Proof of Guilt

Chapter Twenty

Rutledge was about to leave Dedham for London when he saw the curate pedaling toward him, the market basket on his bicycle filled with purchases, including a bunch of carrots whose frothy tops swung back and forth in front of him like the bar of a metronome. Williams didn’t notice Rutledge at first, his mind clearly elsewhere. When he did, he nearly fell over trying to slow to a stop.

“You aren’t here to take Miss Whitman into custody? Are you?” he demanded.

“No. If it happens, the local police will see to it.”

“Dear God. I can’t take it in. Her grandfather—murder. I tried to talk to her, but she won’t open the door. I wanted to ask if I could do her marketing so that she wouldn’t have to face the whispers and the backs turning.” He gestured to his basket. “It’s the least I could do. And I’ve kept her in my prayers. Her grandfather as well. I don’t want to believe that Mr. French is dead. Murdered. It’s inconceivable.”

Rutledge said, “He hasn’t reappeared. There’s no other conclusion we can draw.”

“He could be in hiding. Frightened, not sure where he can put his trust.”

“Then why hasn’t he come forward now that Gooding is in custody?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps the police believe it was Gooding who tried to kill French, but it wasn’t. And that person is still at large.”

“How did Traynor and French get on?”

“I have no idea. Mr. Traynor was in Madeira when war broke out in 1914. I was looking forward to meeting him. But I should think, being cousins, that they worked together well. The firm appears to be successful enough. There was even talk of enlarging the house, after Mr. French’s marriage.” He grimaced. “Miss French was certain he’d expand across her beloved rose garden.”

And that would drive Agnes French to murder, if nothing else, Rutledge thought wryly. Everyone had a breaking point.

No matter where he turned, Rutledge could see arguments for and against each possible motive for Lewis French’s death.

Where was the proof that he so badly needed to find?

Thanking the curate, he made a decision, turned about, and went back to call on the French family’s tutor, Mr. MacFarland.

He knocked at the cottage door, but there was no answer.

Glancing back at the Green, he could see from where he stood that no one was walking there. Marketing?

On the off chance that the tutor was enjoying the fine weather in his garden, Rutledge walked around to the back of the cottage.

There was a small arbor fashioned out of trimmings from the trees that marked the far boundary of the property, and it was set between a pair of apple trees. From where he stood, Rutledge could see sheet music scattered in front of the bench, but MacFarland wasn’t there.

Calling, he waited for an answer, but there was none.

Hamish, just behind him, was warning him to take care.

It was all Rutledge needed to go forward, toward the bench. Hamish had always had a feeling for trouble. Some of the men had claimed he had The Sight, but Rutledge believed it was only that finely attuned sense that some men had, honed even more sharply by war.

He reached the bench and saw that the music had not been put down but had been scattered and trampled. As he lifted the sheets, collecting them, he saw a stain in one corner.

Blood. And quite fresh.

He cast about under the trees, but there was no one there. He felt the urgent need to go through the house, but while he was here, he walked on to the high grass just beyond the apple trees. And there he found MacFarland.

The man’s white hair was dyed red with his own blood.

Rutledge, swearing under his breath, ran forward, pushing aside the heavy clumps of grass to kneel beside the tutor.

He was breathing. Just. Someone had struck him hard on the back of the head, and the ground beneath him as well as his shirt was wet with blood.

Rutledge lifted him a little, speaking his name.

“MacFarland? Can you hear me? It’s Rutledge.”

There was no reaction at first, and then the man’s eyelids fluttered. He uttered something that sounded like a muffled cry of fear and struggled to free himself.

“You’re safe, MacFarland. It’s over. I’m from Scotland Yard. Remember?”

The tutor’s eyes cleared, focused, and then he said, “Rutledge?” as if the man from London had appeared out of nowhere. “Beware! I think he’s still here.”

And with that he lost consciousness again.

The attack had only just happened, Rutledge thought. Had his arrival frightened off whoever it was? Looking back toward the house, he could see where the grass had been flattened by dragging MacFarland into cover, to hide his body from whoever had arrived without warning. A hasty attempt, in the hope that the caller would go away again?

