Proof of Guilt

Chapter Five

It was time to speak to the Acting Chief Superintendent again.

Rutledge thanked Frederick Gooding for his assistance and turned to go. But he had a feeling, as the clerk politely accompanied him to the door and closed it almost silently behind him, that the man was more than curious about this visit from Scotland Yard and was busily speculating about what had precipitated it.

Then why had he not pressed for more information? Shown more concern? He had maintained the reserve that made chief clerks a formidable presence in any firm, giving Rutledge the French family genealogy but not much else in the way of real information. Was it an attempt to protect the head of the firm with silence until Gooding could find out for himself why the watch was in the hands of Scotland Yard? Or did he already know—or guess—how it had got there? Some indiscretion that would reflect unpleasantly on the firm’s good name and reputation?

What sort of man was Lewis French?

Certainly the firm was not accustomed to receiving representatives of Scotland Yard. The police had no file on it. The question was, would Gooding himself try to locate Lewis French to warn him of the Yard’s visit and possession of the watch?

Rutledge wished he had known enough beforehand not to have shown the watch to Gooding at all. But it had been the only lead he’d had when he knocked on the firm’s door.

The Acting Chief Superintendent was in his office when Rutledge returned to the Yard, and according to Gibson, there was no one in there with him.

Rutledge knocked at the door, then opened it as Markham called, “Come.”

Joel Markham had come through the ranks as Bowles had done but so far seemed to hold no grudge against men who had been to University. He was a burly man, fair hair beginning to recede, rather avuncular in appearance, but it would have been a mistake to think his easy manner was weakness. His hard green eyes told another story.

He considered Rutledge as he gestured to a chair. “I expect you have something to tell me about that accident in Chelsea. Just this morning I was asking Sergeant Gibson if we were to be favored with word on the result of your inquiry.”

Rutledge smiled. “I’ve only just found the last piece of the puzzle regarding the dead man. And I am forced to the conclusion that he was murdered, his body brought to Chelsea, and left there on the street without identification in the hope that he might not be identified either in the near future or ever, depending on how clever the police were in learning more about him.”

He went on to explain about the watch and the queries from other parts of the country, and finally his visit to the wine merchants.

“And no one had reported this man French as missing?”

“He was in Essex, according to the clerk. He may have come to town on a personal matter. He was recently engaged; it could have had something to do with a ring or other arrangements. Whatever it was, no one appears to have had any reason to worry until now.”

“Then you’d best get yourself to Essex before they do miss the man. Catch them before they hear the news from someone else.” Markham considered Rutledge. “You drive your own motorcar, I hear. Why is that? Why not the train like everyone else?”

Rutledge could feel himself stiffening. How to answer this man without telling more than he wished to be generally known?

“The war, sir.” It was curt almost to the point of rudeness, but he was still struggling with the question.

“The war?” Markham prompted.

He’d been buried alive when a shell landed too near his sector, and all that had saved him was the dead man’s body flung on top of him. Only, the dead man was Hamish MacLeod, whom he’d just been forced to execute for disobeying an order under fire. He’d never quite got over owing his life to the man to whom he’d delivered the coup de grâce mere seconds before the shell exploded. The young Scottish corporal had not wanted to die. But he would not lead his men back into the teeth of a German machine-gun nest when they’d lost so many already in futile attempts to silence it. Rutledge had wanted to spare him—but his corporal’s very public refusal had left him no options. The claustrophobia he’d endured since then had been nearly unbearable. Nor had he been able to free himself of Hamish or that memory.

He said after a moment, “I took too many trains then. Packed with frightened men on their way to be slaughtered. Hours of watching them struggle to be brave. Watching them write last letters, pray to whatever God they believed in, or simply sit, staring at their own fate. I swore I’d never take another one again if I could help it.”

It was as close to the truth as he could come. He waited for the Acting Chief Superintendent to react.

Markham studied him closely for a moment, then nodded. “I appreciate your candor. All right, drive if it suits you. What I want is results. I don’t care, within reason, how you go about getting them.”

