficient to hire a dozen murderers, if he so chose. Mr. Diaz is not wealthy—but he could live for another ten years on the income from his mother’s bequest without touching the principal.”
Stunned, Rutledge could only stare at him, and then as he digested what the solicitor had just told him, he felt a surge of blind anger.
Anger at himself, for not thinking to widen his request. Anger at Hayes for that narrow lawyer’s mind, for telling Rutledge precisely what he had asked for, and no more. He would easily have gone away and never known the rest of the story. If he hadn’t mentioned Miss Whitman, would Hayes have told him about Diaz’s mother?
Swearing silently, Rutledge could only trust himself to ask, “And you are certain about this?”
“I don’t as a rule make mistakes,” Hayes told him frostily.
“Has he made any use whatsoever of these funds?”
“When he was released into the care of Mr. and Mrs. Bennett, he contacted an agent in Funchal, asking him to act for him in the matter of a cemetery plot near those of his parents. He also has given a large sum of money to the church he attended as a boy, to say perpetual prayers for his soul. And he arranged the transport of his body from London to Madeira, after his death. A stone has been commissioned to mark the place he will be interred. The agent has done just that—and no more.”
Rutledge thanked him and got out of Hayes’s office before he lost his temper entirely.
At the door, he said, “It’s possible you’ve saved Gooding from hanging.”
And with that he turned on his heel and left.
Outside, cranking the motorcar, he gave vent to his fury. So like a lawyer’s way of thinking, to hold back what was not in his view pertinent.
As his anger cleared, Rutledge did quick calculations in his head. Leaving the motor running, he strode back into the solicitor’s office. Mr. Hayes was already with another client, but Rutledge was not to be deterred.
As Hayes looked up, Rutledge said, “What does Diaz pay this agent of his? And what about the prayers for his soul? I need to find out if that’s exorbitant, even for a man who knows he’s a murderer. What’s more, what is the disposition of the account, once Diaz is dead?”
“I can’t—” Hayes began, but Rutledge cut him short.
“Rather you won’t. I understand your reluctance to look into that man’s affairs again. But if you want to prevent an injustice, you’ll find a way. When I leave here, I’m driving to St. Hilary myself to take Valerie Whitman into custody. How long do you want her to stay in a women’s prison? It’s in your hands.”
Hayes was on his feet, shoving back his chair. “I won’t be threatened.”
“I don’t perceive it as a threat. It’s a friendly warning that you are in control of her fate. How
you feel about that only you can know.”
And he was gone, driving out of London at a pace that was a reflection of his mood. Hamish, in the back of his mind, was busy as well. But it was no mistake when Rutledge turned south toward Surrey instead of north toward Essex.
What he’d asked Hayes to do was essential. If the agent as executor was to pay all debts incurred by Diaz at the time of his death, a usual clause in English wills, then he could include any sums that Diaz had borrowed—untraceable—from him before that time. Sums that could already have been transferred to England with ease, from this agent to clients with no apparent connection to Afonso Diaz. An unscrupulous solicitor, paid well for his time, would ask no questions.
Clever indeed. And hopeless to untangle without the help of authorities on Madeira.
But even more urgent was his need now to stake out the goat, and let the tiger know it was unarmed.
Afonso Diaz had had his way for far too long.
Chapter Twenty-two
When Rutledge arrived at the gates to the Bennett property, he pulled over before reaching the house.
Diaz was usually at work in the grounds, and while Surrey was overcast and promised rain, Rutledge rather thought that Diaz preferred his own company to that of his fellows. He would be outside, away from the happy games Mrs. Bennett seemed to enjoy devising or the men’s conversations in the servants’ hall. Diaz had little in common with any of them. Indeed, he must tolerate Bob Rawlings only because the man was useful to him.
Rutledge found Diaz in the back of the property, wrapped in an old cape of some sort and tending a fire burning the wood the two gardeners had been busy clearing out of the orchard and the park. The scent of applewood was strong, and watching from a distance as the man tossed new fuel on the blaze, he realized that Diaz was far more vigorous than anyone thought, given his age and his wiry build. He had had a way of appearing shrunken, a man who had been defeated by years in an asylum with no expectation of ever seeing Madeira again.
In fact Diaz reminded Rutledge strongly of the painting he’d seen in the French house of a shepherd on a high, windswept hill, watching a flock of sheep.
But here there was no loneliness, no despair. Just a formidable need that had fed on itself for decades. And a mind clever enough to do something about that need.
The thought gave Rutledge his opening, for he hadn’t prepared for the encounter, uncertain what the circumstances of their meeting would be.
“Senhor Diaz?”
The man whirled, dropping into a crouch as if to protect himself from attack.
As soon as he saw Rutledge, he slowly straightened, and with that curious stillness that he must have cultivated in the asylum in the face of the madness around him and that was part of his very nature now he waited.
“I’ve just come to tell you that you’ve won.”
“I don’t understand.”
Rutledge kept his distance, for he could see as he took another few steps forward the wicked-looking pruning knife for high branches that lay at the man’s feet.
“It’s an expression,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what it means. What does matter is that you have succeeded beyond your wildest dreams. French is dead, and although we haven’t found his body yet, so is Matthew Traynor. Gooding is sitting in a prison cell awaiting trial for their murders. His granddaughter will be taken into custody this afternoon as an accomplice in those murders. For my sins, I’ve been ordered to see to it as soon as I can reach Essex. The House of French, French and Traynor is in serious disarray, left in the hands of a woman who is unfit to take it over or run it properly. Give her five years—if that—and it will be worthless. She will be destitute.”
