Proof of Guilt

by Charles Todd

  Rutledge still held the torch, and he swung it, intent on stopping the intruder any way he could. And then he remembered using the torch on Bob Rawlings just before he went over the railing, and he tempered the strength of the blow.

  The intruder fell, gasping for breath, then struggled to rise.

  “Now listen to me. I’m from Scotland Yard, and you’re coming with me to the police station—”

  Breaking off, Rutledge stared.

  The torch couldn’t have done the damage he saw in the man’s throat. He had aimed higher. But the ugly gash had broken open and was bleeding heavily.

  “My God,” Rutledge said, jerking out his handkerchief and trying to stem the flow. “Hold on to that.” He pressed the man’s hand to the handkerchief, turning quickly back to the house. “Stay where you are, or you’re likely to bleed to death.”

  A voice in the darkness said, “Rutledge? Is that you? What’s happened? I saw your motorcar.”

  And the curate stepped through the gate into the pool of brightness that was Rutledge’s torch. Just then he saw the man on the path, and the handkerchief already dark with blood. “This man has been injured—Rutledge, did you do this?”

  “I found him in the house. When he ran, I stopped him.”

  The curate looked quickly to the houses on either side. No one had come to the door. “Let’s get him to the Rectory. We’ve got to stop that bleeding. Take his other arm.”

  “Wait here.” Rutledge disappeared into the house, back in a matter of seconds with a small pillow, which he added to the handkerchief. “Keep it there,” he ordered and then took the man’s other side, all but dragging him down the path and toward the gate.

  The curate had it open, and Rutledge got the man through. “There’s no time to bring up the motorcar. We’ve got to hurry.”

  His senses returning, the man managed to stumble along between them. It seemed to take ages to reach the Rectory, tombstones and plantings catching at their unwary feet as they made their way around the church to the Rectory gate. The steps were hardest, and then Rutledge had the door open and pulled the man into the lamplight of the Rectory parlor.

  He nearly stumbled over a chair, hooked it with his foot, and brought it around to push the man into it.

  The curate went into another part of the house and came back with a wooden box.

  “Bandages and the like,” he said. “Altar boys always have skinned knees and stubbed toes.”

  Rutledge had removed the pillow and the handkerchief. The bleeding had slowed, clotting over. He could see that the gash was an old one. Very likely, in the man’s attempt to climb through the window, he’d reopened it because it had never healed properly.

  “Who are you?” the curate asked gently. “Are you hungry? In need of work? I can help you.”

  The man’s temper flared. “I’m—” He stopped short, eyes on Williams’s clerical collar. “Is this man really from Scotland Yard?”

  “Yes, of course he is. He’s been in St. Hilary conducting an inquiry.”

  The man turned to Rutledge. “You’re the bastard who took Valerie away. Where is she?”

  “In prison,” Rutledge said shortly. “Charged along with her grandfather in the murder of Lewis French. Are you French? If you are, why didn’t you show yourself and keep that young woman out of Holloway?”

  “Damn you, she said she was going to bring home her grandfather. She told me it was finished, and I let her go.”

  “But he’s not French,” the curate was saying. “I tell you, he’s not Lewis French.”

  “Then who is he?”

  “My name is Traynor. Matthew Traynor. French tried to kill me—he sent someone to make sure I never reached England. I got away from him, just, and I’ve been in hiding ever since, not knowing where to turn, who was against me. I’m in no condition to survive another attempt.”

  “Where have you been since your ship docked?”

  “My parents’ house. It’s been closed since before the war. The problem was food. I’d walk to another town and buy what I needed, until the money I had in my pocket ran out.” He grimaced. “I’m a wealthy man, and I couldn’t pay for my dinner. I’ve had to forage—steal—dig in gardens at night. I was chased by a dog one night, and had to sleep in a barn. Miss Whitman found me when I’d fainted from hunger. I was out of my head for two days, and she had to keep me in the cottage. She wanted to call in Dr. Townsend, but he’s the father of Lewis’s fiancée. She left food for me when you took her away, but that’s gone and I’ve been forced to steal again.”

