Proof of Guilt

Chapter Eight

When Rutledge made his report to Chief Superintendent Markham, the Yorkshireman gave him his full attention, then nodded as he finished.

“He can’t disappear forever, can he now? Not with French, French and Traynor to run. It’s a grand business, it’s where most people purchasing Port wine and Madeira for their cellars go to buy it. Half London wouldn’t know what to do with themselves without it. What’s more, the firm has never been scandal prone until now. What’s changed?”

“A very good question,” Rutledge agreed. “His encounter with the dead man? So far that’s the only change in his routine. And he must have encountered him, there’s the watch. But was that meeting happenstance? Contrived? Related to business? To family matters? Did it have anything to do with the upcoming visit by the other partner, Traynor? We don’t even know enough to speculate. And who got the better of the encounter? So far, the man without a name is dead, but we can’t be certain French killed him. Or if he killed French, then was run down to silence him in turn.”

Markham frowned. “You make it far too complicated. Look closer to home, man. What about the woman? Miss Whitman? It would seem to me that she had the best reason to do away with Lewis. And for all we know, the poor bastard found in Chelsea had happened on the corpse and helped himself to yon watch. Or she hired him to kill for her, then ran him down before he could think about blackmail.”

“Then let’s consider that line of inquiry. What has she done with French’s motorcar? That too is missing.”

Markham waved a large hand. “That’s for the local police to discover. This Constable Brooks for one, in St. Hilary.”

Rutledge took a deep breath. “Indeed.”

“Then drive yourself back to Essex and see what you can learn about this young woman.”

“I should think it would also help to circulate a photograph of the dead man and see what comes of it.”

Markham peered at him. “Is she pretty, this Miss Whitman?”

Taken aback by the unexpected question, Rutledge said, “Miss Townsend is far prettier.”

“Ah, you’ve noticed, then, have you?” Markham sat back, his mouth smiling in satisfaction, but his eyes cold.

“I’m trained to observe,” Rutledge replied, only just preventing himself from snapping, feeling that he’d been trapped into an admission that suited Markham’s purpose.

“And being not as pretty could rankle. Are you certain she wasn’t jilted?”

Rutledge hadn’t told Markham that. The Acting Chief Superintendant had leapt to the conclusion.

“A man doesn’t leave the prettier girl for a less attractive one unless there’s more money to be had in the bargain. In fact, he did just the opposite, didn’t he? A prettier girl with greater social standing, a doctor’s daughter.”

Rutledge wanted to say that he couldn’t imagine Miss Townsend killing anyone, under her father’s thumb as she was. But that would leave Miss Whitman open to the obvious comparison. And it would feed Markham’s theory.

“I’d still like to circulate that photograph,” Rutledge answered, fighting a losing rearguard action. “Whether he has anything to do with Lewis French’s disappearance or not, he’s a victim. And if we can connect him to Miss Whitman, we could prove your theory. That he was hired to do the deed, turned greedy, and was killed.”

“Yes, yes, I take your point. Put Gibson onto it, then, or Constable Graham. They can sort through responses for you. Once we have a name and a place to begin, we’ll send someone to interview this fellow’s friends and family. The mystery now is what became of French, and what’s the connection with this young woman.”

Rutledge wasn’t particularly happy with the thought of another inspector muddling whatever links there might be between French and the victim. Or between the victim and Miss Whitman. Legwork, yes, that was always helpful. But if conclusions were to be drawn, he wanted to do interviews himself. To know what was said, and how and why.

Markham picked up a file, then set it down again, a preliminary to dismissal.

“You’ve finished your paperwork on the Devon inquiry?”

“It’s in the hands of Sergeant Griffin.”

“Good. Then there’s nothing to keep you in London.”

Rutledge went back to his flat, repacked his valise, and then set it aside.

Chief Superintendent Bowles had been a master at keeping Rutledge out of the way if there was a major inquiry beginning in London. Wherever undeserved credit could be garnered to himself, he preferred not to have Rutledge as a witness to it. And if Rutledge happened to finish a highly publicized case, Bowles barely offered grudging congratulations.

Markham had so far not shown himself to be in the same mold as the man he was temporarily replacing. But this latest meeting had raised alarms in Rutledge’s mind. First the query regarding the use of his motorcar rather than public transportation, and now this business with Miss Whitman. Markham was a hard man to read.

Sergeant Gibson had known Bowles for years before Rutledge joined the Yard, and Inspector Cummins among others had dealt with him as well. But Markham had been brought in from outside, no track record, no gossip to make it easier to penetrate his dour Yorkshire demeanor.

But there was nothing to be done. Even if Markham had been as easy to read as newspaper through a clear glass, it wouldn’t matter. His wishes were law and not to be argued with.

There was still the connection—if any—between Belford and the dead man. Why had Belford, even with his background in policing, offered his own view of the victim’s death? It had been unnecessary, with the Yard in charge. Was it a habit that even now he couldn’t break? Or had he wished to be sure the Yard saw the circumstances in the right light?

Leaving his valise where it was, Rutledge drove back to Chelsea.

Belford was at home, he was told, and after several minutes, the man walked into the sitting room, saying, “Good afternoon, Inspector.”

It was the opening that Rutledge had expected. Giving away nothing, waiting for the other person to lead the conversation.

“I’ve come to ask a few more questions about the body found in the street here.”

Belford gestured to chairs by the open window, and the two men sat down. Belford seemed to be at his ease, politely waiting for Rutledge to continue.

Smiling inwardly, Rutledge said, “I understand you were an officer in the Military Foot Police. I’d been curious to know why you so expertly set out the evidence for us. The three conclusions I might have drawn were an unusually keen eye, police experience, or an attempt to lead us up the garden path.”

