Proof of Guilt

Chapter Nine

Rutledge had not questioned the London household until now. He was fairly certain that Agnes French had told them very little—and learned even less. French had last been seen in Essex, after all, and when Miss French arrived in London, the staff not only had been surprised to see her there but were totally unprepared to receive her. Now, with the motorcar surfacing in Surrey, so close to London, the complexion of the case had changed.

It was still a fashionable address, although Mulholland Square had been built years before the turn of the century. Rutledge, looking up at the mansard roof and the stone facings at the windows, decided that if Howard French had bought the property as an investment, it had been very sound. And it spoke of old money, settled and respectable.

He lifted the knocker and let it fall.

The middle-aged woman who answered the door opened it wide for him to enter when he told her he was from Scotland Yard.

Miss French had stayed here, but she hadn’t felt at home here. The staff was her brother’s, not her own, and it was now his principal residence. She had taken the train back to Essex rather than wait for news of him here. That, then, was Rutledge’s starting point.

The woman said. “I’m Mrs. Rule, housekeeper to Mr. French. Is there a problem, Inspector?”

“It would be best if we spoke in private,” he replied with a glance toward the staircase. He could just hear someone using a carpet sweeper on the first floor.

She too glanced over her shoulder toward the stairs, then took him to a small parlor, where he was offered a seat. Still standing, she waited for him to begin, her hands clasped lightly in front of her as if to calm her rising concern. He could see the tension around her eyes.

“When was the last time you saw Mr. French?” he began.

She looked at the painting on the wall behind him as if it could give her the date. “It’s three weeks now, almost. He drove to Essex to visit his fiancée and to prepare the house in Dedham for his cousin’s visit.”

“When do you expect Mr. Traynor to arrive in England?”

“Any day now, I should think. Mr. French was expecting him last week, but apparently it has been difficult to arrange passage. Quite frustrating, he said, but then Mr. Traynor did speak the language.”

“Why was it difficult?”

“Mr. French didn’t say, only that Mr. Traynor had had to travel to Lisbon first, then take passage from there, rather than come directly from Madeira. I believe there are packets that bring wine and messages to the City on a regular schedule. Mr. Gooding—he’s the senior clerk in the firm—is to notify me as soon as he learns a date. Word will come to him, as he must know where and when to meet the ship.”

“And Mr. Gooding hasn’t contacted you?”

“No, sir, not yet. I did ask Miss French when she came to the house if she had heard any news, but she said she hadn’t, that she wasn’t privy to her brother’s arrangements. I’d thought at first that she had come down to greet Mr. Traynor. She was always fond of him.”

“She didn’t tell you why she visited London so unexpectedly?”

“No, sir, she was in a fractious mood when she came, meaning no disrespect to her, and she spent most of her time in her room, even taking her meals there.”

“Does Mr. French usually drive himself?”

“Yes, sir, he prefers it.”

“Who maintains the motorcar for him?”

“He sees no reason to keep a chauffeur. We have a footman who sees to it. He’s quite good with mechanical things.”

“Has there been any recent damage to the motorcar?”

“I haven’t been told if there was. George would have said something. He’s very particular about it, you see.”

“I’d like to speak to him later.”

“Yes, sir. Has something happened to Mr. French, sir? Seeing that you’re from Scotland Yard . . .” She let her voice trail off as if afraid to put what she was thinking into words.

“We don’t know. He left Essex some days ago, and we haven’t been able to locate him.”

“That’s unlike him, sir. Mr. French generally keeps Mr. Gooding informed of his whereabouts. Have you spoken to him?”

“He hasn’t been contacted by Mr. French. Have you met Miss Townsend?”

“She and her parents came to dinner here on their last visit to London, just before the engagement was to be announced.”

“Tell me about her parents.”

She said, “I don’t wish to speak out of turn, sir.”

“You won’t be. Not to a policeman.”

“Well, there’s little to tell. Her father is a doctor and rather—” She searched for the right word. “He’s a man who knows his own mind,” she ended.

Rutledge interpreted that to mean he was hard to please.

“Her mother is such a kind lady, very quiet but with a surprising sense of humor. It was a pleasure to serve her.”

“Dr. Townsend is very strict where his daughter is concerned,” Rutledge commented and watched her brows go up in surprise.

He wondered if she would have used another word. But she said only, “She’s such a lovely young lady. I’m sure he means well.”

