Proof of Guilt (20 page)

It was time to do what had to be done.

What he hadn’t counted on, on his way to call on Miss Whitman, early as it was, was Miss French arriving on her doorstep before he could leave his motorcar close by the church, out of sight.

As he cut through the churchyard, Valerie Whitman had just opened her door to Miss French’s knock.

Agnes French’s disgruntled voice carried on the still morning air, and he could hear every word. As all the neighbors on either side of the cottage must surely have done as well.

“It wasn’t enough to take Michael’s love, and then Lewis’s,” she was saying, “you must kill my brother as well. Oh yes, I’ve heard from London. It’s all quite true, your grandfather has been taken up by the police. And I want to see you taken up as well, as his accomplice. Because you must have been. He’s too old, Gooding is, to best Lewis, even with his seizures. He had to have help. I’ve come to ask for my brother’s body so that I can bury him decently where he belongs. I won’t take no for an answer. I’ll stand here on your doorstep until you tell me.” Her voice had risen hysterically, until she was almost shouting.

Valerie Whitman, her face as white as the door she held open with one hand, the other raised a little as if to ward off a blow, stood there listening to the diatribe, uncertain how to answer the charges hurled at her.

“I don’t know anything about Lewis—” she began, but Miss French cut her short.

“Don’t lie to me. You and Gooding were always close, thick as thieves. He’ll not tell the police, but he must have told you. Or did you help to dig the grave? Tell me,
where is my brother?
”

Rutledge thought for an instant that Miss French was about to seize Valerie Whitman’s shoulders and shake her.

Crossing the churchyard at speed, oblivious of the traps for unwary feet, he came over the stone wall and across the street.

Miss French turned as Valerie Whitman looked his way, her eyes pleading and then dark with fright.

“He’s come to arrest you,” Agnes French shrieked. “I knew it.”

He opened the gate, came up the walk, and said to Miss French, “That’s enough. Go home and mourn your brother there. If you know anything about the firm, go to London and help them sort out what to do now. This is no place for you.”

She was about to protest, her cheeks a mottled red in her anger, when he held up his hand.

“No. This is not where you should be. She’s not involved. Her grandfather’s statement has cleared her.”

But for how long? Hamish was demanding, loud in the back of Rutledge’s mind.

How long before the police too were at her door?

Rutledge ignored him. “Shall I drive you home, Miss French? You’re very distraught.”

“I want her to tell me where to find my brother. I want to know how he died. I want to bring him home.”

“You never got on with him when he was there,” Miss Whitman said. “You can hardly make demands of me in his name.”

“I loved my brother, which is more than you can say.”

Rutledge said, “Miss Whitman, go inside. Miss French, I’ll be happy to drive you home.”

She burst into tears then, angry, volatile tears, and stamped down the path, shaking off his arm.

“I’ll make her life wretched until I get what I want,” she said, slamming the gate back on its hinges. “I will destroy her. That clerk has told me that I am head of French, French and Traynor now, and I will use the power of that position to run her out of St. Hilary. I’ll see that she’s left to beg on the road, her name anathema to decent people—”

“Stop it,” Rutledge said sternly.

Startled, she stared at him. “Does she have you twisted around her little finger too? How am I not surprised? A pretty face, and even an Inspector from Scotland Yard loses his wits.”

It was his turn to want to shake her until she stopped, but he couldn’t touch her. All he could do was place himself between her and the target of her wrath, forcing her away from the cottage.

She was still furiously angry, unable to stop herself. He could only hope that before they had gone too far, she would wear out her anger and herself.

She raged at him when they were out of hearing of the cottage, shouting at him to do his duty and tell her where her brother was, unaware of the spectacle she presented. Her plain face was distorted, blotchy still, and tears had made tracks through the light dusting of powder that a woman wore when outside her home.

And then, as if a lamp had been turned off, the rage ended. She seemed to know where she was, and with her head down, ignoring him, she began to walk briskly up the road, toward the gates to her house. Her shoulders still shook with her tears, but she kept walking, her mouth set in a grim line.