The man betrayed himself with a tightening of the lips. Otherwise his face remained impassive. After a moment—to be sure he had himself under control?—he said, “I was not happy to see trouble on this street. I’ve lived quietly and comfortably here for some time. I didn’t wish that to change.”

Mr. Belford had enemies, then. And he had surveyed the scene to protect himself, and viewed the dead man’s face with the same concern in mind.

“I’ve come to ask what conclusions you drew. Other than those pointed out at the time.”

Surprised, Belford said, “Then you have not found out the identity of this man, nor have you learned where he came from and how he was left here. Certainly not where he died.”

“We’ve found out who he is not. There was a resemblance to a member of a merchant family in the city. But he was not that man. Even though he was carrying that man’s watch in his pocket.”

“Ah. The watch. Yes, I thought that might lead somewhere.”

“It was a family heirloom, traced easily enough.”

“Perhaps someone wished to have you believe that the dead man was the owner of the watch. To buy a little time.”

“To what end?”

“To see to it that any remaining evidence of the man’s true identity was successfully destroyed.”

“That’s possible. But how did he come by the watch to create the illusion that this was the owner?”

“A clever pickpocket could have done the trick.”

An interesting possibility. But pickpockets were ten a penny. It would be impossible to question a quarter of them.

“Is a young woman’s honor at stake?”

The question caught Rutledge off guard. “What makes you ask that?”

Belford shrugged. “Even a hundred years ago, an unwelcome suitor could end up in the river. The police are more thorough now. And so one must be more clever in making an unpleasant annoyance disappear. And better for him to disappear, you see, than to be found dead, questions asked, fingers pointed, and all that.”

In the circumstances, it was not a suggestion that Rutledge appreciated, but he had to accept the merits of it.

“The man the dead man was supposed to impersonate is missing. His motorcar with him.”

“Indeed.” Belford frowned. “That puts an entirely different complexion on the watch, doesn’t it?”

“In what way?”

“I don’t really know.”

“Was a mistake made in the first death?”

“Now there’s an interesting prospect.” Belford seemed suddenly keen, his mind already considering and rejecting possibilities.

Rutledge said, “What’s done in anger . . .”

“Yes, of course, it would have to be that, wouldn’t it? And when the head is cooler, one is faced with an extra corpse. But the watch—again, how did the killer come by it?”

“A family member. In this case a sister.” Rutledge thought that over, then shook his head. “Unless of course, all this preparation is to put blame on that sister and rid the killer of her as well as her brother.”

“It won’t be the first time.”

Rutledge rose. “This has been a very interesting conversation. It doesn’t mean that you’ve been struck off the list of suspects. You’re clever enough to have killed the man if in some way he threatened you.”

Belford stood as well. “Like you, I’ve seen a great deal of tragedy. It doesn’t mean that we have been corrupted by it. Good day, Mr. Rutledge.”

And he stayed where he was as Rutledge went to the door.

Driving to Essex, Rutledge mulled over what Belford had told him.

Speculations, all of them. Some of them he’d already considered as he’d driven back to London from Dedham to report to the Yard. But where was the evidence to link any one of the possibilities to the missing Lewis French or the dead man in London?

“Are ye certain of the identification?” Hamish asked. “It could be wrong.”

“My point,” Rutledge said aloud before he thought, “when I asked for the photograph to be sent round to local police stations. Someone ought to recognize him.”

“There’s Norfolk,” Hamish reminded him.

“I know. That’s where I’m going first. Norfolk. And if need be, we’ll look at Cornwall next. What was that man’s name? Fulton.”

The village of Moresley was in the middle of the county, small and ordinary, famous only for the twisted remains of a tree still standing on the narrow green. It had sheltered Nelson on his way south to take up his first command. Whether that story was true or false, the locals had built a small wicker cage around the trunk to protect it from grazing cattle or sheep. The village shared a constable with its nearest neighbor, and Rutledge was fortunate to catch him in Moresley late that evening as he turned into the High Street.

The constable was just mounting his bicycle to finish his rounds. Rutledge pulled up beside him, identified himself, and said, “I’ve come about the missing man report. One Gerald Standish.”

“Mr. Standish, sir?” The constable considered that. “Is he a Yard matter after all? What’s become of him, then?”

“We don’t know. You reported him missing after we sent round a sheet describing a dead man in London.”

“Sir, there was no answer to my query. Inspector Johnson in Norfolk and I thought perhaps the dead man had already been identified.”

“There were several other avenues to explore before I could get here. Tell me a little about Standish.”

“His grandmother lived here. When her son died young, his widow married again, and she didn’t see much of the boy. Still, she left the cottage to him. He came to Moresley after he was demobbed in 1919. Quiet, kept to himself, no trouble. ’Twas his daily, sir, that came to me to say his bed hadn’t been slept in for three nights. She was worried. He hasn’t stayed away this long before. Usually just a day or two, and he comes back tired, confused.”

“Does he own a motorcar?”

“No, sir, he usually gets about by bicycle. But it’s still behind the cottage.”

“Then he can’t have gone too far. Do you know anything about Standish’s background before the war?”

“Just bits and bobs of conversation. He had a little money, and he was careful with it. Inherited from his father, he said, who was an estate manager in Worcestershire. I don’t think he cared much for his stepfather, not unusual in a boy who loses his own father young.”

“Does he receive any mail?”

“As to that, I don’t know, sir. You’d have to ask the postmistress. The post office is in the greengrocer’s shop. I daresay it’s closed now.”

“Where can I find her?”

“She’s the greengrocer’s wife. Mrs. Lessor. They live in that house with the white gate.”

“I’ll have a word with her. Will you come with me?”

Rutledge could see that the constable was torn between arriving home in time for his tea and accompanying Scotland Yard on an interview. Duty won. The constable hesitated for a few seconds and then propped his bicycle against the wall of the ironmonger’s shop before getting into the motorcar.

