Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

“Is a young woman’s honor at stake?”

The question caught Rutledge off guard. “What makes you ask that?”

Belford shrugged. “Even a hundred years ago, an unwelcome suitor could end up in the river. The police are more thorough now. And so one must be more clever in making an unpleasant annoyance disappear. And better for him to disappear, you see, than to be found dead, questions asked, fingers pointed, and all that.”

In the circumstances, it was not a suggestion that Rutledge appreciated, but he had to accept the merits of it.

“The man the dead man was supposed to impersonate is missing. His motorcar with him.”

“Indeed.” Belford frowned. “That puts an entirely different complexion on the watch, doesn’t it?”

“In what way?”

“I don’t really know.”

“Was a mistake made in the first death?”

“Now there’s an interesting prospect.” Belford seemed suddenly keen, his mind already considering and rejecting possibilities.

Rutledge said, “What’s done in anger . . .”

“Yes, of course, it would have to be that, wouldn’t it? And when the head is cooler, one is faced with an extra corpse. But the watch—again, how did the killer come by it?”

“A family member. In this case a sister.” Rutledge thought that over, then shook his head. “Unless of course, all this preparation is to put blame on that sister and rid the killer of her as well as her brother.”

“It won’t be the first time.”

Rutledge rose. “This has been a very interesting conversation. It doesn’t mean that you’ve been struck off the list of suspects. You’re clever enough to have killed the man if in some way he threatened you.”

Belford stood as well. “Like you, I’ve seen a great deal of tragedy. It doesn’t mean that we have been corrupted by it. Good day, Mr. Rutledge.”

And he stayed where he was as Rutledge went to the door.

Driving to Essex, Rutledge mulled over what Belford had told him.

Speculations, all of them. Some of them he’d already considered as he’d driven back to London from Dedham to report to the Yard. But where was the evidence to link any one of the possibilities to the missing Lewis French or the dead man in London?

“Are ye certain of the identification?” Hamish asked. “It could be wrong.”

“My point,” Rutledge said aloud before he thought, “when I asked for the photograph to be sent round to local police stations. Someone ought to recognize him.”

“There’s Norfolk,” Hamish reminded him.

“I know. That’s where I’m going first. Norfolk. And if need be, we’ll look at Cornwall next. What was that man’s name? Fulton.”

The village of Moresley was in the middle of the county, small and ordinary, famous only for the twisted remains of a tree still standing on the narrow green. It had sheltered Nelson on his way south to take up his first command. Whether that story was true or false, the locals had built a small wicker cage around the trunk to protect it from grazing cattle or sheep. The village shared a constable with its nearest neighbor, and Rutledge was fortunate to catch him in Moresley late that evening as he turned into the High Street.

The constable was just mounting his bicycle to finish his rounds. Rutledge pulled up beside him, identified himself, and said, “I’ve come about the missing man report. One Gerald Standish.”

“Mr. Standish, sir?” The constable considered that. “Is he a Yard matter after all? What’s become of him, then?”

“We don’t know. You reported him missing after we sent round a sheet describing a dead man in London.”

“Sir, there was no answer to my query. Inspector Johnson in Norfolk and I thought perhaps the dead man had already been identified.”

“There were several other avenues to explore before I could get here. Tell me a little about Standish.”

“His grandmother lived here. When her son died young, his widow married again, and she didn’t see much of the boy. Still, she left the cottage to him. He came to Moresley after he was demobbed in 1919. Quiet, kept to himself, no trouble. ’Twas his daily, sir, that came to me to say his bed hadn’t been slept in for three nights. She was worried. He hasn’t stayed away this long before. Usually just a day or two, and he comes back tired, confused.”

“Does he own a motorcar?”

“No, sir, he usually gets about by bicycle. But it’s still behind the cottage.”

“Then he can’t have gone too far. Do you know anything about Standish’s background before the war?”

“Just bits and bobs of conversation. He had a little money, and he was careful with it. Inherited from his father, he said, who was an estate manager in Worcestershire. I don’t think he cared much for his stepfather, not unusual in a boy who loses his own father young.”

“Does he receive any mail?”

“As to that, I don’t know, sir. You’d have to ask the postmistress. The post office is in the greengrocer’s shop. I daresay it’s closed now.”

“Where can I find her?”

“She’s the greengrocer’s wife. Mrs. Lessor. They live in that house with the white gate.”

“I’ll have a word with her. Will you come with me?”

Rutledge could see that the constable was torn between arriving home in time for his tea and accompanying Scotland Yard on an interview. Duty won. The constable hesitated for a few seconds and then propped his bicycle against the wall of the ironmonger’s shop before getting into the motorcar.

They drove the short distance to the greengrocer’s small house. Lamplight spilling from a front window lit the path for them as they walked up to the door.

The greengrocer, a bluff man, short and portly, answered their knock.

“Constable Denton,” he said, then turned to look Rutledge up and down before asking Denton, “What’s this about, then?”

Rutledge left explanations to the constable.

“Inspector Rutledge is looking into the disappearance of Mr. Standish. He’s come to ask Mrs. Lessor if Mr. Standish ever received any mail.”

“She’s setting out our tea,” Lessor responded.

“I’m sure it won’t take more than five minutes of her time.” Rutledge’s voice was polite, but it left no doubt that he was not to be put off.

Lessor looked at him again, decided that the Londoner intended to have his way, and, with a sigh, called to his wife.

She was a little flustered when she came to the door. A trim woman in her middle years, she was still wearing her apron, and she seemed to remember it only after she stopped by her husband’s side.

“Um, Constable,” she said. “Is anything wrong?”

Rutledge took charge. “I’m sorry to delay your tea, Mrs. Lessor.” He smiled, and went on to show her his identification and to ask his question.

She looked at her husband, and he nodded. “Well. I don’t believe Mr. Standish has received more than two or three letters in all the time he’s lived in Moresley. I make a point not to look at anything but the name on the front of the envelope. It’s a small village, and I have to be careful, you see. Everyone has secrets . . .”

It was an admirable attitude, but hardly helpful.

“He never said, as you handed him his mail, ‘Ah, that’s from my aunt—my brother—a friend from France’?”

“He did mention when the first one arrived that it was the deed to the cottage. He seemed to be very happy about that. He never said anything about the others.”

Rutledge was getting nowhere.

“Does anyone in Moresley have a connection with a family called French?”

Mrs. Lessor shook her head. “I’ve never heard anyone speak of such a connection. Do they live in Norfolk? You might ask in the town. The Inspector there might know of them.”