Proof of Guilt

Chapter Four

Rutledge was in his office finishing a report on another case when Sergeant Gibson walked in.

“We’ve received three responses about your dead man,” he said, “but there’s not much to choose from between them.” He passed the sheets across the desk to Rutledge, who gestured to one of the chairs.

Scanning the three pages, he had to agree with the sergeant.

The first was in regard to a husband missing for the past two years. The constable reporting had added at the bottom of the sheet, Mrs. Trumbull being somewhat of a termagant, I expect Mr. Trumbull would have gladly thrown himself under the wheels of any motorcar to escape being returned to Derbyshire.

Rutledge said, “The man was a butcher. If it was the only trade he knew, then there’s probably no connection with our victim. Butchers generally don’t have the hands and nails of a gentleman. Still, we’ll keep an open mind.”

Moving on to the second sheet, he frowned. “A schoolmaster from Kent. It’s possible.”

No comment had been added here, but Gibson said as Rutledge finished reading, “I took the liberty of putting in a call to Kent. I happen to know Constable Parry from the war—a case having to do with the report of a spy at the Chatham Shipyard. False alarm, as most of them were. He tells me the schoolmaster recently lost a child and he’s not been sober a day since then.”

“Our man hadn’t been drinking, according to the doctor.”

“True, sir. But still . . . we’ll keep an open mind.”

The third was also a possibility. An Inspector from Norfolk wrote, I’ve no reason to think that your corpse is that of Gerald Standish, for he hasn’t been missing for any length of time. On the other hand, I must tell you that he has tended to wander off without notice since he came home from France. He was seen by his daily walking toward the edge of town one evening, apparently out for the exercise, for he greeted her quite naturally. His bed was not slept in that night, but she made no report as he generally reappeared in a day or so. This time was the exception. The constable in Moresley has had no word from or about him since.

“Did you speak to the Inspector?” Rutledge asked Gibson.

“Sir, there isn’t a telephone where I can reach him.”

“Then we’ll wait a few more days to see if the watch can tell us anything before taking these queries any further. There’s something more. What have you discovered about Mr. Belford in number 20?”

“I’m waiting for a reply from the War Office. He’s not known to the Metropolitan Police or to us.” Gibson cleared his throat. “Reading the report from Constable Meadows, I gathered Mr. Belford was cleared of any involvement.”

“So far. But he knew rather too much—or guessed more than he should have done—to strike him off the list just yet.” Belford’s manner hadn’t rankled—Rutledge was always grateful for whatever a potential witness could contribute, for it was impossible to know and see everything in a neighborhood he didn’t himself live in. Still, there had been something in the man’s brisk reconstruction of events that had been very different from the usual shocked response the police were accustomed to dealing with in the face of sudden death.

It was next afternoon when Gibson returned with a puzzled look on his face and handed Rutledge a sheet of paper without comment.

He scanned it, then slowly reread what was printed there.

As far as anyone could determine, Mr. Belford was precisely what he seemed to be—a helpful neighbor. There were few details added to that—the household staff had been with him for at least ten years and in two cases for fifteen. He had never been in trouble with the law. His military career had been exemplary, and he had risen to the rank of Captain. He had seen action at Mons, Passchendaele, the Somme, and Amiens, was wounded three times, and returned to active duty as soon as he was cleared by his doctors.

Rutledge had never encountered Belford in France, but that wasn’t too surprising. What was, was the fact that he’d never heard the man’s name mentioned. When new companies were being transferred in, there was usually information about where they’d come from, what regiment they had served with, and the name of the officer in charge of their sector.

Gibson said, “That’s all there is. The War Office was too quick to answer our questions. Makes you wonder.”

Pulling information out of the War Office was generally an exercise in patience, as all records were handwritten and the filing system was archaic. Sometimes it was also a matter of obfuscation. When Rutledge needed to know something urgently, he was forced to call in favors to speed up the search.

“As he hasn’t been shot at dawn, he can’t be a German spy living among us,” Rutledge said wryly.

Gibson answered, “Indeed, sir. When Constable Meadows asked the servants on either side of his house, they said he was an ornament to the neighborhood.”

“Good God,” Rutledge said blankly. “How did he achieve such a distinction?”

“The constable was told that he gives generously to any charitable cause.”

“Ah.”

“Always anonymously.”

“Interesting. Then we’ll keep Mr. Belford in the backs of our minds until we know more about the dead man.”

Two other reports came in from the description that had been sent out. One from Cornwall, the other from Chester.

Gibson followed them up.

The Cornishman had gone for a walk on Exmoor and hadn’t been seen since. He had a history of shell shock, and his actions were not, according to Constable Tilly, predictable. Still, the man had been missing for three weeks. In that length of time he could reasonably have reached London, if he had traveled by train or even on an accommodating lorry headed anywhere.

Rutledge, wincing at the mention of shell shock, said, “We’ll have to keep this man in mind. What’s his name?”

