Proof of Guilt (3 page)
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.”
A
t 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.
R
utledge 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.”
I
t 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.”