They drove the short distance to the greengrocer’s small house. Lamplight spilling from a front window lit the path for them as they walked up to the door.

The greengrocer, a bluff man, short and portly, answered their knock.

“Constable Denton,” he said, then turned to look Rutledge up and down before asking Denton, “What’s this about, then?”

Rutledge left explanations to the constable.

“Inspector Rutledge is looking into the disappearance of Mr. Standish. He’s come to ask Mrs. Lessor if Mr. Standish ever received any mail.”

“She’s setting out our tea,” Lessor responded.

“I’m sure it won’t take more than five minutes of her time.” Rutledge’s voice was polite, but it left no doubt that he was not to be put off.

Lessor looked at him again, decided that the Londoner intended to have his way, and, with a sigh, called to his wife.

She was a little flustered when she came to the door. A trim woman in her middle years, she was still wearing her apron, and she seemed to remember it only after she stopped by her husband’s side.

“Um, Constable,” she said. “Is anything wrong?”

Rutledge took charge. “I’m sorry to delay your tea, Mrs. Lessor.” He smiled, and went on to show her his identification and to ask his question.

She looked at her husband, and he nodded. “Well. I don’t believe Mr. Standish has received more than two or three letters in all the time he’s lived in Moresley. I make a point not to look at anything but the name on the front of the envelope. It’s a small village, and I have to be careful, you see. Everyone has secrets . . .”

It was an admirable attitude, but hardly helpful.

“He never said, as you handed him his mail, ‘Ah, that’s from my aunt—my brother—a friend from France’?”

“He did mention when the first one arrived that it was the deed to the cottage. He seemed to be very happy about that. He never said anything about the others.”

Rutledge was getting nowhere.

“Does anyone in Moresley have a connection with a family called French?”

Mrs. Lessor shook her head. “I’ve never heard anyone speak of such a connection. Do they live in Norfolk? You might ask in the town. The Inspector there might know of them.”

Rutledge tried another direction.

“What about his grandmother? She lived here. What does local gossip remember about her?”

Mrs. Lessor glanced again at her husband, as if to be sure she could speak freely. Whatever she read in his expression, it was reassuring. She turned back to Rutledge.

“Mrs. Standish lived alone. She said once that she’d had a falling-out with her son’s wife. My mother told me that she remembered when Mrs. Standish first came here. She was still quite pretty at fifty, with the loveliest hair. We didn’t know until she’d died that there was a grandson. She left a handwritten will leaving the cottage to him. But he was still in France and it was a while before he could be reached. Didn’t Constable Denton tell you?”

He hadn’t. But then Rutledge hadn’t asked about the grandmother, and he doubted if Denton would have remembered the details that Mrs. Lessor had given.

Lessor cleared his throat. His tea was waiting.

Rutledge thanked the man and his wife, and with Constable Denton at his heels, he went to the motorcar.

“Where’s the cottage? I’d like to have a look inside.”

Denton said, “I don’t know if it’s proper. We can’t be sure yet anything has happened to Mr. Standish. He could come home tomorrow.”

“But he hasn’t in a good many tomorrows. If the Yard is investigating his disappearance, then the Yard can have a look at his house.”

The cottage was just down the street, set back under a large tree, rather a pretty place in its day but sadly untended now, the front garden a tangle of late flowers and weeds.

“Mr. Standish wasn’t much of a gardener,” Denton said as they walked to the cottage door. “His grandmother, now, she had a way with growing things.”

The door wasn’t locked, and inside it was quite dark, now that the sun was setting. What’s more, the tree’s shadow prevented the last rays from reaching the front room’s windows. At length Rutledge found a lamp and lit it. As the light bloomed he could see that the cottage was furnished in a style at least a generation earlier, Victorian and rather heavy. But it wasn’t cluttered, save for books scattered everywhere, as if the owner had begun one, then stopped reading that one and picked up another in its place.

A pattern, Hamish was telling him, of a restless mind. For in the month between his release from the clinic and his return to the Yard, Rutledge had done much the same thing, unable to settle to anything.

He felt a coldness as he looked around the cottage. As if he could sense the despair in the owner, and a darkness that wouldn’t lift even when the sun rose.

Hamish said, “Ye’ll find him deid. Whoever he may be.”

And Rutledge thought it was very likely.

There was no private correspondence in the desk, and not much of anything else that would define the character of Gerald Standish or his grandmother. There were no pictures anywhere, but on the wall by the worn chair that stood under the window was a miniature, the ivory oval in its silver frame catching his eye. Rutledge brought the lamp nearer, and decided that the young girl who stared back at him must have been the grandmother, for the style of clothing was early Victorian. He thought she must have just put her hair up, and the occasion was marked by this likeness. She had dark hair, dark, smooth brows in an oval face, high cheekbones that gave him a glimpse of how she must have looked in maturity, and very dark blue eyes. She was too young for her face to show her character, only her loveliness. But whatever life had brought to her, it had ended in a lonely old age.

Rutledge wondered why she had had a falling-out with her son’s wife, but he suspected it very likely had to do with the woman’s marrying again. Looking around him, he thought the elder Mrs. Standish had only enough money to live comfortably in a small village. Or she had been frugal for reasons of her own.

“Sad,” Rutledge said aloud, more to Hamish than to Denton.

The constable came to stand behind him, looking over his shoulder. “Is that Mrs. Standish? Her face was lined and her hair gray when I came to Moresley.”

“Only Gerald Standish can tell us who she is. But it’s likely, I should think.”

Rutledge spent another ten minutes looking through the cottage, upstairs and down. He discovered that the clothes in the cupboard in the bedroom were of good quality with well-known labels. He couldn’t be sure whether they were hand-me-downs or had been purchased new before the war. Nevertheless, Standish had seen to it that they were carefully maintained and well brushed. Denton, coming again to look over his shoulder, commented that Mr. Standish had taken time over his appearance.