“Fulton, sir. He’s from Nottingham. Married a Cornish girl before the war, and the pair have been living in a cottage on her father’s farm.”

“He could have made his way to Nottingham,” Rutledge said. “If he was determined enough.”

The man from Chester was unlikely to be their victim. He’d been wounded in the war and his arm had been badly fractured. According to the police there, he had never regained full use of it.

“And the postmortem didn’t show a bad arm,” Gibson reminded Rutledge. “Only wounds that caused his death.”

“Did you tell Chester that we don’t have their man?”

“I did. There’s still the missing man in Norfolk.”

“We’re back to the watch,” Rutledge said. “And I should have heard something by now.”

“What if it was stolen?” the ever-dour Gibson wanted to know.

“I rather think, considering the quality of the dead man’s clothing, that it must have belonged to him.”

But Gibson wasn’t convinced. “More than one pickpocket dresses like a gentleman. Best way to pass unnoticed at a gathering where the pickings are good.”

It had been nearly a week since the body was discovered when Galloway came himself to see Rutledge at the Yard.

He was escorted to Rutledge’s office by Constable Thomas, and as he came through the doorway, he said, “Patience has its reward. I’ve something here I thought you ought to know at once.”

“That’s good news, I hope,” Rutledge said, rising to greet Galloway. “What does your contact have to say?”

“The watch in question was actually one of a pair ordered from the jeweler in Lisbon in 1891. They were presented by a Mr. Howard French to his son and his son-in-law on the occasions of their marriage and, in due course, were returned to Lisbon for cleaning and polishing by the owners before being given to grandsons on reaching their majority.”

“Why were they purchased in Lisbon rather than in London or Paris?”

“It seems that French was part owner of a winery on Madeira, and he visited Lisbon often on business matters. Before he was forty, he was sole owner of the firm and had bought land on Madeira where he could grow his own grapes. It was an experiment that succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. So I was told.”

“Does the firm have an English address here in London?”

“There’s an office here, but strictly for the importing and selling of wine. The jeweler in Lisbon tells me that the family owned vineyards in Portugal, but it was the ones on Madeira that gave their wines such a recognizable quality. Quite extraordinary, in fact. I fancy a glass of Madeira wine myself, after a good meal. And it’s usually from the cellars of French, French, and Traynor.” He shook his head. “Imagine that.”

Madeira wine was fortified and then aged. Rutledge’s father had enjoyed a five-year-old Madeira, although there had been several bottles in his cellar much older than that—one crusty forty-year-old, in fact, that his father had put down.

“Then the place to start is here in London. I don’t see the Yard paying for a jaunt to Madeira.”

The jeweler smiled thinly. “Not at public expense. But I daresay it would be a very pleasant holiday.”

Rutledge thanked Galloway and saw him out.

Sergeant Gibson, he was told as he returned to his office, was closeted with the Acting Chief Superintendent. And so he searched out Sergeant Fielding. Five minutes later, armed with the information Fielding had given him, Rutledge was on his way to the City and the firm of French, French & Traynor.

Neither of the principals was in, he was told by a junior clerk when he arrived at the handsome building near Leadenhall that housed the firm. It was three stories high, with an ornate façade that could have been designed by Wren. It was the right age. Above the door was a gilded sign with the name picked out and nothing more.

He opened the door and stepped into a small reception room. The paneling was well polished, the chairs were Queen Anne, and the thick carpet was Turkish, the rich colors in its pattern gleaming like dark jewels. The impression was of a well-established firm accustomed to serving the best clientele.

The junior clerk who had greeted him and asked his business deferred to a more senior clerk, and the man who then came out to speak to him would have been at home in a solicitor’s chambers: tall, graying, with a high forehead and still-black eyebrows that gave his face an air of dignity and authority.

He also knew how to sum up a visitor in one swift glance.

“Mr. Rutledge? I’m the senior clerk. Gooding is my name. Frederick Gooding.”

“Do you know where I can find Mr. French? I’d like very much to speak to him.”

“I’m afraid he’s not in today. I’ll be happy to help you in any way I can.”

“Mr. Traynor, then. Where will I find him?”

Mr. Gooding’s eyebrows rose. “The senior Mr. French was killed in the war. The younger Mr. French is presently in Essex. Mr. Traynor handles the firm’s business on Madeira.”

Rutledge brought out the watch and set it on the table beside him, where the lamplight caught the gold of the case and the chain. “Have you seen this watch before?”

“It looks very like the one that the senior Mr. French inherited from his father. It went to the younger Mr. French at his brother’s death. Returned from the Front in his kit.” He touched it lightly, turning the face toward him. “Yes, indeed. I could almost believe that it is one and the same.” Glancing up at Rutledge, he said, “How did Scotland Yard come by it? Can you tell me?”