Rutledge managed to thank him and get himself out of the office. It had begun to close in on him, making him want to stand up and fight his way out, away from those all-seeing green eyes and the feeling that he couldn’t breathe. The panic of being cornered with no possible escape and disgracing himself into the bargain.

Once in the passage, he took as deep a breath as he could manage and tried to steady himself. He could feel the perspiration breaking out on his forehead, his mouth dry as a desert.

And then as swiftly as it had come, his anxiety dissipated as he walked on to his office, grateful not to encounter anyone along the way. But he could feel his heart still hammering in his chest for several minutes afterward.

Essex. He forced himself to think about the journey ahead. He began to collect what he would need to take with him, and that steadied him. Markham had come too close to the truth. For an instant, Rutledge had wondered if Bowles had said something to Markham. Or if the Acting Chief Superintendent had found something in his file. Rutledge had always suspected there must be something there.

He shook himself. His own imagination had made more of the situation that it had warranted.

Walking out the door, Rutledge located Gibson and told him where he was going and why. The sergeant listened and then asked, “Should I advise the Inspector in Norfolk that you’ll be looking into his missing man while you’re in Essex?”

“It will depend on what I discover about French. So far no one seems to be alarmed about him. If he’s as busy a man as he appears to be, it’s odd that a week has passed without someone needing to contact him. But then his senior clerk is perfectly competent.”

Gibson nodded. “Then I’ll hold off.”

Rutledge started down the stairs. And stopped to add, “I’d like you to look into Frederick Gooding, the clerk at French, French, and Traynor.”

“Any particular reason?” Gibson asked.

Rutledge considered the question. There was nothing he could put his finger on except for that one change in the man’s demeanor. “Thoroughness,” he said finally and continued on his way down the stairs.

He went home, packed his valise, wrote a note to his sister, Frances, to drop into a postbox on his way, and set out for Essex.

He had friends on the Thetford Road outside Bury St. Edmunds, so he knew a good bit about the general area. Dedham had been listed in the Domesday Book as a Saxon town, its history even older than that by several centuries. Situated on the River Stour with a year-round ford, it had prospered as an agricultural community and from an influx of Flemish weavers. Wool had made it rich, like so many towns, and when wool was no longer king, it had settled into genteel obscurity. But the town had produced one famous son, the artist John Constable.

Traffic was light, and Rutledge crossed the Thames before stopping for a cup of tea and a sandwich. He’d had nothing since breakfast, and the pub was pleasant, with a terrace in back that ran down to a little stream. The sun was warm, the air benevolent, and he was tempted to stay longer. But it was important to reach Dedham before news of his visit to the clerk in London came to their ears. The firm had a telephone, and it was not unlikely for the family to have a way of contacting London when French was in Essex.

The shortening of the summer days caught up with Rutledge, and it was dusk before he drove through Dedham and found the French property well outside the town. At the turning, he looked to see if there was another village beyond the house where he could stop for the night. But if there was, he couldn’t pick out lights through the wood that extended in that direction.

A large scrolled F adorned the graceful wrought-iron gates, and griffins stood watch on the tall stone posts, their wings folded.

The gates stood open, and he drove up the long, looping drive until he came to the house. It was not as large as he’d expected, but the size was perfect for the proportions. The dark red brick, faced with white stone, was illuminated by his headlamps as he swung into the loop of the drive. Lamps were lit on either side of the door, and the knocker he saw, as he got out and walked up the two shallow steps, was in the shape of a tropical flower. Hibiscus?

He lifted it and let it fall. After a time, an older woman dressed in black opened the door to him and asked his business.

Rutledge said, “I’ve come to speak to Mr. French. Mr. Rutledge.”

“I’m afraid you’ve missed him. He returned to London ten days ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anyone else in the family in residence at the moment?”

“Miss French is here. Shall I ask if she’s receiving visitors?”

“Yes, thank you.” He smiled.

She was not taken in and left him standing there, the door ajar.

