Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

“A very good question,” Rutledge agreed. “His encounter with the dead man? So far that’s the only change in his routine. And he must have encountered him, there’s the watch. But was that meeting happenstance? Contrived? Related to business? To family matters? Did it have anything to do with the upcoming visit by the other partner, Traynor? We don’t even know enough to speculate. And who got the better of the encounter? So far, the man without a name is dead, but we can’t be certain French killed him. Or if he killed French, then was run down to silence him in turn.”

Markham frowned. “You make it far too complicated. Look closer to home, man. What about the woman? Miss Whitman? It would seem to me that she had the best reason to do away with Lewis. And for all we know, the poor bastard found in Chelsea had happened on the corpse and helped himself to yon watch. Or she hired him to kill for her, then ran him down before he could think about blackmail.”

“Then let’s consider that line of inquiry. What has she done with French’s motorcar? That too is missing.”

Markham waved a large hand. “That’s for the local police to discover. This Constable Brooks for one, in St. Hilary.”

Rutledge took a deep breath. “Indeed.”

“Then drive yourself back to Essex and see what you can learn about this young woman.”

“I should think it would also help to circulate a photograph of the dead man and see what comes of it.”

Markham peered at him. “Is she pretty, this Miss Whitman?”

Taken aback by the unexpected question, Rutledge said, “Miss Townsend is far prettier.”

“Ah, you’ve noticed, then, have you?” Markham sat back, his mouth smiling in satisfaction, but his eyes cold.

“I’m trained to observe,” Rutledge replied, only just preventing himself from snapping, feeling that he’d been trapped into an admission that suited Markham’s purpose.

“And being not as pretty could rankle. Are you certain she wasn’t jilted?”

Rutledge hadn’t told Markham that. The Acting Chief Superintendant had leapt to the conclusion.

“A man doesn’t leave the prettier girl for a less attractive one unless there’s more money to be had in the bargain. In fact, he did just the opposite, didn’t he? A prettier girl with greater social standing, a doctor’s daughter.”

Rutledge wanted to say that he couldn’t imagine Miss Townsend killing anyone, under her father’s thumb as she was. But that would leave Miss Whitman open to the obvious comparison. And it would feed Markham’s theory.

“I’d still like to circulate that photograph,” Rutledge answered, fighting a losing rearguard action. “Whether he has anything to do with Lewis French’s disappearance or not, he’s a victim. And if we can connect him to Miss Whitman, we could prove your theory. That he was hired to do the deed, turned greedy, and was killed.”

“Yes, yes, I take your point. Put Gibson onto it, then, or Constable Graham. They can sort through responses for you. Once we have a name and a place to begin, we’ll send someone to interview this fellow’s friends and family. The mystery now is what became of French, and what’s the connection with this young woman.”

Rutledge wasn’t particularly happy with the thought of another inspector muddling whatever links there might be between French and the victim. Or between the victim and Miss Whitman. Legwork, yes, that was always helpful. But if conclusions were to be drawn, he wanted to do interviews himself. To know what was said, and how and why.

Markham picked up a file, then set it down again, a preliminary to dismissal.

“You’ve finished your paperwork on the Devon inquiry?”

“It’s in the hands of Sergeant Griffin.”

“Good. Then there’s nothing to keep you in London.”

Rutledge went back to his flat, repacked his valise, and then set it aside.

Chief Superintendent Bowles had been a master at keeping Rutledge out of the way if there was a major inquiry beginning in London. Wherever undeserved credit could be garnered to himself, he preferred not to have Rutledge as a witness to it. And if Rutledge happened to finish a highly publicized case, Bowles barely offered grudging congratulations.

Markham had so far not shown himself to be in the same mold as the man he was temporarily replacing. But this latest meeting had raised alarms in Rutledge’s mind. First the query regarding the use of his motorcar rather than public transportation, and now this business with Miss Whitman. Markham was a hard man to read.

Sergeant Gibson had known Bowles for years before Rutledge joined the Yard, and Inspector Cummins among others had dealt with him as well. But Markham had been brought in from outside, no track record, no gossip to make it easier to penetrate his dour Yorkshire demeanor.

But there was nothing to be done. Even if Markham had been as easy to read as newspaper through a clear glass, it wouldn’t matter. His wishes were law and not to be argued with.

There was still the connection—if any—between Belford and the dead man. Why had Belford, even with his background in policing, offered his own view of the victim’s death? It had been unnecessary, with the Yard in charge. Was it a habit that even now he couldn’t break? Or had he wished to be sure the Yard saw the circumstances in the right light?

Leaving his valise where it was, Rutledge drove back to Chelsea.

Belford was at home, he was told, and after several minutes, the man walked into the sitting room, saying, “Good afternoon, Inspector.”

It was the opening that Rutledge had expected. Giving away nothing, waiting for the other person to lead the conversation.

“I’ve come to ask a few more questions about the body found in the street here.”

Belford gestured to chairs by the open window, and the two men sat down. Belford seemed to be at his ease, politely waiting for Rutledge to continue.

Smiling inwardly, Rutledge said, “I understand you were an officer in the Military Foot Police. I’d been curious to know why you so expertly set out the evidence for us. The three conclusions I might have drawn were an unusually keen eye, police experience, or an attempt to lead us up the garden path.”

The man betrayed himself with a tightening of the lips. Otherwise his face remained impassive. After a moment—to be sure he had himself under control?—he said, “I was not happy to see trouble on this street. I’ve lived quietly and comfortably here for some time. I didn’t wish that to change.”

Mr. Belford had enemies, then. And he had surveyed the scene to protect himself, and viewed the dead man’s face with the same concern in mind.

“I’ve come to ask what conclusions you drew. Other than those pointed out at the time.”

Surprised, Belford said, “Then you have not found out the identity of this man, nor have you learned where he came from and how he was left here. Certainly not where he died.”

“We’ve found out who he is not. There was a resemblance to a member of a merchant family in the city. But he was not that man. Even though he was carrying that man’s watch in his pocket.”

“Ah. The watch. Yes, I thought that might lead somewhere.”

“It was a family heirloom, traced easily enough.”

“Perhaps someone wished to have you believe that the dead man was the owner of the watch. To buy a little time.”

“To what end?”

“To see to it that any remaining evidence of the man’s true identity was successfully destroyed.”

“That’s possible. But how did he come by the watch to create the illusion that this was the owner?”

“A clever pickpocket could have done the trick.”

An interesting possibility. But pickpockets were ten a penny. It would be impossible to question a quarter of them.