Proof of Guilt

Chapter Three

London, Late Summer 1920

It wasn’t an inquiry that Rutledge relished. A man had been killed in Chelsea, not far from the house where Meredith Channing had lived.

It was closed now. Had been since he’d escorted her to Bruges, in Belgium, where the man she believed to be her husband—he’d gone missing in the war—had been discovered, ill and unable to care for or even name himself. Rutledge had not been convinced that she was certain the man was Channing. She’d been searching a very long time, and her need to believe it was and make her peace with her husband had been stronger than her usual sound judgment. He’d had no choice but to walk away and leave her there, cutting short whatever closeness might have bloomed between them in different circumstances. The attraction had been there. He himself had tried to pretend it hadn’t.

She was in Belgium still, although he was the only person who knew her whereabouts. Most of her friends assumed she was visiting in Scotland—or Yorkshire—or possibly Devon. It was not his charge to enlighten them.

He had been sent to the scene by the Acting Chief Superintendent with the comment “Bloody motorcars. The sixth death in London this month, by my reckoning. And not likely to be the last.”

“I should think a traffic death would be handled by the Metropolitan Police,” Rutledge had answered.

“As a rule,” the Acting Chief Superintendent had agreed. “But Constable Meadows felt the circumstances were a little odd. For one thing, the vehicle didn’t stop. For another, there are no witnesses. Not even a milk van, mind you.”

Someone should have seen or heard something, in spite of the fact that the accident had occurred in the predawn hours. The motorcar braking suddenly, the force of the bonnet or the wing striking the victim, even if there had been no time for him to cry out.

Sergeant Gibson, just coming up the stairs as Rutledge was leaving, greeted him with a nod and then said, “The doctor’s been and gone.”

“What did he have to say?”

“Injuries consistent with being struck by a motorcar, but he put the time of death closer to midnight than dawn.”

Rutledge thanked the sergeant and went on his way. He had noticed, but had said nothing about it, that Gibson was himself again. And he was happy to see it.

Chief Superintendent Bowles’s sudden illness had caused drastic upheaval at the Yard, compounded by frantic jockeying to fill his shoes and the temporary assignment of several Acting Chief Superintendents until Bowles’s condition had been clarified. When the new man had been brought in from Yorkshire and appointed to take his place for the foreseeable future, there had been a settling out.

As shocked as anyone about what had happened, Gibson had withdrawn into a strictly by-the-book mode that had made him prickly and unhelpful, as if by holding himself to Bowles’s standards now, he believed he could assure that no one would guess his true feeling about the man or the number of times he’d gone behind the Chief Superintendent’s back. But like good resolutions at any time, this one had been short-lived. Everyone was weighing the new man, but no one had uttered an opinion. Rutledge had already formed his own.

Constable Meadows was still standing guard over the body, waiting for the undertaker to arrive. Behind him, Rutledge could see two more constables, brought in for the purpose, canvassing either side of the quiet street. If the neighbors were curious, they were keeping indoors and watching events from their windows. But then Huntingdon was not the sort of street where residents or servants stood and gawked.

Meadows was a thin, quiet man of perhaps thirty-five, and he said as Rutledge approached, “Scotland Yard?”

“Inspector Rutledge.”

“Yes, sir. I was asked to wait until someone arrived.”

“I understand you felt the circumstances surrounding this accident were odd?” Rutledge stooped to lift the blanket that had been placed over the victim’s body. The man appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties, slim and well dressed, brown hair matted with blood from the wound where the back of his skull must have struck the uneven edge of the street, one arm at an angle that would be unnatural in life, and trousers torn at the ankle.

Meadows reached down and turned the body a little so that Rutledge could see where the man’s coat was torn near the collar and covered with dust and bits of stone and grass. There was a long scrape down one side of his face. “It appeared that he was dragged some distance. The doctor’s estimate was close to ten feet, until the coat or even that edge of his trousers tore away. But if you look in the road there’s no sign of anything dragged.”

Rutledge let the blanket fall back into place and rose. Looking back down the road, the direction in which the body would have been carried by the motorcar, he had to agree with the constable. No sign at all, although the man was not slight, and even a sack of coal would have left some impression in the soft summer dust.

Meadows was saying, “For another thing, sir, the doctor told me he’d been dead longer than I’d thought. I walk this street at least once every hour on my rounds, and he wasn’t here before half after four. I’d swear to that. For another, there’s nothing in his pockets to show who he is. And you’d expect to find a wallet, if he was coming home at this hour.”