  “You never went to the police? Or to the authorities at the port?”

  “I never even showed my passport. I got off the ship by carrying an elderly woman’s luggage for her. Her son come to fetch her, as far as anyone could tell. I knew perhaps twenty people in England, most of whom hadn’t seen me since before the war. My neck was inflamed, I was so feverish the driver of the first omnibus accused me of being drunk. I walked for miles before taking the next omnibus, for fear of being followed. And there was someone in the grounds of my parents’ house when I got there. I thought he was waiting for me. I watched as he tested windows, doors, looked in all the outbuildings, then waited, sitting on his motorcycle in the drive until well after midnight. He left finally, and I got in the way I sometimes got out as a boy. What was I to tell the police—this scruffy stranger, a knife wound in his neck, no money, in England without the proper papers—if they brought Lewis or Agnes in to identify me and were told that I wasn’t Matthew Traynor, what then?”

  “You’d have had to come to the police in the long run.”

  “Yes, I know. But on my terms, when I could stand on my own two feet and not faint from hunger or pain. And then Valerie—Miss Whitman—told me that someone had tried to kill Lewis, and that Lewis had disappeared. I didn’t know what to think then. Now you tell me she’s in Holloway Prison. For what?”

  “Her grandfather is about to go on trial for killing French and you.”

  “She never— My good God. That’s what you meant earlier. That I could have saved her from that.”

  “What did you do with the man who tried to kill you?” Rutledge studied the man, fairly certain that his account was truthful. But there were gaps all the same.

  “He came up to me as I was standing at the ship’s rail, watching for the white cliffs. I should have been able to see them; it was a clear night and we weren’t that far out to sea. We spoke, the way strangers do, and then he took out a cigarette, asking if I had a match. I was looking down, finding it, when suddenly he bent over, grabbed my ankles, and had me half over the rail. I somehow managed to beat at his head and shoulders until he let me go, and I fell hard to the deck. He had a knife then, and he went for my throat. We fought—I was in the Army, I knew a thing or two about that—and in the end, it was he who went overboard, not I. We were coming up on Dungeness Light, but I never waited to see. I was bleeding badly and hurried down to my cabin to take care of it. I stayed there, afraid of questions, until we docked.”

  The man at Dungeness Light.

  “Was he English? The man with the knife?”

  “Oh yes. A London accent, I should think. I asked the purser, and he said he thought the man had got on in the Azores. I went down to his cabin, searched it, found nothing, and packed up his belongings for disembarkation.”

  “Did you learn his name?”

  “I did. Benjamin R. Waggoner. Whoever he may be.”

  The other man in the lodging house. The one called Ben . . .

  “I tell you, it has to be French who is behind this. He’d told me that when I came to England, we’d talk about some changes he had in mind. I wouldn’t be surprised if my death was one of them. And who else would know to look for me in the grounds of a house closed for six years?”

  “He could have been looking for French,” Williams suggested.

  Satisfied that the wound had stopped bleeding sufficiently to bandage, Rutledge put on a field dressing and then s
aid, “He ought to eat.”

  “I have a little leftover soup from my own dinner, and some bread, some cheese,” the curate offered.

  “That will do,” Traynor said. “I’ve had nothing today.”

  Rutledge and Traynor left for London soon after Traynor had eaten and Rutledge had looked again at the wound on his throat. It had sealed, but the flesh around it was inflamed. He needed medical care, and sooner rather than later.

  Traynor slept for the first two hours of his journey, his head cushioned on the bloodstained pillow from Miss Whitman’s parlor. Rutledge waited until his passenger was fully awake, then told him about Diaz.

  Traynor said, “Are you telling me that I was nearly killed because of something Howard French, my grandfather, did years ago?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Traynor whistled. Then he turned to Rutledge and demanded, “If you know all this, why is Gooding standing trial? Why is his granddaughter in prison?”

  “Proof has been hard to come by. This could just as easily have been a feud between you and French that Gooding was caught in the midst of. The police believe Gooding will tell them where the bodies are buried, to keep his granddaughter from going to trial. But he doesn’t know, you see. He has nothing to bargain with. And so she will have to suffer as well.”