“Not vain or anything. It was just the way he had. As if it mattered to him.”

In the end, Rutledge had learned very little, less of it helpful. He even looked at the flyleaves of books, to see if there were dedications.

An enigma, Mr. Gerald Standish. Rutledge returned to the miniature just as he was leaving.

Miniatures were an art. Painting a portrait on ivory with a brush that had only one or two hairs took skill and patience and a great eye for detail that could capture the subject in a few strokes. The artist might be known, although Rutledge could see only initials at the edge the sitter’s shoulder.

“I’ll give you a receipt for this, in the event Standish returns. But I’d like to find the artist. That might tell us the name of the subject.”

He crossed to the desk and began searching for paper and pen, writing out a brief message and signing it.

“But wouldn’t the artist be long dead, sir?” Denton asked.

“I’ve no doubt of it. But anyone this good will be known in art circles, and there’s nowhere else to look for information.”

They left the cottage as they’d found it, Rutledge putting out the lamp, and they saw as they stepped outside that night had fallen in earnest, dark clouds beginning to blot out the stars. The air smelled of thunder.

The village street was deserted save for a dog making its way home, trotting purposefully down the middle until it came to a bungalow. It went to the door, scratched on a panel, and was admitted by the time Rutledge and the constable had caught up with it.

Denton said, “It’s late, sir. If you wouldn’t mind dropping me off in the next village, I’d be obliged.”

Rutledge said after the constable had lashed his bicycle to the boot, “Do you have much trouble in this part of the county?”

“None to speak of, sir. Neither of my villages are rich enough to tempt trouble, and the poor are not destitute. The church and the Women’s Institute see that everyone has food on the table and a roof over our heads. Mind you, I don’t lack for occupation, there’s always keeping the hotheads amongst the young lads from doing something they’ll live to regret, but we don’t run to real crime. That’s why I contacted Norfolk when Mr. Standish went missing, and Inspector Johnson passed the report on to the Yard.”

“What’s your best guess about Standish? Will we find him, do you think?”

“I fear he may be dead, sir. By his own hand.”

It was very late when Rutledge reached Dedham, and he was glad to find a room at the Sun.

The next morning, he set out to find the St. Hilary curate. In most villages he would have paid a call on the doctor, but he rather thought Dr. Townsend would be less than helpful in any matter relating to the French family.

Williams had finished painting the trim along the front of the Rectory, and he was just now clinging precariously to his ladder with one hand as he tried to reach the corner on the west side.

Hearing the motorcar pull into the yard, he glanced over his shoulder, nodded in acknowledgment of a visitor, and put the last touches to the corner before coming down the ladder.

“Sorry. But I knew you wouldn’t mind waiting a bit,” he said in greeting.

“There’s something I want to show you,” Rutledge said and drew out his handkerchief with the miniature cradled carefully inside. “Do you recognize this woman?”

“When was it painted?” Williams started to reach for the ivory, realized his hands were spattered in paint, and hastily withdrew them. He leaned forward instead.

“Sixty years ago? Seventy?”

“Well, it’s not really possible to tell, is it? She’s what? Sixteen in this painting? And even if it’s an accurate likeness, her face would have changed as she aged.”

“Study it, all the same.”

The curate peered at it. “Lovely child, isn’t she? She would have been a lovely woman as well. But I don’t recognize her. Should I?”

Rutledge returned the miniature to his pocket. “No. Although I’d hoped you might. You’ve been a guest at the French house. You’ve very likely called on the Townsends in your pastoral capacity. And Miss Whitman, for that matter. If there was one portrait painted, there could have been another—or even a photograph.”

“Yes, I see. Of course. I’m sorry to say I can’t help you at all. I’ve seen nothing like that.”

“Is Standish a name that’s common in this part of Essex?”

“It’s not common, no, but there’s at least one family in Dedham. The youngest daughter sings in the church choir there. A very nice voice. What’s more, the family is quite fair with ruddy complexions. Not dark at all.”

“Any connection with the French family?”

“I don’t believe so. I’ve never heard one mentioned. And someone surely would have, I think. After all, they’re probably the wealthiest family around.”

Rutledge let it go. “Does Miss Whitman know how to drive?”

“Actually she’s a good driver. During the war, she volunteered. Mostly in the city of Norfolk, I was told.”

Norfolk. Not that far from Moresley. But Gerald Standish had been in France at that time.

Rutledge thanked Williams, asked directions to the house of the former tutor to the French sons, and made his way to a comfortable cottage overlooking the green.

Mr. MacFarland was older than Rutledge had expected. He must have been middle-aged when he taught Michael and Lewis French. White hair rose from a high forehead, but the skin of his face was still smooth, his blue eyes alert. His Highland accent was pronounced, and Rutledge had to suppress the memories it brought back in a surge of images. Faces of the men who had served under him, their voices soft in the quiet of the trenches before an attack, calling encouragement to one another as they charged through the German fire, begging him to hold their hands as they lay dying. Of Hamish, steadfastly refusing to lead his exhausted company into the teeth of the machine-gun nest, close to breaking but strong and determined to put his men first, no matter the cost.

MacFarland said, concern on his face, “Are you all right, man?”

Rutledge clamped down on the past, bringing all his will to bear. “A headache coming on,” he replied as calmly as he could and identified himself, explaining that he was interested in two of MacFarland’s former pupils.

“Come in, then, and have something cool to drink while we talk.” He ushered Rutledge into the front room, cluttered with books and compositions for the elderly harpsichord in one corner.

While he was fetching the water, Rutledge had an opportunity to recover, crossing to a window and looking out on the quiet, pleasant green. Behind the house, the wood closed in, thickening as it marched toward the walls of the park that surrounded the French house.