“Was he robbed, do you think?”

“Sir, no. No sign of that that I could see. Pockets weren’t turned out. And there’s a watch in his vest pocket. Rather a nice one. French, at a guess. No one would miss it, even in the dark. There’s a nice chain on it as well.” He held out his hand, and in the palm lay the watch and chain.

They were expensive. Rutledge could see that for himself, both case and chain well made and of smooth, heavy gold. They matched what he had seen of the man’s clothing.

Flicking open the case, he looked for an inscription, but there was none. “The jeweler or watchmaker who sold this might have a record of it,” he said. “Before the war, I should think. And you’re right, the face appears to be French.”

“I’ll see that’s passed on, sir.”

“Better still, I’ll ask a jeweler I know what he makes of it. And then the Yard can begin a search for the owner.”

Just then the undertaker arrived, and Meadows stepped forward to speak to the driver.

At the sound of a door closing, Rutledge looked up the street. A constable was coming down the steps of a house near the corner, and he turned in Rutledge’s direction.

Rutledge went to meet the man, leaving Meadows to deal with the removal of the body.

“Constable,” he said. “Found a witness, I hope?”

“Sir, not precisely. But the footman in the house with the iron railings above the door was waiting up for the owner to return from a dinner party, and I spoke to the gentleman as well. When he came home at a quarter past twelve, he saw nothing in the street. He’s willing to give a statement to that effect.”

“Was he driving? Could he have knocked the man down?”

“I’m to look at his motorcar, sir. The footman has gone to bring it around. But I’d say Mr. Belford was unlikely to have been the one we’re looking for.” The constable cleared his throat. “He’s a rather formidable gentleman, sir.”

“Perhaps I should have a word with him. After we’ve looked at his motorcar. He was driving himself? There was no one else with him?”

“No, sir, he was alone.”

“Could he have been too drunk to realize what he’d done?”

“According to the footman, Mr. Belford isn’t one for the drink.”

“Indeed. Ah, here comes the motorcar. Let’s have a look.”

The footman was an older man, to Rutledge’s surprise. As a rule it was a position for younger ones. He drew up in the street next to the two policemen and said, “Here you are, Constable Doyle. Have a look.” He nodded to Rutledge. “Sir.”

But they could see straightaway that the meticulously maintained motor had not been involved in any street accident. It could have rolled out of the showroom door only yesterday, it was in such excellent condition. As he was examining it, Rutledge saw the footman take out a handkerchief and briskly rub an edge of the near-side headlamp where Constable Doyle had briefly rested his hand as he bent to look more closely at the frame. The frown on the man’s face as he polished away the offending print indicated that the motorcar was in his charge and his joy.

Rutledge turned to Constable Doyle. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Belford. Will you tell Constable Meadows that I’ll be back shortly? He’s not to leave until I return.”

Doyle, still minutely examining the motorcar, said, “Yes, sir, I’ll pass the word.”

Rutledge walked on to the Belford house and knocked at the door. A housemaid answered and showed him into a small parlor. It was rather formal: dark blue and cream, the drapes dark, lined with the lighter color, the carpet the reverse, cream with a dark blue pattern, the chairs covered in a shade that complemented the drapes. Still, it had the appearance of being well used, as if the owner preferred it in the evening to the drawing room.

Within less than a minute after the housemaid had left Rutledge there, Belford came into the room.

He was a man of medium height, with iron gray hair and a trim mustache. There was an air about him that would have suited an earl, and he said without waiting for Rutledge to speak, “I’ve told Constable Doyle all I can about last night and sent out Miller with my motorcar. What is it now?”

There was neither irritation not curiosity in his voice, only impatience.

“I’m Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard,” he answered easily. “I understand that you saw nothing unusual when you returned to your house last night a little after midnight.”

“That’s true.”

“The dead man was lying on the far side of the road. Could you have missed him? You were driving yourself, I understand.”

“I was. And I would most certainly have noticed a corpse on my street.”

“And your footman returned the motorcar to the mews where you keep it?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Can you be certain that he didn’t strike the man?”

“Miller? He would have told me.”

But would he have? Still, there was no damage to the vehicle.

“Before the body is taken away, I’d like to have you look at the victim and tell me if you recognize him. He could well be a neighbor, although Constable Meadows didn’t know him.”