  “But I’m alive—I can testify.”

  “To what? That someone tried to kill you? You can’t prove it wasn’t Gooding’s plan in the first place. And whoever attacked you can’t testify as to who hired him, if he’s drowned.”

  “What can I do? There must be something. I can’t wait for the jury to bring in a verdict.”

  “I’ll find a doctor to look at that wound. And then I’m taking you to Hayes and Hayes. They’ll deal with the trial by asking for a postponement on the basis of new evidence. You. And Inspector Billings saw that body at Dungeness Light. It can substantiate your story of being attacked while on board the Medea. I can also show who the dead man in Chelsea was. And why he was killed. But there’s still Diaz. There are still the charges against Gooding. Lewis French is still missing.”

  “He’s got to be stopped. Somehow. This man Diaz.”

  “Meanwhile, Hayes will see you safe. I could put a constable on his door, but it would only serve to draw attention to the house.”

  “Watch your own back, meanwhile,” Traynor told him grimly.

  Hayes greeted Traynor like the long lost Robinson Crusoe, calling him “my dear boy!” over and over again. Rutledge thought that the fact that someone able to run the firm had actually survived was more important to the elderly solicitor than the fact that it was Traynor.

  “I’ll start proceedings straightaway to halt the trial. And I’ll find a safe place for you to stay, Mr. Traynor. Meanwhile, my own house is at your disposal, and I’ll see that your baggage is retrieved from Portsmouth.” He went on, laying out solutions to every problem but that of Lewis French. And that he tiptoed around.

  At length Rutledge was free to leave. Traynor thanked him profusely, and Hayes promised to keep him informed.

  “But what do we do about Mr. Standish?” Hayes asked. “He isn’t a client, I have no authority to settle his affairs.”

  “Leave him to me,” Rutledge said.

  He went directly to the Yard, wrote a full report on Traynor’s experiences and the probable postponement of the trial, and handed it to a constable to be put in the Acting Chief Superintendent’s basket. He was in no mood to wait for Markham to come in, even though it was close on dawn already.

  As he left the Yard, Rutledge searched for a motorcycle anywhere in the vicinity, and again on his own street, and there was no sign of one.

  Ben Waggoner was dead, Rawlings as well. If Standish was the man in Chelsea, then there was Baxter still to contend with.

  And Diaz.

  Rutledge let himself into the flat, and almost at once knew that he was not alone.

  Something in the stillness had changed. And there was the faintest scent of applewood fires.

  Hamish said, “The bedroom.”

  Rutledge put on the lamp by the door as he always did, and went through the post that had been come in his absence. Working his way slowly toward the bedroom doorway, he reached the hearth and stopped.

  His service revolver. It was in the chest beneath his bed. Had Diaz found it?

  That changed the odds.

  He said, well to the side of any shot from the half-open bedroom door, “I know you’re there. Let’s finish it.”

  After a moment, Diaz walked into the sitting room lamplight. He appeared to be unarmed.

  “I’ve rather spoiled your plans,” Rutledge said easily. “Traynor is alive, and MacFarland will live. We’ve taken steps to halt Monday’s trial. I now know why Standish had to die. You’d be wise to take the next boat to Portugal or the Azores. While you can.”

  “Standish was Bob’s decision, not mine. He grew very protective of Mrs. Bennett. I had only to tell him that you would see her punished for what he and I did to make him want to kill you.”

  “Where’s Baxter?”

  “I have no idea. He is of little interest to me now.”

  “Then you’ve come to say good-bye?” Rutledge smiled.

  “I’ve come, as you said, to finish this.” Diaz reached into his pocket and drew out a pale green scarf.

  Rutledge had seen Frances wear it many times over the summer. Diaz had been inside her house. Baxter. Was he there? Had something happened to Frances?

  Feeling a surge of anger that was red hot in his blood, Rutledge crossed to where Diaz was standing and, without hesitation, knocked the older man down.