“Did you meet the young woman Mr. French was engaged to before he met Miss Townsend?”

“Miss Whitman,” she replied warily. “She came to dinner a few times. The staff liked her very much. I was sorry to hear that she had broken off their engagement.”

“How did Mr. French take it?”

“He was not as upset as I’d expected. More philosophical, you might say.”

Rutledge could just imagine that he was.

“He left for Newmarket the very same day, expecting to meet friends there. Dr. Townsend was also invited. I happened to hear Mr. French tell another of his friends that the doctor would arrive for the weekend. I expect that’s how he came to know Miss Townsend.”

Or he was already intending to court her father, and then her.

As if she’d heard his thoughts, Mrs. Rule said, “It did seem that his broken heart mended very quickly. But young men will be young men.”

Rutledge took out the handkerchief that he’d retrieved from under the seat in the motorcar. “We found this in Mr. French’s motorcar, in Surrey. A lady’s handkerchief, I should think. Do you by any chance know the owner?”

“I would have no way of knowing, sir. Except that Miss French favors handkerchiefs with her initials in the corner. Did you say you’d found the motorcar—but not Mr. French?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She was shaken. “When I saw a policeman at the door, I knew something was wrong. Is—is there bad news? Was there . . . a crash on the road?”

He said, “We have very little information at all. That’s why I’m here. Did Mr. French often visit friends in Surrey?”

But Mrs. Rule knew very little about her employer’s personal life and could say only “I don’t know that I’ve heard him mention visiting anyone in Surrey. Certainly we’ve not entertained guests from there in return.” Her eyes began to fill with unshed tears. “I do hope there’s nothing wrong.”

When she had recovered a little from her shock, Rutledge asked to speak to George.

He was directed to the mews, where the motorcar was kept.

George as it happened had been an aircraft mechanic during the war, and he had taken the position of footman because he would also be in charge of the motorcar. When Rutledge asked him if there had been any dents or scratches on the chassis of French’s motorcar, he was indignant.

“It’s in perfect condition,” he said. “And no one can say any different.”

“You’d swear to that?”

“I would, sir, yes. That’s to say, when it left here it was. But Mr. French is a careful driver, and he wouldn’t bring it back to me in any shape but the one he’d found it in.”

Rutledge said, “Where do you keep the chamois you use when cleaning the vehicle?”

“Under the front seat, sir. Mr. French likes to see the headlamps and other chrome bright. I leave one there for him.”

“Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“A lady’s handkerchief?”

“No, sir, never. Why should I have done that? Has Mr. French made a complaint, sir?”

“He hasn’t. But we found the motorcar in Surrey, and we haven’t been able to speak to Mr. French so far.”

“He can’t be far away. Here, you haven’t left him without it?”

It was all Rutledge could do to prevent George from claiming the motorcar in the name of Lewis French and driving it to Surrey to search for him, even though he couldn’t think where to start. “It could have been a malicious prank, sir, and he’ll be quite angry.”

Rutledge had to tell the footman that no prank was involved.

When he left, George was standing in the door of the mews, looking like a man who had lost a friend.

And Hamish was hammering away at the back of Rutledge’s mind, reminding him that the dent in the wing wasn’t evidence until the dead man’s clothing had been shown to match the bit of cloth found on the frame.

Gibson had returned to the Yard by the time Rutledge got there. He encountered the sergeant in the passage beyond the stairs.

“What did Gooding have to say when he saw the body?”

“He didn’t know who it was. Certainly not Mr. French. He worried me, did Mr. Gooding. His hands were shaking so he could hardly get out of the motorcar when I took him back to the wine merchant’s.”

“He thought it was going to be Mr. French?”

“I expect he did, the Yard finding the motorcar and then calling on him for news of his employer.”

“Was the body Mr. Traynor, by any chance?” It was only a wild guess.

“I didn’t ask. But he knows Mr. Traynor, and he’d have said as much when I asked him if he could identify the body.”

That was true.

“Did you feel he was telling the truth?”

“He appeared to be. What’s to be done with the motorcar now, sir?”

Rutledge gave him instructions to return it to the Mulholland Square mews, and Gibson nodded.

“I’ll see to it, sir. Meanwhile, while I was at the morgue, I took the liberty to bring back the packet with the dead man’s effects in it, including his clothing.”