He stayed with her all the way to her door, turning her over to Nan, saying only that she needed a hot cup of tea and a cool cloth for her eyes. The maid, an arm around her mistress’s shoulders, almost lifted her across the threshold, and then hesitating long enough to be sure that Rutledge hadn’t intended to follow them inside, she swung the door to. The latch caught.

He wondered if the shock of finding herself in charge of her grandfather’s firm had driven Miss French to this outburst.
Beware what you wish for . . .
She had felt left out, ignored, untutored in what brought in the family’s wealth, what supported its position, and now she would be expected to show that like the males in her family, she was up to the responsibility. And she’d be doing it in the spotlight of a murder trial.

He didn’t envy Agnes French.

Rutledge stood there staring at the closed door, his ears still ringing with her angry words, and then he turned and walked back to the Whitman cottage.

But Valerie Whitman wouldn’t come to the door. He called to her and even tried the latch. In the end, he could do nothing more than walk away himself. Back to the churchyard, where he could keep watch.

After an hour or more of pacing back and forth amongst the graves, he gave up and went to fetch his motorcar.

When he drove back toward the main road, he saw that Valerie Whitman had come to her gate, was standing there waiting until he drew even with her.

“Is it true? Has my grandfather been taken into custody for murder?”

“I’m afraid so. He confessed in a statement. In an effort to keep you safe.”

“He confessed to what? To
murder
?” Warm as it was, she wrapped her arms around her, and he could hear her teeth chattering from shock. “I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true. As far as it goes. Matthew Traynor is missing as well.”

Her eyes flew wide at that. “He’s in England? Or is he still in Portugal?”

“His ship docked barely twenty-four hours before Lewis himself disappeared. He disembarked, and that was the last anyone saw of him. His luggage went unclaimed.”

“Dear God. And my grandfather is accused of killing him as well?”

“Yes. He knew what he was doing, Gooding did, when he confessed. The original plan was to take you into custody, you see. As an accomplice. You would have gone to prison.”

She had begun trembling violently. He wanted to offer comfort, but it was not possible. He was the enemy now.

“I didn’t know. I’ve done nothing wrong, I haven’t harmed Lewis or anyone else.”

“You must be very careful. If Miss French comes again, she may bring the constable or even the Inspector from Dedham. Keep your door locked and stay away from windows. It will blow over, but until it does, keep a small valise packed and ready by the kitchen door. You may have to leave in a hurry.”

“This is my home. I can’t leave it. I have nowhere else to go. Not even to my grandfather now.”

“Have you no relatives you could stay with for a short time? Until the shock of this news wears off, and people like Miss French come to their senses?”

She shook her head.

“I’ll see what I can do. There’s the tutor. He lives nearby—”

“No, please. I’m safer where I am.”

“Then I’ll ask the curate to keep an eye on you.”

“Don’t make his life wretched. Please, I’ll be all right.”

But Rutledge wasn’t sure of that. Before he could argue the point, she had turned away and hurried back into her house.

He waited until he was sure the door was locked, and then he went in search of the curate.

Williams had heard nothing. Shocked and alarmed by what Rutledge told him, he stared up at the church tower and said, “What am I to do? I can’t stay in her house—the gossips would make the worst of that. And she can’t come here, for the same reason. If I were as old as my predecessor, it might have been all right.”

“Well, then, the least you can do is keep an eye on her. If she’s in trouble, if anyone—Miss French included—badgers her, go to the police. Constable Brooks must protect her. She hasn’t been accused of anything.” Or at least not so far. Rutledge felt helpless and very angry. “She’s not her grandfather.”

“Yes, yes, I know that. If I could find some older woman— But if Miss French accuses her of knowing more than she ought to know, everyone will have second thoughts. It will be impossible to persuade anyone to come.”

Williams would have passed by the man lying beaten and robbed on the road and left him for the Good Samaritan, Rutledge thought grimly. And then he swore at himself, and afterward at Gooding.