MacFarland came back with a tray and two glasses of water, saying, “Move those books from the chair and sit down.”

Rutledge did and took the glass held out to him. “How do you keep the instrument tuned?”

“They say the Elizabethans enjoyed the harpsichord, and their castles were damper and gloomier than my house. But I doubt we either of us hear it as it really sounds.” He grimaced. “But I persevere. I’ve always enjoyed music, and it’s the only instrument I learned to play, save for the pipes. And my neighbors aren’t too fond of them, I can tell you.”

Rutledge laughed. “Nor were the Germans.”

“I can’t imagine why you should be interested in any of my former pupils. They all grew up, as far as I know, to be upstanding young men. I lost seven in the war, sadly, but that’s what war is about—young men. Which ones brought you here?”

“The French children. Michael and Lewis.”

“Ah, yes. Michael was one of my seven. And the most promising of all.” He took a deep breath, his blue eyes focused on the past. “I can’t complain of either of my pupils. They were bright and well behaved. Lewis had seizures occasionally, but they seemed to become less frequent as he grew older. Still, he was as active as his brother.”

“Grand mal seizures?”

“Nothing so dramatic. He would just fade away for a moment or two, and then go on as if nothing had happened.”

“There was no trouble between the brothers? Or between the brothers and their sister, Agnes?”

“They got along well enough. Mrs. French was the greatest threat to discipline. She had spells of anxiety and uncertainty, and this kept the household in turmoil. It was sad, really, because the children were neither spoiled nor sheltered and a pleasure to teach.”

“I’ve been told that Lewis was jealous of his brother.”

“Perhaps. Certainly no more so than any younger brother when his elder is all that he’d like to be. On the other hand, when he went away to school, Lewis found his own feet quickly. I like to think that I contributed a little to that by treating him as I treated Michael, in spite of the handicap of seizures.”

“Does the French family—or the Traynors for that matter—have any enemies?”

“That’s a strange question for a tutor. Not to my knowledge. The cousin, young Matthew, was a frequent visitor to the house. His family lived on the other side of the village. When his parents died, he let the house for several years. He was living in Madeira, you see. A pity it is standing empty now. Never good for a house. Back to Traynor—he’s a fine young man, like his cousins.”

“I understand Miss Whitman was also a frequent visitor.”

“Yes, the loveliest girl. She was a friend of Agnes’s, and often at the house. I don’t know what happened to the friendship. Suddenly it was over.”

“What was Agnes French like as a child?”

“Often dissatisfied. Not surprisingly, as the only daughter, it was her lot to look after her parents when they were elderly and infirm. And she nursed them faithfully, difficult as it was dealing with her mother. Her father as well, after his stroke. While her brothers were off in Portugal with their father, she was left to care for the house. It seemed to me that she should have been asked to go with them, at least after her mother’s death. Her brothers came home filled with stories about toboggan rides down a mountainside on a stone chute, going up into the volcanic peaks by horseback, or boating around the island, swimming in the sea. It couldn’t have been easy for her.”

Rutledge could understand what MacFarland was saying in a polite way, that the daughter was ignored and, being a plain child, she understood all too well why she was left out. And then MacFarland underscored Rutledge’s viewpoint.

“I couldn’t help but think that if Agnes had been as pretty and as lively as young Valerie, she would have been treated very differently.”

“Did Miss Whitman try to usurp Agnes French’s place, do you think?”

“Never deliberately so. She was just a child, father absent, lonely and looking for an ordinary family life.”

“Absent?”

“Yes, her father was Royal Navy. Her mother died in childbirth, and she was left with her nurse when he went back to sea. He could hardly take her with him. And to tell truth, I think Valerie was happy enough as it was, running in and out of the house, playing with the French children. She never seemed to notice that she lacked a mother, or that her father was generally away. Everyone made a pet of her, and her sunny disposition, her sweet nature, endeared her to the staff as well.”

Rutledge took out the miniature now, and showed it to MacFarland. But while the tutor admired it, he said, “I don’t know who the sitter is. Sadly. A lovely child.”

Rutledge was on the point of thanking him and leaving when MacFarland said, “You know, I had nearly forgot. Something happened years ago. I expect the children never knew about it because they were upstairs in the Nursery asleep. I was talking to Mr. Laurence French. I’d come to be interviewed for the position of tutor, you see, and after dinner, we left Mr. Howard French in the drawing room and withdrew to the study to finish our conversation about my experience and references. Suddenly a man came bursting into the house. He shoved aside the maid who’d answered the door, and he ran up and down the passage, flinging open inner doors, shouting for Mr. French. Mr. Laurence and I hurried out into the passage to find this strange man with his hands around Mr. Howard’s throat, on the point of throttling him. Mr. Howard backed up, forcing us into the study again, and I entered the fray, trying to pull the man off him. I’d just succeeded, with Mr. Laurence’s help, when the man broke away from us and pulled out a knife. He lunged at Mr. Howard, but Mr. Laurence threw himself in the way and was stabbed in the chest. Mr. Howard cried out in fury, and between the two of us we were able to disarm the man without anyone else getting hurt. I can tell you I was in a state of shock, I’d never dealt with anything like that. Anyone could have been downstairs—Mrs. French—the children—guests, if there had been any—right in the midst of the brawl. Someone would have got badly hurt.”

“What happened next?”

“I sent the housemaid who had opened the door for the footman and the coachman while Mr. French attended his son. Thank God the wound scored his ribs but did no greater damage. All this while, the intruder was babbling in a language I didn’t know, but Mr. French said it was Portuguese and he began questioning him. It was quite dramatic, couldn’t have lasted more than five minutes from start to finish. But I felt I had battled with that man for hours.”

“Did anyone summon the police?”