“Let’s have a look.” As they walked back toward Rutledge’s office, he told Sergeant Gibson what he’d learned at the French family’s London house.

It was Gibson’s turn to ask, “Did you believe the housekeeper and the footman?”

“On the whole, I think I did. There’s no reason for them to lie. They have good positions, and Mr. French doesn’t appear to be a difficult employer.” He opened the door to his office.

A large brown parcel bound in string covered his desk.

He cut the string and opened the paper. It yielded shoes, stockings, undergarments, trousers, suspenders, a shirt and tie, and a coat.

Rutledge set most of the smaller items aside and looked at the shoes first.

The toe of one and the side of the other were scuffed, adding further proof, if it was needed, that the dead man had been dragged.

Then he spread the trousers out across his desk, where he could examine them carefully. There were rents in one cuff, snags here and there, but as far as he could see, there were no places where a piece of the cloth was missing.

He turned from that to the coat. At first he couldn’t find what he was looking for. The front and one arm had suffered from being dragged—threads pulled here and there, bits of gravel and dirt lodged in the fabric, and the back seam had opened up near the collar. It wasn’t until he had lifted the collar that he saw the hole.

He took out his handkerchief, unfolded it, and held the contents up next to the coat.

The pattern matched perfectly, although the bit of cloth from the motorcar was stretched and distorted from having been ripped forcibly from the coat.

Rutledge put his finger gently into the tear. It went through the lining, although the shirt, when he checked that, had no matching rip.

Had the man’s neck snapped as the coat snagged, ripped, and then with the weight of the body, pulled free, leaving behind only a tiny telltale bit?

“It’s murder, isn’t it, sir?” Gibson asked, looking over his shoulder.

“Or the driver panicked and tried to cover up what had happened.”

“Then who was driving, sir? It couldn’t have been this man. It must have been Mr. French. And that’s why the motorcar had to be disposed of. With that dented wing, the evidence was too strong, once we’d connected the dead man to Essex.”

“If it was French, why didn’t he simply report an accident?” He could have told any tale that suited the circumstances, and Lewis French, of Dedham, would have been believed.

Rutledge’s mind made the leap before Gibson could answer his question.

The tutor had told him about a man bursting into the house and threatening the family. That was decades ago. What had become of the intruder?

If he’d been in prison until now, if he’d been released, finally, having served his sentence for attacking Howard French and his son with a knife, he could have come back to Essex with murder—or blackmail—in his heart.

Was this the troublesome thing that French needed to discuss with Matthew Traynor? Had an approach been made?

What if the killer, thwarted in his intentions, had resorted to murder and had got the wrong man? It would explain why French—without his motorcar and uncertain where to turn—had gone to ground. Was he waiting for his cousin to reach England before coming out of hiding and demanding that the police do something? If he’d been injured in the struggle, he might very well have found sanctuary until he had healed sufficiently to deal with the situation.

That would also explain how French came to lose his watch.

Hamish spoke, his deep voice with its soft Scots accent echoing in the room so loudly that Rutledge expected Sergeant Gibson to stare about looking for the source.

“The man was killed with French’s ain motorcar. Wha’ else but French couldha’ been driving?”

And the only answer that Rutledge could think of was Someone he trusted.

Which brought him back to the lady’s handkerchief with the little embroidered pansies in the corner.

Pansies. For remembrance.

Eager as he was to drive straight through to Dedham, while in London, Rutledge made a detour to the shop of the jeweler.

Galloway was pleased to see him, asking immediately if the pocket watch had been helpful in bringing in a murderer.

“The inquiry is still open, but yes, it’s proved immensely helpful,” Rutledge replied. “Now there’s another small matter I’d like to explore.”

He brought out the miniature and set it on the counter in front of Galloway.

“Well, well. What an exquisite little ivory,” the jeweler said, leaning forward to admire it. “Certainly fine workmanship, and the sitter is quite lovely. How did you come by it?”

Rutledge was prepared with a portion of the truth. “There’s another man in this inquiry besides the owner of the watch. He lives alone, his family having predeceased him. This miniature was in the house his grandmother had left to him, and we rather think the image may be hers. Her son was an estate manager in Worcestershire. It would be helpful if we could learn more about her grandson and about his family. This is the only clue I have. If we could find out who the artist was, we might discover who the grandmother was.”

“Have you tried Somerset House?”