“Very well.” Belford turned on his heel, led the way out the door and through the foyer to the street, not waiting to see if Rutledge was following. The body had just been put into the rear of the van when Belford reached it, and he said, “Show me the man.”

The driver hesitated, looked over his shoulder at Rutledge, who nodded once, and then uncovered the face of the corpse.

Belford peered at it intently, as if to memorize the dead man’s features, then turned to Rutledge. “I have never seen him before. I can be quite sure about that.”

“Can you?” Rutledge asked as the hearse’s driver waited for permission to cover the body again.

“Absolutely. He does not live on this street, he did not serve under me in the war, he does not move in circles that I frequent, and I can think of no other occasion when he should have come to my attention.”

“Thank you, Mr. Belford.” Rutledge gestured to the driver, who nodded, dealt with the corpse, and shut the doors of the hearse.

Belford stepped to one side, waited until the hearse was driving away, and then said, “I should like to know what he was doing here, on this street.”

“There is no identification on the body,” Rutledge said. “We have no idea who the man is, where he lives, or what brought him here.”

“Then I can be of no further service to you.” With a brisk nod, Belford walked away. But he’d taken no more than a half-dozen steps when he turned and said, “Constable Doyle said the man was dragged some ten feet. I should think that would indicate an intent on the driver’s part to see his victim dead.”

“We haven’t determined whether he was or not,” Rutledge replied. “Constable Meadows could find no evidence of dragging after he discovered the body. But judging from the scrapes on the man’s face and the state of his clothing, it struck him as very likely.”

“Then you must take your inquiry elsewhere,” Belford said with some satisfaction. “Because the likelihood is that the dead man was not killed on this street at all, but brought here and left for someone to find.”

Rutledge studied Belford for a moment. “That’s an interesting supposition. What evidence is there to support it?”

“See for yourself, Inspector. He appeared to have been dragged after he was struck by the motorcar, but you can find no marks on the street, no tracks where his heels dug in or his body disturbed the dust. Nor does there appear to be any blood where he was found. Therefore he must have been dead for some time before he was left here. He’s not a resident of this street, and he couldn’t have been leaving a dinner party at that hour because he isn’t dressed for dining out. Those are more country clothes, in my opinion. Your men are going house to house, and if you came to call on me, then asked me to identify the victim if I could, you have had no success thus far. My motorcar bears out the fact that I have not run anyone down. Nor, clearly, has my footman. The question you must now ask yourself is, who wanted this man dead, and who brought him here after killing him elsewhere? I have no enemies who could have done that to embarrass me, and I think you’ll find that this will also hold true for my neighbors, when you have interviewed the remaining residents here and those in the streets on either side of this one. Now I have other matters to attend to, and I will leave you to your own work.”

Rutledge took out the watch. “This was in his vest pocket.” He held it by the chain, and it twisted for a moment before stopping, the early morning sun reflecting from the gold case. “Is there anything about it that strikes you?”

Belford reached out to touch the watch with the tip of his finger, turning the face his way. “You’ve looked inside for an inscription?”

“Yes.”

“It’s French, of course. And expensive. A gentleman’s watch, I should think, possibly inherited, because of its age. That’s all I can tell you.”

This time when he turned away, Belford continued to walk on toward his house without looking back, shoulders straight, head high, like the officer he must have been in the war. Rutledge had met officers like him, disciplined, fair, but strict observers of the rules. He found it interesting that the man had chosen not to use the honorific of his rank after returning to civilian life. For that matter, it would be interesting to know just what rank he’d held in the war.

Behind Rutledge, Constable Meadows was saying, “He makes a very good point, sir.”

He did, Rutledge thought. Observant, concise in his interpretation of what he’d seen, Belford had told Scotland Yard how to proceed. But Rutledge himself had reached the same conclusion. If the dead man had not been lying here by the side of the street when Mr. Belford returned home, he must certainly have been killed elsewhere, and someone had had time before daylight to rid himself of the body.

No identification. No business, as Belford had put it, in this street. And no sign of blood in the roadway to show where he’d died.

But Belford had driven here from somewhere. He could have brought the body this far, and left it to be found by a neighbor or the constable on his rounds. A cloth could wipe away any bloodstains on the leather seats. But that brought Rutledge back to the condition of the motorcar’s exterior.

Rutledge turned to Meadows. “How well do you know Mr. Belford?”

“He keeps himself to himself. Money—there’s a staff there, footman, two maids, cook, housekeeper, and valet. And never a minute’s trouble. I should know, I’ve been here ten years myself.”