  Diaz, stunned for a few seconds, raised himself on one elbow and put out his tongue to taste the blood on his lip.

  “Without me, she will die,” he said simply.

  “You won’t know whether she will or not,” Rutledge said, standing over him. “Now get up.” When Diaz didn’t move, Rutledge reached down, caught the man’s collar, and hauled him to his feet. He pushed Diaz ahead of him across the room, and through the door.

  He held on to Diaz while turning the crank, shoved him into the motorcar, and was in beside him before Diaz could recover.

  Diaz sat up, smiling, certain that Rutledge would drive to his sister’s house.

  But Rutledge did not. He went directly to the Yard, marched Diaz up the stairs, and went to find Billings, who was in his office.

  The Inspector looked up, startled, as Rutledge came in with Diaz.

  “What the hell?” he began, and then saw Rutledge’s face. “What’s happened?”

  “There’s something I have to do. This is Afonso Diaz. I want you to keep him here, and if I don’t come back, take him to Markham. He’s killed before, and he will kill again. Don’t trust him.”

  He shoved Diaz into a chair, then unfolded the scarf so that it spilled across Billings’s desk.

  “He’s just given me the proof of guilt I’ve been searching for. He was in my flat threatening me. And he’s been inside my sister’s house. I want him up on charges for that. We’ll sort out the rest later.” He faced Diaz. “On Mrs. Bennett’s property, I was the trespasser, and whatever happened to me could be explained away. You should have left it at that.”

  “Who is Mrs. Bennett?” Billings demanded, but Rutledge had turned on his heel and was leaving.

  He heard Billings say, as the door swung closed, “Now, then, Mr. Diaz. Why don’t we have a little conversation while we wait.”

  Back in the idling motorcar, Rutledge drove to his sister’s house.

  A motorcycle rested on its stand just down the street.

  He’d found Baxter.

  Leaving his motorcar where it couldn’t be seen from the house, he got out, went through the back garden of a house next but one to where Frances lived. Out the gate at the bottom of the garden, he walked down to her back gate, quietly let himself through, and then stood for a moment, listening.

  The garden was quiet, save f
or a few crickets by the little pond. He circled it and made his way toward the rear of the house, keeping to the shadows of trees and shrubs.

  No lights showed.

  Where was Baxter, and where was he holding Frances?

  Hamish was silent in the back of his mind.

  Reaching the terrace door, Rutledge tested the latch. Locked.

  Swearing under his breath, he walked quietly across the grass to the servants’ door. This he found unlocked, and he stepped inside, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom of the passage that led to the servants’ hall. The rooms were empty—the live-in staff was a thing of the past. Instead, dailies came early in the morning to do what was required.

  He made his way to the servants’ stairs and chose that route up to the bedrooms. They were narrow, and he was a tall man. It took a little time to reach the first floor quietly, and there he stood in the passage once more, getting his bearings.

  If he were Baxter, where would he be?

  Not in the ground-floor rooms, surely, where he would be cornered if Rutledge had already dealt with Diaz.

  At the top of the main staircase, then.

  The passage was carpeted. Still, Rutledge took off his boots and left them in the servants’ stairwell. Walking in his stocking feet, he stayed close to the wall, a few steps at a time. The main stairs were just ahead.

  Movement caught his eye. Someone was there, sitting on the top step, watching the main door. Waiting for him to unlock it and walk in.

  But where was Frances? In one of the bedrooms? It was likely—she wasn’t the target, he was. And hurt or unhurt, she must wait. His first duty was to deal with Baxter and keep him alive, if it was humanly possible to do so. If the anger racing through every nerve ending would let him stop in time.

  Baxter had a split second of warning, no more, wheeling in time to see Rutledge hurling himself forward in a tackle that pinned Baxter just as he was rising.

  They rolled, and Rutledge saw the flash of a knife. Silent, deadly.

  He was on his feet first, Baxter just that second slower, and they closed, Rutledge keeping the knife hand well away from his face and throat. But Baxter had recovered, was quick now, rearing back for better purchase, and Rutledge felt the blade cut through the cloth of his coat and plunge toward his chest.