“I’m afraid the sorts of records I’d like to uncover wouldn’t be there. For instance, who were the true parents of this young man? And does he have any connection with the family who presented the watch? The public record can tell me when he was born, and who is officially listed as his mother and father. The Yard can find out if the father had ever been in prison or suspected of any crime. If he served in the Army. Known facts. Not gossip. It could well be that the grandmother was the child I am looking for. There was money at one time, enough to have this painted when she came of age. Did she marry well? Poorly? What did she tell her son and grandson about her past? What, for that matter, did she even know to tell them?”

Galloway nodded. “I take your point. As you know, I have a brother with connections in the art world. If he can’t tell me more about this little painting, then I’ll be very surprised.”

Rutledge smiled. “Thank you. When we’ve finished with it, I shall have to return it to its rightful owner. Meanwhile, I leave it in your care.”

The call on Galloway had not taken an inordinate amount of time. When he reached Dedham, the shops were still open and Rutledge went in search of one that sold embroidered handkerchiefs. The first two carried only initialed, Irish linen, or lace edged. Hand embroidery, he was told, was hard to come by since the war, most people accepting the inferior machine-made handkerchiefs for lack of a better choice.

The third was a shop called Mary’s. The window was decorated with paper flowers, children’s pinafores, and an assortment of gloves.

A middle-aged customer was gossiping with the woman behind the counter, regaling her with a story in a low voice that indicated how salacious it was. She broke off in some confusion as Rutledge came through the door, and hastily bade the younger woman a good day before hurrying out.

There were no other customers in the shop, and the woman behind the counter turned to Rutledge with a polite “Could I help you with anything, sir?”

He took the handkerchief out and placed it on the counter, so that the embroidered corner was uppermost. “I’m looking for something like this for my sister.”

She didn’t need to examine it. He could tell that she had recognized it at once.

Smiling sadly, she said, “I’m afraid we don’t carry these any longer. The woman who embroidered them for us died in the spring. She was quite elderly, but her fingers were as nimble as a girl’s. My customers bought them as a kindness, because this was her only income, but also because they were so charming. Flowers, birds, puppies, kittens.” Shaking her head, she added, “I could have sold dozens of them, but of course she could turn out only so many.”

“Who bought them?”

She frowned. “I don’t talk about the people who come to my shop.”

He took out his identification and set it on the counter next to the handkerchief.

She stared at it, then looked back at him. “Why are you here? Not for a lady’s handkerchief, surely.”

“It’s precisely why I’m here. Did other shops carry this particular line of embroidery?”

“They were exclusive to Mary’s. Because Miss Delaney could only provide so many a week.”

“Did Miss French, for example, purchase the pansies?”

“She preferred roses. Miss Whitman and Mrs. Harris bought pansies.”

“Who is Mrs. Harris?”

“She’s the sister of the owner of the Marlborough Head.”

This was the inn just down the High Street from the Sun.

“Was there a large market for the birds?”

“Yes, they were quite popular. The chats and the tits were quite lovely. My mother was fond of the puppies. Could you tell me why you’re asking these questions? Has it to do with Mary’s?”

“This handkerchief was found in Surrey. I don’t know how it came to be there. Or why. If this handkerchief was exclusive to your shop, I needn’t waste my time in London or Hatfield.”

She appeared to be relieved. “Yes, of course. I can tell you that this particular example was indeed embroidered by Miss Delaney because of the delicacy of the stitches. See for yourself.” She went to a drawer along the back wall of the shop and took out several handkerchiefs. Bringing them to Rutledge, she pointed to a nosegay of violets. “Compare these to the pansies.”

“Yes, I do see,” he replied. The difference was noticeable. He found himself thinking that Miss Delaney must have had extraordinary eyesight to take such tiny stitches, giving the colors almost a three-dimensional quality. “Thank you.” He picked up the handkerchief and returned it to his pocket. “I must caution you not to discuss my visit with anyone. It’s police business at the moment.”

“Yes, of course, I do understand.”

The door behind him opened, and two women came in, chatting and laughing. He used their presence to make his escape without having to answer more questions.

His next call was at the Dedham police station. The constable behind the desk looked up from the forms in front of him, realized that Rutledge was a stranger, and asked, “Yes, sir. Could I help you?”

Rutledge identified himself. “I’m here about an old case that might—or might not—have a connection with an event in St. Hilary some fifteen or twenty years ago. You’re too young to remember. Is there anyone who might recall the event?”