He could see the gleam in those dark, unfathomable eyes.
“The only person still alive who witnessed your visit to the French household all those years ago is very likely to be so severely brain damaged that he will be no threat to you. You’ve wiped the slate clean, and I daresay your English is good enough to appreciate that idiom.”
Diaz simply stood there, hands by his sides.
“There is nothing I can do to change what you have accomplished or to save Mr. Gooding, who didn’t deserve to be dragged into his employers’ troubles. But I must admit, it was quite cleverly done, even though I abhor it. I salute you. You have even bested Scotland Yard.”
Without moving, Diaz searched the trees through which Rutledge had had to come.
“No, I left no listeners there. We’re quite alone. I didn’t relish having anyone hear what I came to say.”
Rutledge made to go, then appeared to think better of it.
“It was my inquiry from the start. Still, I wasn’t sure myself where the truth lay. Whether it was Gooding wanting power or a falling-out of the two partners that resulted in the death of one or both of them. Or even if Miss French had disposed of her tiresome brother. I couldn’t find any proof of your guilt, no matter how hard I tried.”
He met Diaz’s gaze. “That is to say, until one of your underlings made the very serious mistake of firing at me as I drove Mr. MacFarland to the doctor’s surgery. I can’t believe that either Miss French or Miss Whitman is good enough with a revolver to come so close to hitting me. That was when I saw your hand in these events.”
Rutledge smiled for the first time. “And so, you see, I have come to congratulate you on a superbly perfect plan. But I am also here to tell you that I will hound you until the day you die, and if I am lucky, I will find the proof I need. However long it takes. I do not care to be made a fool of, Mr. Diaz, and you have made a deadly enemy. In the end, I’ll prove to be more clever than you. I live for that moment.”
He saw, quick as a flash, those dark eyes flicker toward the pruning knife and back toward the fire. And then they were impassive once more, waiting for Rutledge to finish and leave. Tempted though Diaz was to kill him here and now and burn the body along with the deadwood in the bin, he was unwilling to risk it. He might well kill Rutledge, but this was sanctuary, this position with the Bennetts, and too valuable to lose.
Rutledge laughed. Intentionally. “I’m a match for you, old man,” he said with contempt. “The Germans couldn’t kill me and neither can you.”
Dark color spread into the enigmatic face, and Rutledge saw it before he turned away.
Over his shoulder, he added, “And don’t bother to send your underlings to find me. I’m more than a match for them as well. I’m your Nemesis, and there is nothing in the world you can do about it. Nemesis. That’s a classical term, one you no doubt studied at University in Portugal. I shouldn’t have to translate it for you.”
He kept walking, still avoiding the house, until he had reached the gates to the drive. His motorcar was where he’d left it, and he drove off.
He didn’t go far.
There was a farm lane just before the village, and he turned down it, following a track that led toward several outbuildings. The war had taken the horses, and their stalls were already in disrepair. At the far end, a new Fordson F tractor had taken their place, its great iron-spoke wheels thick with mud from the late summer plowing. Rutledge pulled his motorcar off to one side, where it couldn’t be seen from the road or the farmer’s house, marked by tall chimney pots on the far side of an orchard.
And then he walked back to the road, taking up a post behind the shed where the milk cans were left each evening.
It would be a long wait, he expected that. Diaz would have to write his letter and Rawlings would have to find an excuse to carry it to the village for posting.
Settling himself as comfortably as he could against the trunk of a tree, Rutledge tried to ignore the rumbling voice in his head arguing the comments he’d made to Diaz and finding holes in his arguments.
“He willna’ risk everything to come after ye. It would cost too much. He missed his chance by yon fire, and he kens it verra’ well. And ye’ll be faced with a man ye’ve niver seen. It will be when ye least expect it that he’ll strike.”
“I don’t think he’ll trust a surrogate. I believe Diaz would prefer to kill me himself to be sure nothing goes wrong.”
“He hasna’ put a foot wrong. Ye told him that.”
“Yes, but his underlings have. I think the man we found in Chelsea was intended to be French, but something went wrong, and another man died in French’s place. The mistake was rectified, and the other man became a decoy, complete with French’s watch.”
“Then where is French? Why has he no’ come forward?”
“Because he knows Gooding isn’t the killer. Either that or he’s dead.”
“The tiger ye’ve angered is no’ a man to toy with.”
“We’ll see.”
“And if he does come for ye, where is the proof that he ordered the deaths of the ithers? He willna’ speak.”
“No, but Bob Rawlings will talk, faced with the rope as an accomplice in murder. He’s arrogant. And behind that is weakness.”
“Then why not tak’ him up for murder and see what he has to say.”
“I have no reason to take him into custody. Only my suspicion.”
It was a vicious circle, and Rutledge had thought it carefully through.
The minutes turned into hours. He glanced at his watch several times, knowing he should be halfway to Dedham by now.
And then, coming down the road, whistling in a monotone under his breath, was Bob Rawlings. Frowning, apparently deep in thought, he was swinging the stick he was carrying rhythmically back and forth, back and forth in an unconscious counterpoint to whatever tune was in his head. In his left hand was an envelope, and as Rawlings got closer, Rutledge could see the stamp affixed to it and the black scrawl of a name.