Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

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.

Chapter Six

Rutledge carried Miss French into a small waiting room that the attendant pointed out to him, and it was not long before she came to.

Her statement had taken him completely by surprise. But he didn’t press her for more information until her color had returned and she seemed to be aware of her surroundings again. She wheeled around, as if expecting to see the table with the covered body somewhere just behind her.

“It’s all right,” he said quietly. “This is a private room. We can stay here as long as you like.”

She relaxed and closed her eyes again. After a moment she said, “Michael was buried in France. My elder brother. I didn’t— We never saw him.”

“But you saw Lewis just now?” He wasn’t convinced she knew what she was saying.

She opened her eyes, a little of her spirit evident again. “I have told you. That was not Lewis. Although at first—the scratches on his face—I saw those first. But it wasn’t my brother.”

“You are absolutely certain then.”

“Absolutely.” She saw the glass of water he was holding, took it, then gave it back to him, her hand shaking too much to try to sip it. “Could we leave, please? I seem to smell that odor still. It’s making me quite ill.”

Other witnesses had said much the same thing. Rutledge himself had become inured to it. But he had never become inured to the dead, even after four years in France, where bodies had been almost as common as the rats underfoot.

He gave her his arm, and they walked together down the long passage back to the motorcar. Once there she seemed to revive completely, pulling on her gloves and fiddling a little with the buttons at the wrists as if to distract her thoughts.

When they had left the hospital behind, she said, “I can’t understand why you thought that man might be Lewis.”

“The watch, of course, which sent me to French, French and Traynor. The clerk there identified it, and he told me Lewis French was in Essex. I went there to find out. And he’s not at the London house. Where, then, is he?”

“I have no idea. My brother has been his own man since he left for University.”

“Was he in the war?”

“No. He’s subject to seizures. The Army wanted no part of him. He might as well have had the plague. It bothered him more than he was willing to admit.”

Which meant there were no war wounds to use for identification purposes. Rutledge was still not satisfied that the dead man was not French.

There was also the likeness to the portrait of Howard French.

As if she sensed his reaction, Miss French said, “My father had a mistress, I think. I was never told, of course, but I remember my mother crying sometimes when he seemed to be too busy to come home. It wasn’t until much later that I understood why his absences upset her. And when he died—he outlived my mother—there was a woman’s photograph in his desk. It had one of those hidden compartments, and I found it quite by accident. Perhaps my mother had found it as well. I can’t say. I did wonder— I’d look sometimes at the village children, searching for a likeness. But of course if he’d been involved with someone locally, it would have been the height of foolishness. Gossip would have ferreted out the truth, wouldn’t it? Perhaps she lived in London. I don’t know.”