The constable’s face brightened. “That would be Sergeant Terrill. He’s only just retired. You’ll find him in Laurel Cottage on the St. Hilary road.” He gave Rutledge directions, adding, “If there’s more we can do, Inspector Thompkins will be in shortly.”

Terrill’s cottage stood in a small open space just before a copse of trees. Both the house and the gardens were in such good condition that it was clear the sergeant had found time heavy on his hands after his retirement to civilian life.

Rutledge ran him down in the back garden, cultivating between rows of vegetables, sleeves rolled up and his forehead creased with the effort.

Terrill looked up, straightened quickly, and said, “I don’t believe I know you.”

“You don’t,” Rutledge replied. “Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard. The constable on duty in Dedham told me how to find you.”

Terrill visibly relaxed, saying, “And what brings you to Essex, sir?”

“Curiosity,” Rutledge told him. “I have heard that, some years ago, a madman broke into the house belonging to the French family and made threats. But he was quickly apprehended and sent away to be locked up. Had you joined the police by that time?”

“I had, a green constable who hardly knew his arse from his elbow. But how did you come to know about this?”

“A tutor had just arrived to be interviewed for a position teaching the two French boys. He was in the house at the time.”

“Was he, by God. We were never told about that. Someone would have interviewed him.”

“I don’t think the family wanted that. And I find that curious. Will you tell me what happened?”

Terrill led Rutledge to a pair of benches under a tree.

“One of the household, a maid, came running into the police station in St. Hilary, where I was posted at the time. She was frightened out of her wits, and I sent her along to Dedham on my bicycle, to find Inspector Wade. I got to the house first, of course, being closer. It was already dark, and the door stood open to the night. From inside I heard raised voices, and I was that glad to see the Inspector arriving on my heels. The maid had run into him coming out of his house after his dinner. He set me to watch the door and charged inside. There was even more of an uproar, and he shouted for me. I ran in to help. In the drawing room, it was a sight. Overturned tables and chairs, the elder Mr. French standing there like something carved from stone, and the Inspector trying to handcuff a dark-haired man who was so red in the face, I thought he would have an apoplexy. I added my weight to that of the Inspector, and we finally got the fellow under control, wrestling him into a chair while French watched.”

“French. Which member of the family was he? The father or the grandfather of the present Mr. French?”

“Lewis French’s grandfather. Mr. Howard French. He had just come up from London. His son was lying on the floor, blood on his face and murder in his eyes if I ever saw it. I went to help him, and he shook me off with an oath, stood up on his own, swaying a little. The doctor was there; he’d been attending to Mr. Laurence, and next he went to look at Mr. Howard’s lip. I could see a bloody knife on the floor, kicked to one side.”

“Go on.”

“The elder Mr. French didn’t seem best pleased to see us. He told us that the man was out of his head and that he wanted him dragged off to the nearest asylum, not to gaol. I didn’t doubt he was right. The man was still cursing and yelling in a foreign tongue that we were later told was Portuguese. Both Mr. French and his father spoke it. We asked the elder Mr. French to translate, but he got fed up and turned to tell us that there was no reasoning with the man. He said that the intruder accused the family of theft, and it was clear that he would have to be shut up, or he’d come back to finish what he’d begun. Even I could see it was true. It was as if the man was obsessed, shouting abuse and threats even with the police standing right there. That’s when the doctor gave him something to settle him down. Inspector Wade wasn’t happy about that, but I couldn’t see what else to do.”

“That was the end of it?”

“Mr. Howard spoke up, then. He said he felt sorry for the poor devil—his words—and that he was a stranger in a strange land, and he himself would pay for whatever was needful. His care, whatever treatment was required. The Inspector still wanted to know what the fuss was about, and the younger Mr. French said the man’s father had sold a certain property in Madeira to the family, and his son, who had a history of mental disturbance, had taken it into his head that the farm had been stolen from him and that the father had had no right to act without his knowledge. The son had, in fact, been in prison at the time for violent protests against the Portuguese government.”

“Was this true? Was there any legal proof offered to you?”

“It wasn’t for me to ask, and it seemed that the Inspector believed Mr. French. In the circumstances, there was the evidence of our own eyes that the man was mad, and even with the drug he’d been given, you could read his face. He wanted blood. It was as simple as that.”