Would the attacker come back? Or had he fled when he had the chance?

There was no way of knowing.

Rutledge reached down, collected MacFarland’s unconscious form, and with some difficulty, lifted him into his arms.

Despite the need to hurry, Rutledge took his time getting out of the heavy grass with his burden, for fear of tripping. But once out into the open, he moved quickly, through the kitchen garden, around the house, and to his motorcar.

Depositing MacFarland there, he cranked the motor, got in, and started toward Dedham. Looking behind him, he saw that no one had tried to follow him from the back garden, and he felt a surge of relief that he’d got the tutor clear. He had just reached the wooded parkland that surrounded the French family’s property when something whizzed past his ear, followed almost at once by the sound of a shot. Hitting the accelerator, he felt the big touring car leap forward, putting distance between him and danger before anyone could aim and fire a second time.

Hamish was urging him to stop and find the shooter, but Rutledge was intent on getting MacFarland to Dr. Townsend. His mind was already processing what little he knew, that the shot must have come from the trees very near the wall that surrounded the French family’s park. He couldn’t afford to lose MacFarland, his only witness to Afonso Diaz’s attack on Howard French. The shooter could wait.

The pieces fit together. It would be very easy to reach the rear of the MacFarland cottage from the place where the shot had been fired. Into the French park, over the wall, through the scatter of trees and high grass, protected from view from most of the village, protected even from the MacFarland house. A killer had only to wait for the tutor to walk into his own back garden on a fine day. It must have been a habit of MacFarland’s to sit in that arbor for a time, one the killer must have noted. But why attack him in the first place?

When he got to the doctor’s surgery, Rutledge left the motorcar in front of the door and raced inside, praying that Townsend had returned from his lying-in.

He had, coming out to see what the commotion was about as Rutledge demanded to see the doctor at once.

Cutting short Townsend’s angry “What do you think you’re—” Rutledge turned to him and said, “I’ve got a dying man in my motorcar. Come at once and help me bring him inside. He’s already lost a good deal of blood.”

Townsend said, “Who is it?”

But Rutledge was already out the door, and after a brief hesitation, the doctor followed.

“He’s one of my patients!” Townsend exclaimed, bending over the man slumped in the seat next to the driver. “Here, take his legs, turn him a little.”

It was not easy, getting MacFarland out of the motorcar, but between them they managed, carrying him into the surgery.

“That way,” Townsend grunted, jerking his head toward a door down the passage from the entrance. “Examining room.”

Rutledge found it, managed to open the door, and helped Townsend stretch MacFarland out on the table.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there,” Rutledge said. “I could tell that the blow was recent, and got him to you as quickly as I could.”

“Yes, I’m glad you did.” Townsend was already running deft fingers over MacFarland’s scalp, saying after a moment, “My God, someone struck him. That’s not where you usually find injuries from a fall. That’s more often here, on the ridge along the back of the skull. This blow is lower. It should have killed him. I’m astonished he’s still breathing.”

The doctor continued to work, and after some time straightened up. “That’s all I can do. That and cold compresses The rest is up to his constitution. Have you reported this to the St. Hilary constable?”

“There was no time.”

“Yes, well, you were there, that’s what mattered most. I’ll keep him in the surgery. He should go to hospital, but I’m not happy with the thought of moving him again. There’s a woman in the village who is very good at nursing. I’ll send for her.”

“Ask her to write down anything he might say as he comes to his senses. It could help us find whoever did this.”

“I’ll see to it. No idea why this happened? You were calling on him, there must have been some reason for it.”

“I intended to ask him whether he knew anyone else we might contact to track down Lewis French, where he went when he left St. Hilary. Boyhood friends, a particular place he was drawn to. A fresh look at his habits.”

Townsend’s brows flicked together at the mention of Lewis French. “I can’t see why you haven’t found a body yet. He must be dead, my wife and I have had to face that. My daughter continues to hope against all hope. Gossip has been unkind to her. The fiancée of a murder victim? The French family in disarray? People seem to talk about nothing else, even my patients. They break off guiltily when I come into the room, then stare. And I know what the topic of conversation must have been.”