“Think of something,” Rutledge urged. “I’m needed in London. I’ll ask the police in Dedham to send a constable round, but I don’t think they will have one to spare.”

He had to do something, but until he heard from Belford, there was not much he was free to do.

Frances. He could take her to his sister’s house. But even as the thought came to him, he knew it was impossible. He had arrested Valerie Whitman’s grandfather. His hands were tied.

He said to the curate, “Keep an eye on her. It’s your duty.” And with that, he got back in the motorcar and drove away before Williams could argue or find another reason to refuse.

He stopped in Dedham, spoke to the police, and was told that they would take his request under advisement. Miss Whitman had neither made a request for protection nor claimed she was being harassed.

“See that she isn’t,” he snapped and walked out.

A
ll the way back to London, Rutledge found himself going over every bit of evidence they had so far. He picked up the rain again, and that helped to concentrate his mind. He went first to his flat, shaved and changed his clothes, and as soon as he could, he went to call on Belford.

The man shook his head when Rutledge asked if there was news. “But I hear you have the chief clerk in custody. Surely that’s sufficient?”

“Early days,” Rutledge said easily. “There’s enough circumstantial evidence, yes, but I’m not convinced that he’s the right man.”

“Hmmm.” It was a noncommittal response.

“What do you know about the name and direction I left for you last night?”

“Now that’s very interesting. It’s a lodgings in the east end of London. The man Baxter, whose name you gave me, is not the brother of this man Rawlings you mentioned earlier. What’s more, the woman in whose house he had taken rooms hasn’t seen him for several weeks.” Belford walked to the hearth and took down an envelope that Rutledge recognized. “This was waiting for him. She was told that any future letters should be held for our—er—colleague, as Mr. Baxter was of necessity visiting friends elsewhere. She appeared to understand that Mr. Baxter was evading the police. There have been no other letters in recent weeks. She rather thought that Mr. Baxter came from Manchester. She had been married to a Manchester man at one time—she recognized the accent.”

Rutledge took the letter and put it into his pocket.

“I think it should be opened, in the event there’s information there that we can use,” Belford said.

Rutledge smiled. “I’ll let you know if there is.”

He thanked Belford and was about to leave when the man added, “I have a feeling—for what it’s worth, mind you—that Mr. Baxter may be your man. He came to London some six weeks ago. He and another man, who didn’t stay in London very long, shared the room. The woman was glad to see the back of
him
. She said he was trouble walking if ever she’d seen it.”

Bob Rawlings had a half brother. Was this the other man?

And as if he’d read Rutledge’s mind, Belford informed him, “I sent someone to Somerset House. Rawlings appears to have been an only child.”

If Belford had gone to that much trouble, then the information was correct.

Rutledge said, “I’m fond of lost causes. I think I’ll stay with this and see where it leads.”

“Then I wish you luck.”

Rutledge left and didn’t touch the letter until he was well away from Chelsea. He pulled into a quiet lane and opened it carefully.

But to his bitter disappointment, it was not what he’d hoped.

The letter was written by a different hand from the envelope.

It has been a while since I’ve heard from you. I deserve better, and remind you of promises made.

There was nothing else, no greeting and no signature. It could have been a letter to a lover. Or a reminder of family obligations. Or even a warning that Baxter had failed in some way.

Diaz had been extremely careful, putting nothing down on paper that could in any way be taken as proof that he had hired a killer.

Frustrated, Rutledge returned the letter to its envelope.

Diaz appeared to be a simple gardener. But he had been to university, and he had been in prison, schooling of a very different kind.

And Gooding was still standing in the shadow of the hangman’s noose.

Chapter Eighteen

R
utledge was sitting at his desk dealing with the Gooding file when there was a tap at his door and Gibson came in.

“Someone had already been to the lodging house where Baxter lived before the constable got there. A tall man, grubby clothes but polite manner. He took a letter with him. My guess is that it’s someone sent by Baxter.”