From where he stood, Rutledge could see part of a polished wood floor that ran down the left side of a staircase—the carved mahogany newel post was just visible. A painting graced the wall between two closed doors, and the table beneath it was Queen Anne, he thought. The painting itself appeared to be modern rather than the usual Italianate landscape. As in the style of the French Impressionists, the subject was not the French countryside but a vast grassy slope, grazing sheep in the distance, and in the foreground, an old man dressed in what appeared to be a hooded cape, leaning on a shepherd’s crook. There was something about the figure that spoke of such utter loneliness that Rutledge turned away.

It seemed that Howard French and his descendants had not flaunted their newfound wealth by renovating and enlarging their country house. No grand lobby with marble floors and statuary, to awe the visitor. He wondered if that indicated how little they used this house, or if they preferred to be comfortable here and entertained in London. An interesting insight into the man who had given his heirs a timepiece to be passed down to posterity. Solid, dependable, useful.

The maid returned to tell him that Miss French would receive him in the sitting room.

He followed her to a door down the passage. She tapped lightly and then opened it to announce him.

And the sitting room showed that he’d been right about the house. It was comfortable and well used, although the carpet and furnishings were of the best quality.

The woman standing by the hearth didn’t resemble the portraits he’d seen in London in any way except for her coloring. Her features were—he couldn’t be kinder than that—plain. And the dress she wore, a dark blue that made her skin appear sallow, did nothing for her appearance.

She said, in a pleasant but cool voice, “Mr. Rutledge.” And waited for him to speak.

“I apologize for coming to call at such a late hour,” he said. “I need to speak to your brother, Mr. French.”

“As I think you were told, he left for London last week.”

“Yes, which surprises me, as he wasn’t at the firm’s offices on Leadenhall Street.”

“It was a private matter that took him to the city.” She waited again, but when he didn’t fill the silence, she added, “I was not best pleased, I can tell you. He left me with the final preparations for our cousin’s arrival.”

“Was he expecting to meet anyone in particular?”

“I have no idea.” He could read the annoyance in her eyes. “If you want the truth, he often leaves me to finish whatever needs to be done. He finds household matters infinitely boring. His words, not mine. I would not at all be surprised if his pressing matter was merely an excuse. May I ask what brings you all the way to Essex? You aren’t carrying news of our cousin’s instant arrival, I hope. We’ve not yet aired the beds.”

“I’m afraid not.” They had remained standing, and he said, “Could we be seated, Miss French? This will take a little time to explain.”

He thought at first she was going to refuse. Then after the briefest hesitation, she offered him a chair and took the one opposite his.

“If this is a business matter,” she warned him, “I know nothing about wine, Madeira, or shipping. You’ve wasted your journey.”

He took the watch out of his pocket and showed it to her. “Do you recognize this, by any chance?”

She did, he could see that. But she took it from him and looked at it more closely. “If I didn’t know better I would say that this belonged to my brother. But he was wearing his when he left. I’d swear to it.” She passed it back to him, then said with severity, “Just what do you expect to gain by coming here? Are you suggesting that I should buy this watch back from you? I’m not a fool, Mr. Rutledge, and I think it’s time you left.”

She was on the point of rising to reach for the bellpull when he said, “I’m from Scotland Yard, Miss French.”

Sinking down again into her chair, she stared at him.

“I gave my name as Rutledge. It’s Inspector Rutledge.” He showed her his identification, but she didn’t take it. Her eyes were riveted on his.

“What has he done? My brother? Are we insolvent? Has he been embezzling, or does this have to do with my cousin’s visit? Is he involved?”

“I have no idea,” Rutledge answered. “We were called to Chelsea some days ago to investigate a body that had been discovered in Huntingdon Street. There was no identification on the body, but we did find the watch—”

She was on her feet before he could finish, pacing to the hearth, her face set.

“If a dead man had that watch,” she said huskily, “then something has happened to my brother. He would not part with it willingly. Don’t leave me in suspense. Did this man kill my brother? Is that what you are trying to tell me? Please—”

Rutledge hadn’t considered theft of the watch from French himself. It had seemed to him that the watch had been overlooked when the dead man’s pockets had been emptied.

Still, there was the faint likeness to the portrait he’d seen in the firm’s office.

Hamish, suddenly there again in Rutledge’s mind, said, “There’s more here than ye knew.”