“By chance,” Rutledge answered. “I’ve been told that a grandfather founded the firm, passed it to his son and son-in-law, and they passed their shares to their own sons. Is this correct?”

“The French family has been in the wine business for centuries. Shakespeare records that the Duke of Clarence was drowned in a butt of Malmsey. If this is true, then very likely it was a wine provided to the Court by the French family. The grandfather, as you describe him, decided to go into the business of growing the grapes and producing his own wine, instead of merely importing it. He had a son—that would be Mr. Laurence—and a daughter, who married a Mr. David Traynor, who was then brought in by Mr. Howard French as a partner. Their son is the Mr. Matthew Traynor who presently lives on Madeira. Mr. Laurence had two sons of his own, Michael, who was killed in the war, and his brother, the present member of the family in charge of the firm.” Gooding had been concise, deferential, and yet obstructive.

“Where in Essex can I find Mr. French the Younger?”

Gooding smiled slightly. “Mr. Lewis French has a home in a village in Essex just north of Dedham. A village called Stratford St. Hilary.”

Constable country, near the Suffolk border, where the artist’s most famous scenes were painted. Rutledge’s grandmother had been particularly fond of Constable’s work.

Rutledge asked, “When did you last speak to Mr. French?”

The clerk pursed his lips. “Friday of last week, I believe. He telephoned me to ask if I’d received final word of his cousin’s travel plans. I hadn’t, and he was not pleased. But then Mr. Traynor had business in Lisbon as well, and that could have taken longer than he’d expected.”

That would have been the Friday before the body was found on Monday morning.

“Does Mr. French usually reside in this village and commute to London?”

“No, no, he has a house in London. He wanted to be sure the ancestral home, as it were, was ready for Mr. Traynor’s arrival.”

Rutledge considered asking the clerk to view the body of the accident victim, then changed his mind. He didn’t relish having the news precede him if this was, by any chance, French the Younger. Lewis, he corrected himself.

“Is there a staff at the Essex house when Mr. French is in London?”

“Oh, yes. And his sister lives there. Miss Agnes French. She keeps house for her brother and her cousin.”

“Both men are single?”

“Mr. Traynor lost his fiancée during the war, and Mr. French has recently announced his engagement.” Something in the clerk’s face changed. “There’s to be a Christmas wedding,” he added, as if he disapproved.

“Does his fiancée live here in London?” If the dead man was French, then he might well have been on his way to call on her.

“She lives with her parents in Dedham, I believe.”

Which shot down that possibility. Unless there was another woman in the picture. But Rutledge rather thought Gooding wouldn’t tell him even if there were.

The door behind the clerk stood ajar, as if he had expected his business with Rutledge to be brief. Rutledge could just see the edge of a heavy gold-leaf frame, the sort favored by firms that choose to display portraits of founders or benefactors.

He walked around Gooding, saying, “I’d like to see the portraits in the passage there, if you don’t mind.”

Surprised, the clerk said, “The portraits?” He turned. “Ah. Mr. French and Mr. Traynor.”

He reached the door before Rutledge in a swift but discreet movement and held it open for him to enter, with the air that looking at the paintings had been his own idea, not Rutledge’s.

The passage was quite wide, and there were two larger-than-life portraits hung on the dark walnut paneling between doors to what must be private offices.

“Both were painted by artists of the Royal Academy,” Gooding was saying. “This is Mr. David Traynor. He was perhaps fifty when this was done.”

Rutledge recognized the name of the artist in the lower-left-hand corner.

Traynor appeared to be of medium height, his fair hair combed in the style of the day, and his sober expression that of a successful man who knew his own worth but had earned it. One hand rested on a large crate of wine with the firm’s name emblazoned on the side, and the other seemed to point to a map lying on the table next to him, showing Portugal and the island of Madeira some distance away.

There was no resemblance to the victim lying in the hospital mortuary.

Rutledge moved down the passage to the next portrait as Gooding said, “This of course is Mr. Howard French, the original founder. I have often felt there was a likeness to the present Mr. French. More so than to his elder brother, who closely resembled their mother.”

“There is no portrait of Mr. Laurence, Mr. Howard’s son.”

“It hangs in the office of the present head of the firm, Mr. Lewis. He is quite fond of the painting.”

The man also appeared to be of medium height, his hair a medium shade of brown, his eyes a medium shade of blue. But there was no mistaking the fact that there was nothing “medium” about the shape and thrust of his jaw. While Traynor celebrated for posterity his rise to new heights of wealth and prestige, there was no doubt that his father-in-law was the force behind the firm’s changing fortunes.

Nor was there any doubt that the dead man bore enough of a likeness to the portrait that he could very well be a relative of the founder, even though he didn’t possess that thrusting jaw or air of power. It was mainly in coloring and size, the ordinary nose, the shape of the head. Not conclusive, of course.

But that likeness, coupled with the watch, was convincing evidence that Mr. French the Younger was dead.

Now the question must be why? And where had he been killed?