Belford. Or one of his people.

“Did you get a description of Baxter?”

“The constable did. Ordinary looking, those were the words of the woman who lets rooms in the house. Brown hair, brown eyes, nothing to turn your head for a second look. He left the house the Friday before the body was discovered in Chelsea and never came back. He’s paid up until the end of the month.”

Rutledge considered that. “Do you think he could be our dead man?”

“It’s possible that Gooding got him to help with French or meet Traynor in Portsmouth, then got rid of him after he’d done what he was paid to do. If French was already dead and in the back of the motorcar, I can see Gooding running Baxter down, then leaving him where no one would recognize him.”

Not Gooding. Not Diaz. Rawlings. Rutledge would have bet on it.

It would be a telling point if the dead man was Baxter. Because he was connected not to Gooding but to Diaz. The letter proved it.

“Clever sod, whoever is behind this business,” Gibson commented. And almost in echo of Rutledge’s thought, he added, “My money is on Gooding. Which reminds me. An Inspector from Dedham was sent to question Miss Whitman. She barred her door and refused to speak to him.”

He had warned her there would be questions. But not this soon, surely?

Rutledge said, “Has Gooding requested legal counsel?”

“This morning. He asked Hayes and Hayes to provide someone.”

“Any luck searching for a body along the road north from Portsmouth?”

“Not so far. The Chief Constable for Hampshire isn’t best pleased with all his men strung out across the county.”

“No. I should think he wouldn’t be.”

Rutledge thanked Gibson and ten minutes later left the Yard.

It took three quarters of an hour to find the lodging house where Baxter had stayed. Tucked away on a side street, it was easily missed.

Hamish said, “A verra’ good place to hide.”

And it was. The frumpy woman who answered the door to his knock looked him up and down. “The police have come and gone. I don’t need any more of you frightening away my lodgers. And I know my rights. You can’t search here without proper papers.”

“I don’t want to search. I’d like to show you a portrait and ask you if it reminds you of any of your lodgers,” Rutledge said with a smile.

“A portrait?” she asked suspiciously. Her hair was still done up in rags, and she put a tentative hand up to them as if she were already considering his request, in spite of her doubts.

“Yes, it belongs to a firm in the City.”

“And you’ll take me there and bring me back? In that motorcar? I’ve never ridden in a motorcar.”

“Absolutely.”

“Then wait here.”

She was away for nearly three quarters of an hour. When she came down the stairs again, the rags in her hair were gone and in their place were fair, tight curls that seemed to bob when she walked, despite the ugly hat holding them into place. The dress she had been wearing when she opened the door had been changed to a black one with severe beading at the neck and cuffs. It was better suited to a funeral. But she surged out of the house, walked up to the motorcar, and waited for him to open the door for her. Amused, he settled her in the seat, then turned the crank before joining her there.

She sat up very straight, her purse clasped tightly in her hands, her eyes darting here and there as she took in the passersby, the houses on every street, even the traffic, telling him breathlessly at one point that he was driving far too fast, it made her dizzy.

They arrived without incident at French, French & Traynor. Rutledge handed her down, and she stood there on the pavement like a frowsy duchess while he knocked.

Simmons, the junior clerk Rutledge had seen before, came to the door, stared with open mouth at Rutledge’s companion, and then shut it smartly as he ushered them into the outer room.

The woman’s gaze swept the furnishings and lamps, the thick carpet and the polished floorboards, not even trying to conceal her curiosity. The junior clerk, confused, asked how he could help Mr. Rutledge.

“I’ve brought this lady to see the portraits of your founders. I hope that she will find one of them of particular interest.”

“The portraits?” If Rutledge had asked to see the giraffe, the man couldn’t have been more unsettled. “Er—those in the passage?”

“Yes. It’s all right. I’ve studied them many times. It’s the lady who wishes to see them.”

The clerk nodded, then opened the inner door, leading the way.

