Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

And he was reminded all at once of his own bitter memories. Jean had been eager to leave him. She had broken off their engagement without even telling him, although he’d known he couldn’t marry her as he’d been in the spring of 1919. And she had been in such a hurry to leave the clinic after seeing him there for the first—and only—time. It had turned out for the best, but it had been impossible for him to accept that when, suffering from shell shock to the point that he couldn’t eat or sleep or think, he had needed an anchor, a connection to reality.

He would have given much to know whether it had only been Valerie Whitman’s pride that had been hurt. Or had the pain gone deeper? He had known that too, when Meredith Channing had traveled to Belgium to nurse the ruin of a man she believed to be her missing husband.

“A woman scorned . . .” Hamish’s voice startled him. Rutledge glanced quickly at Miss Whitman to see if she had heard it too. But she was staring up at the church tower, where a pair of rooks were circling and calling.

“There’s a pair that lives in the tower,” she said, changing the subject. Then: “I really must go.” And she turned back toward the High Street.

“I’ll walk with you as far as your gate,” he said, following her, although his motorcar was in the opposite direction. “If you think of anything that might be useful in discovering the whereabouts of Lewis French, please send word to the Sun Inn in Dedham.”

“I’m not likely to. I’ve already told you. Speak to Miss Townsend.” This time he could hear anger behind her words.

They continued in silence to her gate, which he opened for her to pass through. As he was closing it again, she said, “I’d rather not let it be known that I spoke to you. I have no right to discuss the French family with anyone.”

“There’s no need,” he said. “For anyone else to know.”

“Not even Mr. Williams,” she said, after considering the matter, her head to one side, the sun touching those honey gold lights in her hair. Rutledge wondered if she knew how she looked in the sunlight. “He sometimes forgets that a priest’s duty to his parishioners extends beyond the secrets of the confessional.”

And he had indeed forgot, Hamish reminded Rutledge. Because the man from London had been such a good listener . . .

Why had Miss Whitman told him so much? For reasons of her own?

Without another word, she was gone, walking briskly up the path and into the house. She didn’t look back.

He watched until the door closed and then stood there at the gate a moment longer.

On his way to the motorcar, he surprised himself thinking again that he wouldn’t have chosen Miss Townsend over Miss Whitman. If he had been Lewis French.

The inn in Dedham was on the telephone, and Rutledge shut himself into the tiny closet to put through a call to the Yard.

When Gibson had been found and brought to the instrument, he said to Rutledge, “You’ll be interested to hear Mr. Belford’s background.” Without waiting for a reply, he went on. “He was in the Military Foot Police. An officer.”

Which explained his easy recapitulation of the evidence surrounding the dead man. He was accustomed to setting out the facts in an orderly manner, for an inquiry.

“Anything else?”

“Not so far. His record was exemplary, according to my sources. And he doesn’t appear to have any connection with French, French and Traynor. Although he’s been to Lisbon, oddly enough. Something to do with deserters.”

That was food for thought, although Rutledge wasn’t prepared to see a connection. Yet. But if Belford was behind the death of the man on his street, it would have been to his advantage to try to lead the Yard astray.

And he hadn’t.

Unless he had lied about recognizing the body. If so, where had the dead man come by the watch?

“Has French turned up at his London house or at the wine importers?”

“We’ve asked the constables in each street to keep an eye open for him, and they report daily. No sighting so far. And the constable in the City by the wine importers sometimes stops in at the neighboring firm to see a friend there. According to this friend, the chief clerk has been trying to contact Mr. Traynor to tell him what’s happening here. And Mr. Traynor hasn’t responded. The clerk has been that upset.”

Mr. Gooding had a great deal of responsibility on his shoulders. He would prefer to have some sort of direction, but he would not have been the one to gossip. Someone in his office must be talking to the neighbor. Gooding would not be pleased. Still, it gave the constable access to information.

“Any new information for me?” Rutledge asked.

“There’s been another query from Norfolk, asking if we know anything about their man. He’s still missing. And we had a new name sent in by the police in south Devon. It doesn’t appear to be very promising.”

“Just now there’s more than enough to keep me busy here.”

He rang off, then walked out of the inn directly into the path of Miss French.

She had taken an early train, he guessed, because she was still dressed for traveling. A motorcar for hire had just deposited her in front of the inn’s door.

Looking up as Rutledge’s shadow fell across her path, she said, “Oh. It’s you.” As if she had been expecting to find someone else waiting for her. “Have you found my brother?”

“Not yet.”

A look of irritation crossed her face. “It’s so like Lewis to leave everyone waiting on his convenience. He’s probably stopped to see Henry Jessup. They were at Cambridge together, and Henry’s getting married in November. Lewis had expected Henry to ask him to stand up with him.”

“Where can I find Henry Jessup?”

She frowned. “I believe he lives near Hatfield. He’s a solicitor. Lewis told me he wasn’t a very clever one. Still, he’s joined his father in a partnership, and so it probably won’t matter whether he’s clever or not.”

“Have you met this man?”

“No, Lewis seldom brought his friends home. My parents were very ill toward the ends of their lives, and it couldn’t have been pleasant for young men looking for a country weekend to have to tiptoe about for fear of waking the invalid. And there’s no shooting here to amuse them.” She looked around. “I’ve missed my breakfast—I can’t eat anything on a train the way it bounces about. And Nan isn’t expecting me.”

With a nod she walked past him and into the inn.

It took him twenty minutes to run down the firm of Jessup and Jessup. It was indeed on the outskirts of Hatfield. A woman answered the telephone, asking his business.

Without giving his name, he asked to speak to the younger Mr. Jessup.

“He’s just come in. A moment, please.”

And then Jessup was on the line, a deep voice that sounded as if the speaker was recovering from a summer chill.

“I’m trying to locate Lewis French on an urgent matter. Is he by any chance with you?”

“Gooding? Is that you? You don’t sound like yourself,” Jessup replied.

“The name is Rutledge.”

“Ah. Well, I must tell you that French isn’t here. Nor has he been for some weeks.”

“There was a possibility that he had stopped over with a friend on his way back to London from Essex without telling either Mr. Gooding or his sister of his plans.”

“I see. Yes, that does present a problem, doesn’t it? I wish you luck. And I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”

Rutledge put up the receiver. He didn’t think Jessup was lying. So where, then, was French?

As he was leaving the telephone closet, he glimpsed Miss French in the dining room. She had called the waiter to her table and was pointing to something on her plate. He realized that she always seemed unhappy with her lot in life, and as the waiter carried away her plate, she sat there looking at her teacup with a frown, as if it too had failed to satisfy her.