“I’m sorry. Your daughter deserves better. If you’re sure MacFarland is stable, I’ll leave him in your hands. There’s the constable to find.” Rutledge turned to go, then added, “Have you ever heard French say anything about his counterpart in Madeira? How he felt about Traynor’s handling of the firm there, whether there were conflicts over decisions or clashes of temperament? Resentment of any sort?”

“I don’t see how that can matter now. If they’re both dead.”

“It could be important. For all we know, French left St. Hilary to meet the ship that Traynor was traveling on.”

“I thought it was Gooding who met the ship,” Townsend replied, alarmed. “He’s been taken up for murdering Traynor, hasn’t he, and French as well? Do you think he found the two men together? Or he’ll try to persuade the jury that he had?”

“We have to look at every possibility. Otherwise Gooding’s lawyers will cast doubt on the evidence being presented.”

“We can’t have that. The only thing I know about relations between the men was something I read in my predecessor’s file. The seizures that Lewis French had—they probably weren’t epilepsy. He was injured as a child. He was riding a pony too large for him, and later he told his parents that young Traynor had taunted him into riding it. As a result he was thrown. The seizures began after that, according to his mother. But they blamed both boys equally. Traynor for his taunts and Lewis for heeding them.”

“Did Lewis know that they could have been Traynor’s fault?”

“I expect he did. He was the one who told his parents why he was riding the wrong horse.”

And if Lewis was anything at all like his sister, Agnes, he had blamed Traynor for the fall, whatever he’d told his parents.

Was it a strong enough motive for murder some twenty years later?

They went out of MacFarland’s room and were walking toward the door when it opened and Constable Brooks came striding in.

“I was told there was some problem. A neighbor saw a strange man putting Mr. MacFarland into a motorcar and summoned me. I found blood in the back garden and along the road where the motorcar had been standing.”

Rutledge said, “He’s here, in the surgery. I brought him. I’ll drive you back to St. Hilary and tell you what I know.”

“It was you, then, Inspector? Mrs. Foster doesn’t know much about motorcars. She was worried about Mr. MacFarland.”

“As she should have been.” Rutledge thanked Dr. Townsend, but Constable Brooks wanted to see the victim for himself. Rutledge left them to it and went out to secure the constable’s bicycle to his boot. By that time Brooks had been satisfied that MacFarland would live, and he came directly out to join Rutledge, eager to learn more.

“He said—the doctor—that MacFarland had been struck. If you found him, did you see anyone, notice anything?”

“Only that his assailant could have come from the French property without being seen. And disappeared the same way.”

“Why would anyone at the house want to harm Mr. MacFarland?”

Because, Rutledge answered him silently, MacFarland had been at the house when Afonso Diaz had arrived and created a scene. He might remember more than he should about that visit. And if Miss French had killed her brother and left Gooding to take the blame, she wouldn’t want anything to interfere with her victory over Valerie Whitman, in whose shadow Agnes French had lived all her childhood. But she knew nothing about Diaz’s visit. And why kill Traynor?

He had to come back to a single question. How would Diaz have known MacFarland’s name or even where to find him after all this time? He stood most to gain from the death of the tutor, it was true. The last witness . . .

Rutledge turned to Brooks, sitting stiffly beside him, eager to return to St. Hilary and look for MacFarland’s assailant.

“Have there been strangers in St. Hilary in recent months asking questions about the tutor? A man you didn’t know, who didn’t appear to be one of his former pupils?”

“About six months ago,” Brooks said slowly. “He told me he was an ex-soldier, looking for a MacFarland who had served with him in Egypt during the war. He thought he might have come home to live with his father. But our Mr. MacFarland had never married, he had no son, and so I told the man. He thanked me and went on his way. I did ask him how he knew we had anyone by that name living here, and he said he’d inquired in Bury, where he’d expected to find his friend, and someone had told him to try St. Hilary, that he might have got the direction wrong. He showed it to me, John MacFarlin, Bury St. Edmunds. I pointed out the difference in spelling.”