The woman walked ahead of Rutledge, still taking in everything. She would dine out on this excursion for months. The first portrait got her immediate attention. “A fine-looking gentleman,” she said of David Traynor, Matthew’s father, and moved on.

Standing in front of Howard French’s portrait, she tilted her head to one side. “It’s not Mr. Baxter,” she said. “I mean, I don’t see a real likeness. Still, if you squint your eyes just so”—she demonstrated a squint—“you could say it’s similar in a way.”

“Could they be related?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. It’s the coloring, I expect. Ordinary. Brown. Not like the other gentleman, so fair. You’d take notice of
him
on the street, wouldn’t you? And perhaps the shape of this one’s face. Not round, not long or square. Just—ordinary.” She turned to Rutledge. “Who is this gentleman, then?”

“It’s one of the owners here,” Rutledge said before the clerk could give her a name.

“Is Mr. Baxter connected to him?” She pointed again to the portrait. “Is that why you wanted me to come here?”

“Not connected. But perhaps someone looking at this portrait and seeing Mr. Baxter later in the day would be reminded of a similarity.” He had no intention of speaking of the dead man he’d found in Chelsea.

She gave some thought to his answer. “Well, not if you
knew
them, like.”

Satisfied that she had seen all there was to see, she turned back down the passage. “Looking at him from this direction,” she said, pointing to Howard French once more, “I don’t quite see any likeness, not when his eyes are on me. Still, I understand why you wanted to bring me here. It was clever, better than asking me to tell you what Mr. Baxter looks like.”

He thanked the clerk, escorted her to the motorcar, and started back toward her lodging house. It had not solved anything, this visit to the wine merchant’s office. But he could take comfort in the fact that Baxter wasn’t out of the running.

“How fast can it travel? This motorcar?” she asked.

“Fast enough. Shall I show you?”

She uttered a frightened squeak and shook her head, the curls bobbing in tandem.

When at last they reached her street, she sighed. “Well, I thank you very much for the outing. I dunno as it did you any good, but I was pleased.”

He saw her to her door, thanked her, and left.

Back at the Yard, he sat down at his desk, facing the window. It was a rather daunting task, this, he told himself as he stared out at the heavy clouds building in, a dark backdrop to the trees that blocked his view of most of the street.

Hamish said, “Ye’re catching at straws.”

He was. And getting nowhere.

As the storm gathered, Rutledge sat there watching it, the lightning flaring like the flash of artillery, while the muffled thunder seemed to echo up and down the river. He flinched in the face of it, almost feeling the earth shake as the window glass rattled. He fought against it as long as he could, and then was back in the trenches, struggling to stay alive, to keep his men alive, and as the rain hit the window, propelled by the wind, like machine-gun fire, he clenched his teeth and tried to wait it out. But the room was dark as night at the storm’s height, and it was all he could do to stop himself from calling out to men four years in their graves, encouragement, warnings, changes in orders, swearing at the laggards, promising the wounded he wouldn’t forget them.

Not here, please, God, not here where everyone will hear me—

And then the storm had moved on, and he was sitting there, hands locked on the arms of his chair, perspiration wet on his forehead and trickling down his chest.

He remained where he was until he was steady again, the worst over.

Hamish said, “Ye should lock yon door before the next storm.”

T
oying restlessly with Fielding’s note as the rain let up and a steamy sunlight tried to push its way through the clouds, Rutledge realized what was between his fingers, and in that instant decided what to do. He would test the sergeant’s indictment of Valerie Whitman as the young woman with the bicycle.

He had no reason not to accept Fielding’s findings. The man was a very good policeman, thorough, careful, and dependable.

Conversely, if he himself believed that Diaz was the killer, then Valerie Whitman and her bicycle had never been on that train. To show that would surely weaken the Gooding case, even if it did nothing to support his own inquiry.

He opened his desk drawer, took out the frame he kept there, and went down to Fielding’s desk.

There were a number of folders on the desktop, and he opened each in turn until he found the one with the statement taken down and signed by the van guard. He made a note of the man’s name and then removed the photograph of Valerie Whitman that he’d given the sergeant.