“Just the doctor. Mr. Howard French had a cut over one eye, the intruder had a split lip, and Mr. Laurence French was bleeding from that chest wound. I was luckier: only my hands were badly bruised.”

“Was this Dr. Townsend?”

“His predecessor. And he gave the man something that made him more manageable. I was asked to stay the night, and in the morning the man was gone. I don’t know what became of him. When I asked, I was told the incident had been handled by the police. But no one ever questioned me.”

“Did French tell you why this man was so angry?”

“Apparently his father—Howard French—had decided to grow his own grapes in Madeira and bought a large farm for the purpose. The previous owner had lost his wife to cholera and he didn’t have the heart to go on. He sold the land to Mr. French for what was then considered to be a fair sum. But the owner’s son, who was in prison in Portugal, felt that he had been cheated. When he was released, he came to Madeira, nearly killed his father, and threatened Howard French. He was tried and convicted but escaped when he was on his way to a Portuguese prison. Somehow he traced the family to England, and he came to Essex demanding justice. He must be dead by now. He was about forty years old when he came to Dedham.”

“Still, he could have passed his feeling that he was cheated on to another member of the family. Do you know, was the vineyard where the farm had been more valuable?”

“I have no idea. I shouldn’t be surprised. It was probably what the man wanted, to be paid the difference. If he’d been intent on killing French, he could have done it more efficiently with a knife or a pistol. Instead he went for his throat.”

“Do you remember if you ever heard the intruder’s name?”

“I could have done and never realized it. I don’t believe he spoke any English. Or if he did, I never heard him. At any rate, I was hired on the spot, for what I’d done to try to help Mr. French fight him off. Something good came of a rather nasty shock.”

“And Mrs. French—was she aware of what had happened?”

“She was upstairs resting. She hadn’t come down to dinner, in fact. But she must have heard the uproar, because the housekeeper later told me she was convinced an irate husband had come to the house. At any rate, she went to bed for a week, refusing to see anyone, even the children. It was given out that she was suffering from a migraine. Naturally I kept my mouth shut. It was a good position, one I was happy to have.” MacFarland shook his head. “I’m sure this has nothing to do with present problems. Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it to you. But it came rushing back, the way memories sometimes do.”

“And you’re quite sure the children were unaware of the intruder?”

“Absolutely. Michael never spoke of it. Lewis heard something, most likely the carriage being brought around, but had no idea what it was all about. If the man had appeared an hour earlier, he would have found the children downstairs saying good night to their father. I shudder to think about that.”

“Did you wonder what had become of the man?”

“Yes, I’m as curious as the next person. But there was my position, you see. I couldn’t ask. Since nothing more was said, I assumed he was taken to London and dealt with there. It would have been the best way to avoid gossip. Besides, the man was as mad as a hatter.”

Rutledge wondered if that was why MacFarland had been hired on the spot, rather than for his resourcefulness in coming to French’s aid—to prevent him from gossiping.

He thanked the tutor and took his leave. Hamish was saying in the back of his mind, “The person to ask is yon clerk. Gooding.”

It was a very good idea.

Rutledge was walking back to fetch his motorcar when the local constable came peddling toward him.

“There you are, sir!” he called out with evident relief. “There’s been a summons from London.” As Rutledge turned to wait for him, Constable Brooks added, “A Sergeant Gibson, sir.”

The constable slowed, got off his bicycle, and fell in step with Rutledge. “The Yard telephoned the inn. They were fairly certain you were out, but the sergeant was insistent. The inn sent for the police, and when Dedham didn’t have any luck finding you, Sergeant Gibson told the constable to look in St. Hilary. He came to me, and we went off in different directions, looking for you. I saw your motorcar in the Rectory yard, but I didn’t know which way you’d gone from there.”

“I’m to call the sergeant? Or return directly to London?” Rutledge couldn’t believe that Chief Superintendent Markham had grown that impatient. But it was the only reason he could think of that Gibson hadn’t left any message.

There was nothing for it but to go back to Dedham and put in a call to London. The two men walked toward the church together, Brooks leading his bicycle. As he was passing the Whitman cottage, Rutledge glanced that way. He could have sworn that he saw a curtain twitch in one of the front windows.

Had Miss Whitman also seen the motorcar on Church Lane and kept an eye out for him, to be forewarned if he came knocking at her door again? He’d waited for her in the churchyard the last time.

Rutledge encountered the constable from Dedham near the gates to the French estate and offered him a lift back to Dedham.

But the man couldn’t tell him any more than Brooks had.

They reached the inn, and Rutledge went directly to the telephone closet. When the call was put through to London, Sergeant Gibson answered almost at once.

“Rutledge here.”

“Sir, there’s been a development. The Chief Superintendent wants you back here to have a look.”

“You can’t give me more information?”

“Sir, I was told not to. Ears.”

The telephone exchange. Then it had something to do with St. Hilary.

“I’ll leave at once.”

“Thank you, sir, and I’ll tell the Acting Chief Superintendent that.”

Rutledge fetched his valise from his room, settled his account, and went on his way.

It was late when he reached the Yard, but the sergeant was waiting for him.

Without a word, Gibson handed him a folder.

Rutledge read it through, then looked up. “When was it found? Lewis French’s motorcar? Are you sure it’s his?”

“We were told not to take any steps until you were back in London. The Surrey police found it in a chalk quarry yesterday morning around dawn. Light reflected from the bonnet, and the constable went to investigate. Lads sometimes go to that quarry to drink, and there had been a fight or two recently. He found the motorcar instead.”

“Had it been tampered with?”

“Not as far as he could tell. But he thought it had been there for some time. He checks the quarry most days, but doesn’t go deep inside unless he sees signs that someone has been prowling about again.”

“How did he identify it?”

“He didn’t. His first thought was that the owner had come there to take his own life. It had happened once before. And so he searched a bit. Finally he went to find a telephone and put in a call to the Yard.”

