Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

“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.