Proof of Guilt

Chapter Twenty-one

The next morning, Rutledge bearded the lion in his den, asking to speak to Markham as soon as he arrived at the Yard.

The Acting Chief Superintendent said before Rutledge was quite through the door, “I hope you have something to show for your absence.”

“A man was attacked in St. Hilary. He has something to do with the Gooding case.”

“I told you that Gooding’s granddaughter was involved in this business. It was just a matter of time before we had proof.”

“She had no reason to attack this man. He was a tutor to Michael and Lewis French.”

“She doesn’t need a reason. A new murder casts doubt on her grandfather’s guilt. Any victim would do.”

“I can see that. It is one answer, but not the only one.”

“Still bothered by that Portuguese fellow? He’s an old man, Rutledge, he couldn’t have killed two men on his own. I looked him up. He’s seventy if he’s a day.”

“Closer to sixty-two. French’s motorcar was found in the quarry not far from where he lives.”

“Coincidence. Look, he’d have had to take the train to London, then another to Essex, to kill Lewis French. Someone in the Bennett household would have known if he went missing for several days, and they’d have raised the alarm. Mrs. Bennett has been allowed to take in those men in her care, and she can’t afford to ignore it if one of them is absent without a damned good reason.”

“I rather think he’s hired someone to do the killing for him.”

“Why are you dragging your heels, Rutledge? Go collect the granddaughter and bring her in. Let the lawyers get at the bottom of who is guilty and who is not. We’ve made a case, it’s sound enough to bring to trial, and I don’t see the need to spend any more of the Yard’s time on wild speculation.”

It was dismissal. Rutledge got up from his chair and walked toward the door.

Markham’s voice stopped him.

“Is he likely to live, this tutor? Will he be able to testify?”

“The doctor couldn’t tell me yesterday. It was too soon.”

“Then find out while you’re there.”

The hardheaded Yorkshireman having second thoughts?

Rutledge turned. “I’ll ring you from the inn when I’ve seen him.”

Markham nodded, and Rutledge went out into the passage looking for Gibson.

The sergeant was in with Inspector Billings.

Rutledge left a message on his desk that he was leaving directly for Essex and would call as soon as he could.

Walking out of the Yard, he made a decision and went first to Hayes and Hayes, solicitors to the French family.

He had to wait nearly half an hour—the elder Mr. Hayes was with another client. Impatient, Rutledge sat in one of the leather chairs in Reception and listened to Hamish’s tirade in his ear.

When finally he was conducted to Hayes’s office, he asked, “Any news from Portugal?”

“As a matter of fact, I was going to telephone the Yard this afternoon. Mr. Diaz was cut out of his father’s Will entirely. You were right about that.”

Rutledge had expected no less. Still, it meant that Diaz, without funds to support his vendetta, would have had nothing to bargain with to arrange a murder on land, much less at sea.

Hamish said, “Blackmail?”

It wasn’t likely that Diaz had gleaned enough information from the men in service with him at the Bennett house to force a man to kill for him.

Rutledge took a deep breath. Perhaps Markham was right, and he’d been too stubborn to see it.

Hayes was waiting.

“It’s a disappointment, your news. The father had threatened, but I needed to know whether he had carried out that threat.”

“Yes, fathers often bluster, but in the end, blood tells.” The solicitor considered Rutledge. “Was it so very important, this information?”

“It was possible that Mr. Diaz had sought to revenge himself on the French family for his long years in a madhouse. I’ve reason to wonder if he was ever mad in the true sense, just murderously angry. But the fact that he received no money from his father changes the picture entirely.”

“You believe he, not Mr. Gooding, is responsible for the deaths of Lewis French and Matthew Traynor?” The hooded eyes were nearly black.

“Yes. I do. As I told you on my last visit. Diaz is old. He couldn’t physically do what Gooding is accused of doing. But he could have hired a killer. And that requires money.”

“I was surprised when Mr. Gooding was taken into custody. I’ve dealt with him for many years, and a more conscientious employee would be hard to find. But then even the most conscientious man can be driven to measures unthinkable in normal situations.”

“I’m afraid so. And now the Yard has issued an order for Miss Whitman to be taken into custody.” Rutledge rose. “Thank you for your help. I’m sorry it wasn’t better news for Gooding.”