“Did he, by God! Good man.”

“The Acting Chief Superintendent sent me along to have a look. It fit the description we had of Mr. French’s motorcar. Chassis number, and so on. And there was a dent in the near-side wing. After I’d had a look at the vehicle, we searched the quarry more thoroughly, but there was no sign of a body. To tell the truth, I’d expected to find one. It seemed to me that whoever put the vehicle there hoped the Yard would still be looking in London for the motorcar until the corpse had decomposed. Once I was satisfied, the local man put a constable on to watch the site, and I came back to London to tell you what had been discovered.” Gibson hesitated. “Only, when I tried to reach you last evening at the inn, they told me you weren’t a guest there. Sir.”

“I’d gone first to Norfolk. No answers there. Standish hasn’t come back and there’s been no word from him.”

“I don’t think the Acting Chief Superintendent will be best pleased. He seems to have his heart set on finding French somewhere in Stratford St. Hilary.”

It was a warning.

“Yes, I know. He was certain the motorcar was there as well. Most particularly, he’s pointing toward one of the women. In my view, Agnes French could hardly disappear from her home long enough to dispose of her brother, take a dead man to Chelsea, and then leave the motorcar in Surrey. What’s more, she’d have to find her way from Surrey back to Essex. Her household would know if she had gone away without warning.”

Hamish said, “It wasna’ the sister yon Acting Chief Superintendent believes is guilty.”

Rutledge nearly answered him aloud, biting off the retort at the last second and covering it with a cough.

Gibson made no comment. Norfolk had seemed a reasonable line of inquiry to him as well. Now he was having second thoughts.

On the other hand, the Acting Chief Superintendent was new and an unknown quantity, and Gibson’s first loyalty was to himself. He and Rutledge had always had an uneasy truce, both men doing the best they could under the capricious Bowles, both of them well aware that they couldn’t afford friendship. Bowles would have seen that as collusion, and it would have cost both men dearly.

With only a few hours’ sleep, Rutledge was back at the Yard before eight the next morning, to find Gibson waiting for him on the street, as arranged. The sergeant had very little to say, getting into Rutledge’s motorcar with a grunt and settling down for the drive.

The silence lengthened, lasting until they reached the Surrey chalk quarry. It was well off the main road, down a muddy lane that was overgrown. At the end of it, the great white face loomed above a bed of rubble. It appeared to have been a hill once, before this side had gradually been cut away.

“According to the local man, the quarry was abandoned because it was increasingly unstable. A workman was killed scaling the face.”

The constable guarding the site recognized Gibson and let them through. And the motorcar bounced and jolted over the rubble to where the other vehicle stood.

It was covered with a light dusting of chalk, like summer snow. Rutledge realized that the intent of whoever had brought the motorcar here was to drive it as close as possible to the high face, so that the next major collapse would cover the vehicle. But there must have been a minor fall as the driver was maneuvering the motorcar into position, for the idea had hastily been abandoned. On the whole, Rutledge couldn’t judge just how long the motorcar had been there. From the start? Only a few days?

They got out and clambered over the hummocky chalk. Much of it was darker, more the color of dingy cream, but there were newer, whiter bits as well. As they got closer, their shoes collected the white dust, and Rutledge noted ruefully that his trouser legs were not far behind.

He could see the long dent in the wing well before he reached it.

Rutledge carefully examined it, but the sergeant had been right, there was nothing linking the motorcar to the victim except for that dent.

He got down on one knee, looking up at the undercarriage, scanning the linkages.“Sergeant, my torch from the motorcar, please.”

Gibson went to fetch it and brought it to him as Rutledge, ignoring the damage to his clothing, was inching his way under the chassis. He went over every projection and rough edge he could see, touching each one with his gloved fingers. Nothing hooked or caught, nothing jammed. Just black metal.

He was about to push himself out again when he spotted it, where the housing of the motor was bolted to the frame. It was on the far side from where he’d been lying, almost invisible. But his torch beam had cast a shadow, just an outline that seemed irregular. He edged in that direction, swearing at the uneven chalk bed beneath his shoulders, and saw that a tiny square of cloth had been caught by and then wedged against the bolt.

Unless the motorcar had been put on an overhead rack, it would have been missed, and even then, dark as the cloth was, dark as the paint was just there, it would have been difficult to pick out.

It didn’t want to give up its hold on the bolt. Almost, Rutledge thought, as if it had been glued in place. A measure of the weight pulling against it as a man was dragged, jamming it there.

He slowly worked it loose, careful not to damage it further. He swore again at a lump of chalk digging into his shoulder, a little deeper with every movement he made.

Gibson, bending over to try to see what Rutledge was doing, said, “Any luck?”

Without warning, the tiny fragment of cloth fell, fluttering across his face. Rutledge almost lost it, barking his wrist against the undercarriage as he reached for it before it could drift into the uneven bed of chalk by his head.

Securing his find, he began to wriggle out from underneath the motorcar. It had been too claustrophobic by far, caught there between the heavy vehicle and the chalk, and he could feel his heart pounding now as he saw release coming.

By this time Gibson was on his hands and knees, his face alight with curiosity. He straightened, offered Rutledge a hand up once he was clear of the chassis, and said, “You found something then.”

Rutledge pulled off his driving glove, and there was the small dark square, the weave stretched and twisted from the stress put on it as it snagged.

Gibson said, “Ah,” and poked it with a finger. “Will it match the dead man’s clothing, do you think? There were several tears, as I remember.”

Rutledge dropped the bit of cloth into his handkerchief for safekeeping, folded it, and put it carefully back into his pocket. Using his gloves to dust his coat and trousers, flecking off the worst but unable to budge most of the finer particles, he said, “Did you search the interior?”