“We feared,” Rutledge said carefully, “that the dead man was the victim, not the attacker.”

“My brother wouldn’t kill anyone. Why should he? He has everything he has ever needed.” Was there bitterness behind those words?

This time she did reach for the bellpull and in her agitation jerked it hard. “How did you come here, Inspector? By train, I should imagine.”

“I have my own motorcar with me.”

“So much the better. You will drive me to London, if you please, and we’ll get to the bottom of this business.”

“Miss French. There’s the possibility that your brother was the man we found in the street,” he said, trying to prepare her.

But she ignored him. “Nonsense. He didn’t have an enemy in the world. Well, at least not in London.”

And what did she mean by that? The interview was not going in the direction he’d anticipated.

“You are telling me that there is someone in Dedham who wishes him ill?”

“Not in Dedham,” she retorted impatiently. “In the village here. Did you not come through it on your way to the house? There was a Dominican abbey here, and when it was torn down by Henry the Eighth, a hamlet sprang up in the ruins. Servants from the abbey, dispossessed brothers— Ah, Nan, there you are. Would you please pack a small valise for me? I’m needed in London at once.”

When Nan had gone, Miss French turned to Rutledge again. “Where was I? Oh, the village. My brother was engaged to a young woman who lived close by the church, and then he jilted her for someone else. She didn’t take that very well. If he’d been attacked here, I’d have pointed the finger at her. But in London? I don’t believe it.”

“She could have followed him there,” Rutledge pointed out.

“Yes, yes, I know, but how likely is it? She doesn’t have a motorcar and she doesn’t know the city.”

She looked at the mantel clock. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll ask the kitchen staff to put up sandwiches and a Thermos of tea.”

And she was gone.

Shock took people in many different ways, Rutledge thought. And Miss French needed to be busy now, demonstrating that she was in control of the situation. He had a feeling she would fall apart if she was called on to identify the dead man and realized that it was indeed her brother.

Or had he jumped to conclusions based on a likeness that was not very strong?

On the whole, he didn’t believe he’d missed his identification. The man’s clothing had been that of a gentleman, and in the dark, the watch might easily have been overlooked by a killer in a hurry to rid himself of a corpse.

“Or was too well known to be of any value,” Hamish put in.

And that was true as well. But first things first. If Miss French was determined to travel to London, then so be it. He’d drive her. The body had to be identified.

Twenty minutes later, dressed in traveling clothes and followed by Nan hurrying after her with a valise in one hand and a picnic basket in the other, Miss French opened the sitting room door and said, “Thank you, Nan, I’ll telephone you from London. I’m ready, Inspector.”

She had very little to say on the long journey, and he was tired, in no mood to make light conversation. In the reflected light of the headlamps he could see only her profile, and it was set, as if her thoughts were already in London, facing whatever dreadful thing she might find there.

He could understand, but she had been determined not to listen, and he had had no choice but to let her have her way. And it was far better to put off the final shock until they reached the city. She would have long enough to mourn afterward.

It was very late when they drove into London. They had only stopped for petrol and to eat the sandwiches, drink the tea. Miss French said, rousing herself, “I didn’t call the house to tell them I’m coming. They’d have had it ready for my brother anyway. If you will take me there, I’ll be waiting at whatever time you suggest in the morning. I don’t feel up to doing more tonight.”

“Yes, that makes good sense,” he told her. “Will nine be too early?”

“Thank you. I doubt I’ll sleep, but at least I—at least I shan’t spend what’s left of the night having nightmares.”

He carried the valise and the picnic basket to the door as she pulled the bell.

The house was in a handsome square, although as in Essex it was not pretentious. Rutledge was beginning to understand Howard French. The founder of the present firm had inherited a business that was centuries old, even if he’d given it a new and very prosperous direction. But he appeared to have preferred to be thought of as old money and refrained from showing off his newfound wealth. Even the pocket watches passed down to the present generation had been elegant and expensive, but in perfect taste. Rutledge found himself wondering if the man had had hopes of a title from the Queen or at the very least from Edward VII. George V, the present king, hadn’t consorted with wealthy men in quite the same way his father had.