“Which isn’t to say that Mr. Belford doesn’t have another life outside Chelsea.”

“True enough, I expect. But I’ve never got wind of it.”

Rutledge nodded. “The first order of business is to identify our body. Only then can we be certain he has had no interaction with Mr. Belford. When you and the other constables have finished speaking to everyone on this street, and you have no more information than you possess right now, begin on the adjacent streets, working your way toward the river. If there’s a connection with this part of London, we must find it before going farther afield. If there isn’t, then perhaps the watch will open up other avenues.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll see to it.”

Rutledge went out into the middle of the street and walked up and down for some twenty yards in either direction from where the body had been discovered, but keen as his eyes were, sharp as the morning light was, he still could find no evidence to show that the victim had been dragged here. Or that such signs had been brushed away, in an attempt to point the police in a different direction.

He was forced to agree with Belford, although it would have been more satisfying on general principles to find the man wrong. He smiled at himself. It would most certainly have made his task easier. Wherever the victim had died, it wasn’t here.

Had this site been chosen at random? Or was it meant as a message to someone who lived on this street? For that matter, the killer could have got the address wrong.

“You cover several streets on your rounds,” he said to the constable as he came to stand beside him again. “Have you seen anything, heard any gossip that might indicate someone else in this area was engaged in activities that could have resulted in a rather nasty warning?”

“I was wondering that myself, sir, but I can’t think of anyone who isn’t respectable. There’s an artist or two, and one famous actor. But they live as quietly as anyone as far as I can tell.”

Finally satisfied that he could do no more here, Rutledge left, asking Constable Meadows to see that statements were copied and sent along to the Yard.

He was glad to be out of Chelsea, and drove directly to Galloway and Sons, a jeweler on Bond Street. As a young policeman, Rutledge had found the man who had broken into the shop one Saturday evening, and recovered most of the stolen items as well. Galloway had been in his debt ever since.

He greeted Rutledge warmly, and when he had finished his business with the young couple already in the shop, he turned to the Inspector.

“You’ve neglected us of late,” he said, smiling. “I should have thought by now you’d be purchasing a ring for a young lady.”

“One day perhaps,” Rutledge answered. “Today I’m here on police business. Would you take a look at this watch and tell me what you can about it?”

He passed the watch to Galloway, who studied it carefully before opening it.

“Is this connected in any way with a crime?” the jeweler asked as he worked.

“It would be helpful to learn the identity of the owner.”

“To be sure.” After inspecting the back of the watch, Galloway finally turned to Rutledge. “I thought at first that this was a French timepiece. Well, of course it is, but it was sold in Lisbon. The jeweler left his mark just there, do you see? On the frame. At a guess, it was not a presentation piece—a coming of age or advancement, that sort of thing—but bought to use every day. Some slight signs of wear, but maintained beautifully. I’d put the date at perhaps 1890, 1895?”

“Interesting,” Rutledge said. “Anything else?”

“I’m afraid not. I do have a connection in Lisbon. Would you like me to make inquiries? Quietly, of course.”

“Yes, that would be very helpful.”

Galloway jotted down his observations and returned the timepiece to Rutledge.

“Contact you through the Yard, as usual?”

“Please, yes.”

Rutledge walked back to his motorcar with his mind on the inquiry.

A voice said, “I see you’ve no time for old friends.”

He came back to the present to find former Chief Inspector Cummins standing in front of him. Smiling, he said, “Sorry! I was debating with myself whether this latest inquiry is a murder or an accident someone tried to cover up. What brings you to London?”

“My daughter and my wife are looking at wedding gowns. I’ve been cast adrift and told not to return for at least an hour. It’s nearly up. I’m glad I ran into you. A pity about Bowles’s heart attack, but I daresay there were many who were surprised to learn he even had one. Myself among them. What do you think of the new man? Markham?”

It occurred to Rutledge that if Cummins had been still at the Yard, he would have been in the running for the position of Acting Chief Superintendent. It was a loss to the Yard that he wasn’t.

“A dark horse. So far he’s been reasonable enough to work with, but his reputation precedes him. He doesn’t care for leaps of intuition and is a stickler for regulations.”

“The new broom sweeping clean, yet?”

Rutledge considered the question. “He’s too new. Time will tell.”

“One school seems to think Bowles is mending and will have his old position back or know the reason why. Another thinks he’s stepped on too many toes and that he’ll be asked to retire, if the Home Office finds a satisfactory replacement.”