It took a quarter of an hour to locate anyone who could tell him where to find Billy Harden. And then someone said he thought Billy might be in the canteen having a last cup of tea before going on duty.

The station was crowded, noisy, the canteen the same. The station smelled of coal smoke and damp wool from the rain, while the canteen smelled of onions, sausages, and warm bodies, overlaid with cigarette smoke.

Threading his way through the tables, Rutledge finally found a thin, hawk-faced man in the proper uniform, hunched over a pot of tea, nursing the cup in front of him.

“Billy Harden?”

“Depends on who’s asking.”

“I’d like to speak to you for a moment, if you please. Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard.” He showed his identification, and the man shook his head. “I’ve told all I know to yon sergeant,” he said, clearly tired of being sought out and questioned.

“It’s rather important,” Rutledge said, sitting down in the rickety chair across from the man. He took the photograph out of his pocket and set it on the narrow table, careful of the rings from cups and pots and glasses. “You said you recognized this woman, and we have your statement. I’m just double-checking information before we go to trial in this matter.”

“Yes, I recognized her.”

“Good. It’s not a very flattering likeness, but all we had. Her hair is much fairer than it appears to be here. The photograph was taken on a dark day, and the color isn’t very clear. I hope Sergeant Fielding pointed this out.”

“He did. And that’s her.”

“She’s much taller than she appears here. Nearly five foot nine.” Rutledge considered Harden. “Tall enough to look you in the eye, I should think.”

“Yes, he told me,” the man said irritably. “Quite a tall lady.”

“And she’s put on considerable weight since this was taken. Two stone, at least.”

“I recognized her. All right?”

Rutledge brought out the frame holding the photograph of his sister that he kept in the drawer of his desk, had done since he had come out of Dr. Fleming’s clinic and faced his first day at the Yard. A reminder of what he owed her.

“This is another photograph I want you to look at. We have every reason to believe the woman you’ve identified put a bicycle on the train the night in question, but there’s a chance that this woman was with her. Does she look familiar to you? I know it’s been some time since you took the bicycle on the luggage van, but it would be helpful to know if she was there as well.”

Harden pushed his cup aside to study the photograph Rutledge put down.

“I can’t be sure,” he said after a moment.

“Yes, I’m glad you are taking this seriously. Take your time.”

After about three minutes of staring, Harden frowned. “She was there. Standing just behind the first woman.”

“I see. Yes, thank you very much.”

Rutledge collected the two photographs and put them back in his pocket.

Turning slightly so that he could see the clock behind the counter, he said, “I left my glasses at the Yard. Can you tell me what the time is? I mustn’t be late, there’s another interview still to do.”

Harden looked up at the clock, squinting. “Nearly half past, I should think.”

Rutledge thanked him and rose. Harden poured a last cup of tea out of the pot and nodded.

Rutledge walked way.

The man was myopic, he realized. The time was almost five o’clock. Not nearly half after. And if he couldn’t see that clock, barely five feet away, then he could hardly recognize the face of the woman standing by the van or the woman behind her. What’s more, Valerie Whitman was not more than five feet six inches tall, she didn’t appear to have gained half a stone, much less two since the photograph was taken, and she certainly wasn’t fair.

He had reached the canteen door when it opened and a burly man in coveralls came in and called, “Harden. It’s time.”

Harden looked toward the voice. “Is it?” he demanded.

But the burly man had gone. Harden finished his tea in a gulp and got up.

Rutledge went outside and waited for him. Standing some five feet away from the door, he said as Harden came out, “Safe journey, mate,” matching the tone of voice and accent of the burly man.

Harden nodded, “Thankee, Sam.” He hurried away, headed for the trains, settling his cap on his head.

Rutledge watched him go, feeling the first surge of hope in days.

H
e returned to the Yard, set the photograph of Valerie Whitman back into the folder on Fielding’s desk, then in his own office, he restored his sister’s silver frame to the drawer.