“You believed him?”

“No reason not to. He left, never came back again. He wasn’t the first down-and-out ex-soldier to pass through here since the war, looking for work, somewhere to go, a handout. I’ve fed one or two I felt sorriest for and sent them back on the road. There was nothing here for them.”

There was no way to follow up on the ex-soldier. Or prove that Diaz had sent him. Still . . .

When he had set Constable Brooks down outside MacFarland’s house, Rutledge drove to the spot where the shot had come from, got out, and walked to the wall. But there was nothing to be found there. And no way to connect that shot with the attack on the tutor—except for the timing.

Rutledge was tempted to go to the house and ask where Miss French and her maid had been all afternoon. But he would be met with lies if she was guilty and anger if she was not.

He had other business to see to. After that, he would know what to say to Agnes French when he next confronted her.

As he turned toward London, Hamish was there, just behind his shoulder, as he always was. Just as they had watched the enemy, night after night at the Front. But now the young Scot was not the trusted corporal intent on keeping men alive and fighting as efficiently as possible. Now he was the voice of guilt and turmoil, the vivid reminder that Rutledge himself was not yet whole.

Ten miles from London it was Valerie Whitman’s voice Rutledge heard, her challenge to him as he stood just outside her door. A reminder that he had not considered the relationship between the two partners. It had stung.

It was very late when he went to call on Mr. Belford.

The man had just come in from dinner with friends and was still dressed in evening clothes, a striking contrast to his coloring. He said, as Rutledge was ushered into his study, “Well met. I have news for you. Whether it is useful or not I can’t tell you. But it is interesting.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Rutledge said.

“Is that blood on your coat, man? Not yours, surely.”

“Not mine. I apologize for not changing, but I feared you might have gone to bed.”

“Sit down. Whisky? You look as if you could use it.”

“Thank you.”

Belford poured two drinks and handed one to Rutledge. “I’ve had to exert myself on your behalf. Still, it has been a rather interesting puzzle to work with. As a start, I’ve looked into Afonso Diaz’s years in the asylum. The doctors who initially treated him are dead, of course. The latest man thinks he’s clever and doing right by his patients. And there’s very little information in the files to connect Diaz’s reason for being there to the French family. That probably explains why no one was notified that he was being released. And why no one considered him a threat to them. Your visit set the cat among the pigeons, but the upshot was, their judgment for releasing him was still sound. Nor is there anything to indicate Diaz made friends with anyone who would be useful to him in future. I expect he was delighted to find himself among thieves at the Bennett residence. There was the language problem at first, but he’s intelligent, he overcame that. He can write in English—there was his request for release to prove it. The fact is, he probably had no expectation of a future, until Lewis French’s father died and French himself saw no purpose in continuing payments for the care of a stranger. He must have supposed it was a charity of his father’s. Something that could be continued or dropped. He chose to drop it. Two years later, Mrs. Bennett heard about Diaz’s imminent release through one of the welfare societies and took him on as gardener. Apparently she had been looking for some time to find a man who knew what he was doing in that direction. She had enough well-meaning pickpockets and forgers, if you like. A gardener, mind you, not simply a groundskeeper. And after all, Diaz comes from a long line of farmers. It isn’t surprising, is it, that this would turn out to be his skill as well.”

“Her gardens are quite amazing,” Rutledge commented. “She made a good choice.”

“Indeed. I also looked into the backgrounds of the men surrounding Diaz now in the Bennett household. Most of them had very ordinary criminal careers. Forgers, for instance, and two men convicted of breaking and entering, another who specialized in cheating lovelorn ladies of their funds, and one who had been embezzling from the man he worked for.”

“Hardly hardened criminals,” Rutledge said. “But then a murderer wouldn’t have been remanded to her care.”

“Quite true.”

“Anything more?”