Rumors that Rutledge hadn’t heard. “Thank you for the warning.” Better the devil you know? He wasn’t sure.

“Good to see you again, Ian. Keep your head down, and you’ll be all right.”

But Rutledge stopped him. “Do you miss it? The Yard?” He hadn’t intended to ask the question. It was too personal for one thing, and none of his affair for another.

After the clinic, he had used his return to the Yard to stop himself from sliding into irreversible madness, and he had fought to hold on to that in the face of Bowles’s intransigence and the fearsome darkness occupying his mind. He had survived, because he had never dared to look beyond the Yard. Never dared to contemplate what would become of him if his work were suddenly taken away. As it had been for this man.

“I do,” Cummins said, and Rutledge felt cold. And then Cummins added, “But not as much as I’d expected to. Does that make sense?”

Rutledge could only say, “Yes.”

At the Yard, Rutledge’s first order of business was to ask Gibson to find out whatever he could about the helpful Mr. Belford. In his office with the door shut, he sat down at his desk, turned his chair toward the dusty window, and looked out. He was grateful for this glimpse of the outside, even if it consisted mostly of trees and a part of the road below. His claustrophobia, a relic of the trenches, hadn’t gone away with time, as the doctors had suggested it might. And it helped him to think, staring out at green leaves and tree trunks that hadn’t been blighted by artillery and turned into churned-up mud, bone, blood, and lost hopes.

The Acting Chief Superintendent would be impatiently awaiting his report, but Rutledge wasn’t quite satisfied with what he’d seen in that street in Chelsea.

The victim was still wearing both shoes. Surely if he’d been dragged ten feet, one of them would have fallen off. Had someone replaced them? And while his coat showed every sign of dragging, no attempt had been made to simulate a track in the dust of a Chelsea street. Rutledge found that interesting. Where, then, had the man come from? And why was he brought to London? Because it was large and anonymous, or because this was the place where he needed to be?

“Because where he died would point to the killer,” Hamish suggested in the back of his mind, answering so clearly his voice seemed to come from just behind Rutledge’s shoulder.

He should be used to it by now. That voice, neither specter nor friend nor rational thought.

Whatever had brought the dead man to Chelsea, it would be necessary now to circulate a description of him to large cities all over the country. And hope that inspectors there would pass the word to the smaller towns and villages in their patches. If the Yard was very lucky, a constable somewhere would recognize the man and put a name to him.

Rutledge had been warned that the Acting Chief Superintendent didn’t care for inquiries with loose ends.

He was more optimistic about the watch. It was expensive enough that jewelers in England, like Galloway, would have kept a record of such a purchase and a satisfied client, in the expectation of future business. But would that be true in Portugal?

Why had the killer overlooked that watch when he—or she—had emptied the dead man’s pockets?

By accident? Or by design?

The only other chance for an early identification was for a family member, a neighbor, an employer to report the victim as missing.

Rutledge turned around to his desk, wrote a description of the dead man, and carried it to Sergeant Gibson.

“We don’t have the doctor’s final report yet. Once we do, this should be sent out to your list of county police stations,” he told the sergeant.

“All of them, sir?” Gibson asked, already calculating the work involved.

“The victim could have come from Cornwall or Northumberland or any county in between. I’m afraid it’s all of them.”

With a nod, he went on to speak to the Acting Chief Superintendent, who grunted when Rutledge had finished, then commented morosely, “I’ve always said nothing good would ever come of a gasoline-propelled vehicle.”

Rutledge wasn’t sure whether the remark was intended as dark humor or whether the Acting Chief Superintendent was thinking about distances that could be covered more quickly.

It was late the next morning before the report arrived from the doctor who had examined the body.

Dr. Parker wrote:

My first estimate of the time of death still stands, as does the fact that the victim was dragged. Male, in his very early thirties, no distinguishing marks on the body, no indication of livelihood from his hands or his clothing. Possibly a gentleman of independent means, judging from the quality of said clothing. Internal injuries consistent with being struck by a motorcar. Broken left arm. No war wounds.

War wounds had become a factor in identification.

Rutledge passed the report on to Sergeant Gibson, and then read through the interviews from the constables canvassing the streets on either side of the one in which the body was found. The upshot was that everyone was accounted for in each of the houses that had been visited, and no one had had guests on that particular evening.

Hamish said, “Ye’ll no’ have any luck with this one.”

Rutledge was beginning to think he was right.