The door opened finally, and a young man stood there, his clothes hastily thrown on and his face reflecting his shock at seeing Miss French on the doorstep, much less, Rutledge thought, at this late hour of the night and with a valise, no maid, and a stranger in tow.

“M-Miss French,” he stammered, then got himself under control. “Is everything— I mean, please, come in.”

They stepped into the entrance hall, and Rutledge handed over the valise and basket.

“I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, Robert, but I need to speak to my brother. Is he here?”

“No, Miss—er—he’s in Essex, I was told, and not expected back in London until this Friday.”

She turned to glance at Rutledge, willing him not to speak. Then she said to Robert, “Well, then, I’ve come ahead. I’ll be spending the night, what’s left of it, and possibly tomorrow night as well. If you’ll tell Mrs. Rule. I don’t require much in the way of food, but as she will remember, I do like it on time.”

“Yes, Miss, I’ll tell her. Is there anything else you need? Shall I wake up Nell and ask her to attend you?”

“No. I’m not used to a lady’s maid at home, and I don’t need one in London,” she said briskly, then thanked him for thinking about Nell. Turning to Rutledge, she held out her hand. “Nine o’clock then, Mr. Rutledge.”

It was dismissal, and he was glad to go now that he’d heard for himself that French wasn’t staying at the London address.

He turned and left. Robert had followed him to the door and locked it behind him.

Back in the motorcar, Rutledge let in the clutch and drove off, making his way to his own flat.

He wondered how much longer Miss French could sustain the pretense that all was well. Too many factors pointed to her brother’s disappearance, if not to his death. He wasn’t in London or in Essex; the watch was in the possession of the Yard; and even Gooding could give them no information regarding French’s whereabouts. Or did the clerk know something that Rutledge did not?

It was an interesting possibility. Whatever French had decided to do with himself, it was unlikely that he would cut off ties with his firm.

With that thought in his mind, Rutledge walked through the door of the flat and went directly to his bedroom.

For a mercy he fell asleep almost at once and did not dream for what was left of his night. It was a measure of how long his day had been.

He did not think, when he handed Miss French into the motorcar the next morning at nine o’clock on the dot, that she had slept at all.

There were puffy rings under her eyes, making her appear even plainer, and the effort to keep herself calm showed in the tension in her jaw.

“Please. Let’s get this over with as quickly as possible. I’ll agree to anything, just let it be done,” she said to him.

He drove to the hospital, where earlier he had made arrangements for the body to be viewed, and led her into the bowels of the building to the unmarked door halfway down the long poorly lit corridor.

He opened the door for Miss French, but she pulled back, her hands shaking. “I— Let me have a moment.”

Rutledge let the door swing to and waited. He thought she might faint, she was so pale. But she managed to collect herself finally, her breathing still a little rapid, her eyes already filling with nervous tears. With a nod, she indicated she was ready, and he took her inside the large, chilly room that smelled of formaldehyde.

Ignoring his hand at her elbow, she marched across to the lone table, where a sheet-shrouded body lay under a stark lamp. It was easy to see the human outline—the peaked tent of the feet, the amorphous shape of a skull. She swallowed hard, her head jerking with the effort.

A middle-aged man appeared from another room and came to remove the sheet from the dead man’s face.

Miss French reached the table just as he gently placed the last fold across the throat, showing only the face. The dust and stones that had been caught in the flesh and the hair had been washed away. Save for the abrasions, like little freckles down the ridges of the forehead, cheekbone, and chin, the skin was clear.

She was clutching her handbag now as if it were a lifeline. Glancing down at her, Rutledge realized that her eyes were closed, probably had been as they had walked across the room. After a moment she opened them, and then she swayed, and he touched her arm to steady her.

“Oh, dear God,” she said in a voice that was barely audible. “Oh, my God.”

“Is this your brother, Miss French?”

She leaned against him for an instant, and then recovered, moving away as if embarrassed by such brief weakness.

“You must tell me, Miss French. So that the attendant and I can hear your statement clearly,” Rutledge prompted.

“No. No, it is not my brother Lewis.” Her voice echoed around them, high pitched, as if she couldn’t control it.

And then she did faint.