“Was the intruder taken to the police station and kept in custody?”

“Mr. French asked the doctor for his opinion, and the doctor said that he didn’t think custody was the answer, that the man was too violent and would have to be kept sedated if we expected to handle him. There was also the language problem.”

“This was Dr. Townsend?” Rutledge had been given the answer by MacFarland, but he wanted to be sure.

“No, the doctor before him. I can tell you, I didn’t relish the idea of having to feed and take care of someone all but foaming at the mouth with madness. They discussed it a bit between them, and the doctor suggested a private asylum near Cambridge. I didn’t know anything about it, but Inspector Wade had heard of it. The question was, who would pay for such care? Mr. French said he felt responsible and would see to it that the man wanted for nothing. The doctor replied that it was very generous of him. And it was. He could have had the man up for attempted murder.”

“What then?”

“Mr. French contacted Cambridge. They asked if the patient could be brought to them for observation. There was nothing they could do until they had seen the lay of the land, like. And so Mr. Howard French and the doctor bundled the man into a carriage, and they set out for Cambridge then and there. Inspector Wade wanted me to take statements from everyone first, but as Mr. French was not pressing charges, it was agreed that the matter was no longer the concern of the police.”

“And Wade was satisfied with that?”

“He was. He said that if the man had behaved properly, coming to the house and speaking to Mr. French about his belief that his father had been cheated, rather than forcing his way in and attacking Mr. French, he’d have insisted on giving him a hearing. But he couldn’t speak the language, all the evidence in the case was in a foreign land, and the man was in no mood to be reasoned with. Mr. Laurence reminded everyone there were women and young children in that house, and if the intruder got loose, next time there might be far more serious consequences.”

“Did you learn this man’s name?”

“I did. And I was not likely to forget it. Ever. Afonso Diaz.”

“Was he committed to the asylum for the rest of his life?”

“Yes, of course he was. But there’s new thinking now on such cases. I discovered quite by chance that he was released two years ago. A broken man, the doctors at the asylum said, and no threat to himself or anyone else.”

“Was he sent back to Portugal?”

“No, sir, he had learned a trade and was content to stay in England.”

“What trade?” Rutledge could hear the echo of Hamish’s voice: What trade for a man like Afonso Diaz, who had come to England to commit murder?

“Gardening. He’d spent the last ten years tending the asylum gardens. He talked to the plants, I was told, but was meek as a lamb otherwise. A very modern doctor, it seems, who didn’t believe in keeping such a man under lock and key, judged him cured.” There was doubt in the sergeant’s voice.

“Where did he choose to go to live after leaving the asylum?”

“He went to Surrey, I was told.”

The question was, could this old man be a threat to the family now? Could he have plotted to kill Lewis French, only a child when Diaz had gone to the French house, and something, somehow had gone wrong? How could he have driven French’s motorcar all the way to that quarry? Where indeed had he learned to drive? He would not have forgot where to find the French family, whatever else he could or could not do.

Rutledge could see that he had no choice but to look into Afonso Diaz’s movements in the last few weeks. But it seemed that the sergeant was right. After all, the asylum had chosen to free him, and there was his age, to boot. Still, the Yard couldn’t ignore the connection with the French family.

Terrill was saying, “One good thing came of that night. I was promoted out of St. Hilary the very next week, and another man was brought in from Suffolk. Inspector Wade found himself in the Cambridge constabulary. And the housemaid who had come screaming to my door was told never to speak of that night again, on pain of instant dismissal. She was a clever girl, she knew better than to embarrass the family.”

And so all evidence that Afonso Diaz had ever come to St. Hilary had been expunged. Except in the memories of a tutor and a policeman.

Rutledge found himself wondering if the family had done that out of guilt or out of a care for the firm’s good name. If the land that had made French, French & Traynor famous for its fine wines had once belonged to the Diaz family, and the sale was questionable, the repercussions could have been formidable. Howard French had saved his family—and his firm—by his quick actions.

On the whole, Rutledge believed that French had been telling the truth. He was too good a businessman to cheat a rival.

Hamish said, “Gossip doesna’ hear the truth.”

This was pressing new information. He ought to go directly to Surrey. But there was the matter of the handkerchief still to be dealt with. Until he could learn more about Diaz, the evidence still pointed directly at Valerie Whitman.

And before he left Essex, he would have to call on her.