Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

Hamish said, “Or how to deal wi’ his sister, and her increasing outrage.”

An interesting point. She herself had told Rutledge that she had quarreled with her brother before he set out for London.

Miss Townsend was still speaking. “Are you a friend of Lewis’s? I don’t believe I’ve heard him mention your name.”

“I’m not surprised,” Rutledge said. “I’ve only known him . . . officially.”

Her face was lit by a smile. “I know very little about the business side,” she admitted. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted Port or Madeira. My father doesn’t care for wine or spirits.”

“Yet you are marrying a man whose livelihood is wine.”

“My father understands that. Of course he does. His feelings are personal.”

Rutledge had run into this sort of thing before. He’d have been willing to bet that someone in the elder Townsend’s family had been a drunkard.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t help you,” Miss Townsend was saying.

It was dismissal, but he’d learned more than he’d counted on.

“Do you know if Mr. French was wearing his watch when you had lunch with him?”

“His watch?” She was completely lost. “Should I have had a reason to notice it?”

“No, not at all. I was thinking that perhaps he’d mislaid it—it could explain why he’d missed our appointment.”

She smiled, her face clearing. “Lewis is always on time. No, there must have been some other reason.”

He was just preparing to thank her and take his leave when the door opened and a portly man with fair hair and a mustache came into the room.

“Mary, I was told someone called.”

“Papa, this is Mr. Rutledge. He’s looking for Lewis. Something to do with the firm.”

“Indeed.”

“Thank you for your help, Miss Townsend. It’s possible I just missed him in London. I’ll try again. Good evening, sir.”

Rutledge made his escape before Townsend could ask more questions than he was prepared to answer. And as he was opening the outer door, he heard the man’s voice saying, “You have no business entertaining a stranger without a member of the family present. Furthermore, I shall tell French that he’s not to send his business acquaintances—” The rest was cut off as Rutledge stepped outside.

As he walked back to the motorcar, he swore under his breath. Neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring . . . Why did the dead man have that watch? Or to turn it around another way, why was Lewis not wearing the watch? It was a symbol of who and what he was. Not something he was likely to give up easily.

Hamish said, “Unless it was no’ for verra’ long.”

It occurred to Rutledge that French had palmed the man off with the watch and then looked for a chance to run him down. Then why hadn’t he recovered the watch first thing? Had he been interrupted?

And that brought up another missing piece of property—Lewis French’s motorcar. Had there been enough damage to make it impossible to drive into London without questions being asked? Was it somewhere in England where an unwitting smith was making repairs so that French could reappear? It would be impossible even for Gibson to trace such a small shop.

Rutledge drove back to the Sun, once an old coaching inn, and took a room for the night. It was too late to return to London anyway, and he could put the morning hours to very good use here.

It was nine o’clock when he rang the bell at the French house. Nan opened the door and at once looked beyond Rutledge, as if expecting to see her mistress alighting from the motorcar.

He said, “I’m afraid Miss French has decided to stay in London for a few days. I’ve come to ask—did Mr. French leave his motorcar here or take it with him to London?”

She stared at him.

“The problem is, we can’t seem to find him in London. If the motorcar is still here, perhaps he took a train.”

Her face cleared. “I believe he drove himself, sir. He usually preferred it.”

“Then very likely he stopped off to visit a friend.”

“He could have. He wasn’t expected in London for several days.”

“And you saw him leave?”

She looked away and then back at him. “He left in the evening. He and Miss French had had words about readying the house for Mr. Traynor. I heard the door slam, and Miss French went out after him. Then she came back, dismissed me for the night, and went into her room. I thought she’d been crying and didn’t want me to see.”

“Did they often quarrel? Miss French and her brother?”

“Not often, sir. But she felt sometimes that he was unappreciative of all she did. And I must say, it was true. She told me once that she didn’t envy Miss Townsend.”

“Where were they to live when they married? Here? Or in London?”

“I expect in London.”

He thanked her and left.

Coming out of the drive, Rutledge saw the curate, Mr. Williams, peddling his way. He waited for him, and Williams pulled up by the iron gates.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” the curate asked.

“Yes, thank you. Are you going into Dedham? I’ll give you a lift.”

“Nice of you! Shall I lash the bicycle to the boot?”

“Yes, you’ll find rope in there.” When Williams had finished and joined him in the motorcar, Rutledge said, “I haven’t known Lewis French long. What sort of person is he?”

“Nice enough chap. I think the elder brother, Michael, was the pick of the family. Everyone had high hopes for him. But then he didn’t come home from the war, more’s the pity. Lewis has made a go of the firm, and his fits seem to have lessened with age.”

Rutledge had forgot that Miss French had mentioned her brother’s seizures. “Were they severe?”

“Not as a rule. But a time or two they were very bad. If he were very upset, the spells were worse. Dr. Townsend had to be called in once. French had bit his tongue rather badly. You’ve been asking a good many questions about the family, and French in particular. And you listen, which encourages confidences. Perhaps it’s time to ask who you are?”

There was nothing for it but to give the curate a fair answer.

“My name is in fact Rutledge. And I’m an Inspector at Scotland Yard.”

There was stunned silence. His companion turned to look at him, then stared straight ahead.

He could see the curate remembering everything he’d told Rutledge. A lonely man—there had been no sign of a wife—he’d talked freely, trusting that his instinct about people was right, and this stranger was what he seemed.

“Forgive me. I hope I have done no one any harm,” he said at last, then paused. “If the Yard is involved, then we must be dealing with murder. Are you here about the victim? Or the killer? And what does the French family have to do with this business?”

“A dead man turned up on a quiet street in London. There was no identification, and we were at a loss to explain how he got there, where he’d died, and most urgent of all, who he was. But he was carrying a rather unusual timepiece. Somehow, whoever emptied his pockets missed it. Or for all we know, left it there on purpose. We investigated the watch, and it turned out the owner was one Lewis French. We thought we had identified our man. He was not French, as it happened. Still, we needed to know how he’d come by French’s watch. But we haven’t been able to find Mr. French. Or the motorcar in which he left his house over a fortnight ago.”

“Dear God.” As the whole of what he’d been told sank in, Williams shook his head.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you. But have you spoken to Miss Townsend? Could she tell you where French had gone? Surely he wouldn’t hare off on a whim without saying something to her. It’s my understanding that he had planned to be here at least a week. That was the impression he gave when he came to services that first Sunday morning after he arrived from London. He told me there was a problem at one of the farms on the estate. Worm, he thought, and he was to speak to a man in Dedham about replacing the infected wood.”