“Miss Whitman? Preposterous. We acted for her father, you know. Captain Whitman. And a finer officer never lived. Sit down, young man.”

Rutledge, eager to be on his way to Essex, did as he was told. Something in the man’s voice had changed.

“You asked me for a particular bit of information. I found it for you. But you have just indicated that it was not the inheritance that was so urgent to discover. What you really asked of me was to find out if Diaz had funds at his disposal. Any funds. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then you should know this. I saw no reason to tell you earlier, since it was not included in your request. Mr. Diaz is not destitute. Although his father had cut him off, he had inherited his mother’s money while still a young man, and most of it is still in the bank in Funchal, untouched because he was incarcerated first in Portugal and then in England. Here he was never allowed to speak to a Portuguese official, he was never asked if he wished to obtain legal counsel. He was simply locked up. He should have been tried for two attempts to murder English citizens, and so I felt no pity for him. The clinic must have been kinder than prison. And so the money has accrued. It’s nowhere near the sums that would have come to Mr. Diaz from his father’s Will. But it is most certainly sufficient to hire a dozen murderers, if he so chose. Mr. Diaz is not wealthy—but he could live for another ten years on the income from his mother’s bequest without touching the principal.”

Stunned, Rutledge could only stare at him, and then as he digested what the solicitor had just told him, he felt a surge of blind anger.

Anger at himself, for not thinking to widen his request. Anger at Hayes for that narrow lawyer’s mind, for telling Rutledge precisely what he had asked for, and no more. He would easily have gone away and never known the rest of the story. If he hadn’t mentioned Miss Whitman, would Hayes have told him about Diaz’s mother?

Swearing silently, Rutledge could only trust himself to ask, “And you are certain about this?”

“I don’t as a rule make mistakes,” Hayes told him frostily.

“Has he made any use whatsoever of these funds?”

“When he was released into the care of Mr. and Mrs. Bennett, he contacted an agent in Funchal, asking him to act for him in the matter of a cemetery plot near those of his parents. He also has given a large sum of money to the church he attended as a boy, to say perpetual prayers for his soul. And he arranged the transport of his body from London to Madeira, after his death. A stone has been commissioned to mark the place he will be interred. The agent has done just that—and no more.”

Rutledge thanked him and got out of Hayes’s office before he lost his temper entirely.

At the door, he said, “It’s possible you’ve saved Gooding from hanging.”

And with that he turned on his heel and left.

Outside, cranking the motorcar, he gave vent to his fury. So like a lawyer’s way of thinking, to hold back what was not in his view pertinent.

As his anger cleared, Rutledge did quick calculations in his head. Leaving the motor running, he strode back into the solicitor’s office. Mr. Hayes was already with another client, but Rutledge was not to be deterred.

As Hayes looked up, Rutledge said, “What does Diaz pay this agent of his? And what about the prayers for his soul? I need to find out if that’s exorbitant, even for a man who knows he’s a murderer. What’s more, what is the disposition of the account, once Diaz is dead?”

“I can’t—” Hayes began, but Rutledge cut him short.

“Rather you won’t. I understand your reluctance to look into that man’s affairs again. But if you want to prevent an injustice, you’ll find a way. When I leave here, I’m driving to St. Hilary myself to take Valerie Whitman into custody. How long do you want her to stay in a women’s prison? It’s in your hands.”

Hayes was on his feet, shoving back his chair. “I won’t be threatened.”

“I don’t perceive it as a threat. It’s a friendly warning that you are in control of her fate. How you feel about that only you can know.”

And he was gone, driving out of London at a pace that was a reflection of his mood. Hamish, in the back of his mind, was busy as well. But it was no mistake when Rutledge turned south toward Surrey instead of north toward Essex.

What he’d asked Hayes to do was essential. If the agent as executor was to pay all debts incurred by Diaz at the time of his death, a usual clause in English wills, then he could include any sums that Diaz had borrowed—untraceable—from him before that time. Sums that could already have been transferred to England with ease, from this agent to clients with no apparent connection to Afonso Diaz. An unscrupulous solicitor, paid well for his time, would ask no questions.

Clever indeed. And hopeless to untangle without the help of authorities on Madeira.

But even more urgent was his need now to stake out the goat, and let the tiger know it was unarmed.

Afonso Diaz had had his way for far too long.