“This man Bob Rawlings, who also works for Mrs. Bennett, could well have had a family connection who has never been in prison, but he has associates who have. Any one of them could have given him the name of someone willing to do a quiet murder for a fee. Which one of them we have no way of guessing. If you ask me, Diaz has been very clever.”

“He would have to be, to keep his freedom.”

“Tell me about the blood.”

Rutledge said, “It’s the tutor’s, MacFarland, the witness to Diaz’s attack on Howard French. He’ll survive. If I hadn’t got there when I did, he would likely have been finished off. And the only person MacFarland’s death could benefit is Diaz. There’s been another discovery—a body washed ashore close by Dungeness Light. It could be Traynor’s. If it is, then he was killed onboard the ship bringing him back from Madeira. Who could have arranged that? Gooding? French? Diaz?”

Belford listened quietly, then said, “Is the Yard still convinced that the clerk, Gooding, is their man?” He was watching Rutledge closely.

Rutledge finished his whisky and set it aside. “Gooding is the consummate senior clerk. Why should he think he could take over the firm by killing the senior partners? It’s not ambition, it’s folly. As for his granddaughter, he worked with Lewis French, and he would have been more inclined to believe she was well out of the engagement. What’s more, he tried to shoot himself after writing that confession. No, I’m not convinced that Gooding is guilty. French could have had Traynor killed. But who killed French? His sister, in a fit of anger? But that doesn’t explain our extra body here in Chelsea.”

“There’s Gooding’s granddaughter. The dark horse.”

“Her pride was hurt when the engagement was ended. Murder? That’s not likely. Still, I rather think a good K.C. will get a conviction. How could he not? Miss French is not equipped by temperament or training to take over the firm and run it successfully. Gooding could have run it for her as his personal fiefdom, and she would have been content to be the titular head, satisfied with money and the pretense of power.”

“You’re sure no one else remembers Diaz coming to the French house?”

“There was the maid and the boy, Lewis. But she went at once for the constable, and Lewis was thought to have had a bad dream, having looked out the window as Diaz was being taken away. Diaz probably never saw him. He only dealt with the three men.”

“You’ll never be able to prove this, you know. I have some experience in these matters. All you can possibly do is try to keep Gooding out of the hands of the hangman. Even life in prison offers him a chance to be cleared.”

Rutledge told Belford about his experiment with the photograph. “But the man’s given his statement. It’s in the record,” he ended.

Belford got to his feet and offered Rutledge another whisky, but he shook his head.

“Thank you, but I’m too tired.”

Belford set their glasses back on the silver tray and went to the window.

“There’s only one solution I can see, to draw Diaz out into the open.”

“I don’t think it can be done. He’s been too careful.”

“Someone took a shot at you, you said?”

“Yes. I thought at the time that MacFarland’s assailant might still be waiting to finish what he had begun, but I didn’t expect whoever it was to fire at me. A stone or some other blunt object was used on the tutor. He could hardly fire at MacFarland without half of St. Hilary taking note.”

“Do you trust this Dr. Townsend?”

Rutledge considered that. “As a doctor, yes. I’m not sure whether or not I trust him in other directions. What’s in your mind? To let Diaz think MacFarland is recovering and about to talk? That sets him up for another attempt. And I have reason to believe that Townsend wouldn’t go along with that possibility. Not in his surgery. The man’s cottage is too hard to watch. There are too many ways to approach it without being seen.”

“Too bad. It would have worked, I think.”

“There’s another way. I think Dr. Townsend would agree to let it be known that MacFarland is going to recover but the damage to his brain is so severe, he will never be the same man he was. That will keep him safe. But I’ve been to the Bennett house, I suspect Diaz, and he’s well aware of it. He will have to do something about me eventually, whether he likes it or not. And it will have to be carefully done, in no way connected with French or Gooding or the past.”

“It’s dangerous to be the goat set out for the tiger,” Belford warned. “It will be easier to protect MacFarland in Dr. Townsend’s surgery than you, out in the street, as it were. An easy target.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“I admire your courage. I can’t help but wonder why you are willing.”

Rutledge thought he knew why. But he wasn’t about to give Belford an answer.