“Cursorily, to see if we could find anything to tell us who it belonged to. I told you. The Acting Chief Superintendent ordered us to wait for you.”

Rutledge gave up, putting his gloves back on. “I’ll do that, and afterward we’ll take it to London. I want Gooding, the wine merchant’s clerk, to give us a positive identification. It might shake his complacency.”

Opening the motorcar’s door, he began to examine the interior, looking anywhere that something could have fallen and escaped the killer’s attention.

He thought at first his search was a waste of time. There were no bloodstains or scuff marks to show that a body had been transported any distance in the rear seat. But then a clever killer would have come prepared with a blanket or tarp. Still proceeding methodically from back to front, he asked Gibson look in the boot.

The sergeant had just called to say that it was empty but for the tools usually kept there when Rutledge put his hand beneath the driver’s seat. He pulled out the chamois used to keep the motorcar clean, and something else came with it.

He saw that it was a woman’s handkerchief, lace edged and embroidered with a pretty design of pansies in one corner. It was smudged, as if someone had cleaned his or her fingers on it, then shoved it under the seat out of sight while he or she drove.

He held it up for Gibson to see.

“Do you think a woman could be our killer?” the sergeant asked.

Rutledge had been thinking just that. He said, “How would she lift the dead weight of a man’s body into the motorcar?”

“She has an accomplice,” Gibson answered promptly.

Standish?

Rutledge went on searching, brushing his gloved fingers over the carpets in the hope of bringing to light any small clue that the killer had missed.

The motorcar was clean.

The French household, like Belford’s, would have a chauffeur or a footman in charge of seeing that the motorcar was kept running and ready whenever the owner called for it. If that handkerchief had been there before French’s disappearance, it would have been removed, laundered, carefully pressed by one of the maids, and presented to French to return to its owner—or not, as he saw fit.

The thought was depressing.

“We’ve done what we can,” Rutledge said finally, looking up at the sky as he got out of the motorcar. The sun was disappearing behind clouds, and he thought it best to start for London as soon as possible. “Can you drive this one back to London? It will save some time.”

“I think the Surrey police would be just as glad to be shut of it.” Gibson went to speak to the constable at the entrance.

Watching him go, Rutledge pulled out the handkerchief and looked at it again. It was too clean and fresh to have been under that seat for any length of time. And there were three women in Lewis French’s life who could have left it there. Or a fourth, if Agnes French was right, that her brother had found someone else. He still couldn’t picture Miss Townsend as a murderess, and she would surely have been in the motorcar as a passenger. Agnes French could argue the same, that she’d driven out with her brother during his stay in Essex.

Which left him with Miss Whitman, who claimed she hadn’t seen French since the engagement had been broken off.

And Markham was prepared to put his money on Miss Whitman.

Rutledge glanced up to see that another man had joined Gibson and the local constable. Dressed in street clothes, he looked like an inspector. Gibson had reached the constable on duty, and the other man stepped forward to join the conversation. Then Gibson was thanking them, shaking hands, answering a final question put to him by the newcomer. He appeared to be satisfied when the sergeant had finished speaking, giving him a nod. Without turning even to glance Rutledge’s way, the newcomer walked off, taking his constable with him.

Gibson came back to say, “They’ve no complaint. But they’d appreciate a copy of the final report on the motorcar and the inquiry regarding it.”

A standard courtesy.

Rutledge took the crank in hand and reached down to insert it and turn it. He said, “I’ll follow you. If you have any trouble, signal me, and I’ll pull over.”

He made certain that Gibson could manage the extraction from the quarry, told him what he wished to do, then led the way out of the gates to the nearest road as thunder rolled in the distance, like the guns in France. Rutledge was grateful that he had his own motorcar to himself.

Gibson pulled up as close to the wine merchant’s door as he could, and Rutledge stopped just beyond him. The rain had held off, but only just.

He went inside, leaving Gibson with the two motorcars, and asked for Gooding.

When the senior clerk came into the room, Rutledge said, “Will you step outside for a moment?”

Gooding frowned. “Do you have more information, Mr. Rutledge? You can speak freely here.”

“That will depend on what you can tell me first.” He turned and held the door. Gooding had no choice but to precede him outside.

The wind had picked up. Gooding looked first to his right, as if expecting to see someone standing by the door, and only then to his left. His frown deepened as he recognized the vehicle, his gaze moving on to Sergeant Gibson behind the wheel.

“That’s Mr. French’s motorcar.” He hesitated, then asked, “Will you please tell me what it is you know?” His voice was strained. “Why is a policeman driving, and not Mr. French?”

“The motorcar was reported abandoned. By the Surrey police.”

“Surrey? Has there been an accident? Is Mr. French all right?” Gooding began to walk toward the motorcar, his eyes going directly to the deep indentation in the wing.

“It was found just as it is in an unused quarry. Was it damaged that way when last you saw Mr. French driving it? There, on the wing?”

“No—no, it wasn’t. He stopped by here to sign some papers regarding a shipment, and I walked out with him afterward. But what was he doing in Surrey?” He might as well have said “the antipodes.”

“And you would be willing to swear that this is indeed Mr. French’s motor?”

“Yes, I assure you,” Gooding replied testily. He looked at Rutledge. “What is it you aren’t telling me? Do you know where Mr. French is?”

“I wish I did,” Rutledge told him somberly. “I have another call on my time this afternoon. But if you will accompany Sergeant Gibson, there’s a body I want you to see. And this time, like it or not, you’ll view it for Scotland Yard.”

“Dear God. But surely— Are you telling me Mr. French is dead?”

“We don’t know,” Rutledge said. And he stayed with Gooding while he told the junior clerks that he would be away for an hour, helping the police with their inquiries, then saw him off with Gibson.

When they were out of sight, Rutledge got into his own motorcar and drove to the house where Lewis French lived in London.