Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

“Sorry. But I knew you wouldn’t mind waiting a bit,” he said in greeting.

“There’s something I want to show you,” Rutledge said and drew out his handkerchief with the miniature cradled carefully inside. “Do you recognize this woman?”

“When was it painted?” Williams started to reach for the ivory, realized his hands were spattered in paint, and hastily withdrew them. He leaned forward instead.

“Sixty years ago? Seventy?”

“Well, it’s not really possible to tell, is it? She’s what? Sixteen in this painting? And even if it’s an accurate likeness, her face would have changed as she aged.”

“Study it, all the same.”

The curate peered at it. “Lovely child, isn’t she? She would have been a lovely woman as well. But I don’t recognize her. Should I?”

Rutledge returned the miniature to his pocket. “No. Although I’d hoped you might. You’ve been a guest at the French house. You’ve very likely called on the Townsends in your pastoral capacity. And Miss Whitman, for that matter. If there was one portrait painted, there could have been another—or even a photograph.”

“Yes, I see. Of course. I’m sorry to say I can’t help you at all. I’ve seen nothing like that.”

“Is Standish a name that’s common in this part of Essex?”

“It’s not common, no, but there’s at least one family in Dedham. The youngest daughter sings in the church choir there. A very nice voice. What’s more, the family is quite fair with ruddy complexions. Not dark at all.”

“Any connection with the French family?”

“I don’t believe so. I’ve never heard one mentioned. And someone surely would have, I think. After all, they’re probably the wealthiest family around.”

Rutledge let it go. “Does Miss Whitman know how to drive?”

“Actually she’s a good driver. During the war, she volunteered. Mostly in the city of Norfolk, I was told.”

Norfolk. Not that far from Moresley. But Gerald Standish had been in France at that time.

Rutledge thanked Williams, asked directions to the house of the former tutor to the French sons, and made his way to a comfortable cottage overlooking the green.

Mr. MacFarland was older than Rutledge had expected. He must have been middle-aged when he taught Michael and Lewis French. White hair rose from a high forehead, but the skin of his face was still smooth, his blue eyes alert. His Highland accent was pronounced, and Rutledge had to suppress the memories it brought back in a surge of images. Faces of the men who had served under him, their voices soft in the quiet of the trenches before an attack, calling encouragement to one another as they charged through the German fire, begging him to hold their hands as they lay dying. Of Hamish, steadfastly refusing to lead his exhausted company into the teeth of the machine-gun nest, close to breaking but strong and determined to put his men first, no matter the cost.

MacFarland said, concern on his face, “Are you all right, man?”

Rutledge clamped down on the past, bringing all his will to bear. “A headache coming on,” he replied as calmly as he could and identified himself, explaining that he was interested in two of MacFarland’s former pupils.

“Come in, then, and have something cool to drink while we talk.” He ushered Rutledge into the front room, cluttered with books and compositions for the elderly harpsichord in one corner.

While he was fetching the water, Rutledge had an opportunity to recover, crossing to a window and looking out on the quiet, pleasant green. Behind the house, the wood closed in, thickening as it marched toward the walls of the park that surrounded the French house.

MacFarland came back with a tray and two glasses of water, saying, “Move those books from the chair and sit down.”

Rutledge did and took the glass held out to him. “How do you keep the instrument tuned?”

“They say the Elizabethans enjoyed the harpsichord, and their castles were damper and gloomier than my house. But I doubt we either of us hear it as it really sounds.” He grimaced. “But I persevere. I’ve always enjoyed music, and it’s the only instrument I learned to play, save for the pipes. And my neighbors aren’t too fond of them, I can tell you.”

Rutledge laughed. “Nor were the Germans.”

“I can’t imagine why you should be interested in any of my former pupils. They all grew up, as far as I know, to be upstanding young men. I lost seven in the war, sadly, but that’s what war is about—young men. Which ones brought you here?”

“The French children. Michael and Lewis.”

“Ah, yes. Michael was one of my seven. And the most promising of all.” He took a deep breath, his blue eyes focused on the past. “I can’t complain of either of my pupils. They were bright and well behaved. Lewis had seizures occasionally, but they seemed to become less frequent as he grew older. Still, he was as active as his brother.”

“Grand mal seizures?”

“Nothing so dramatic. He would just fade away for a moment or two, and then go on as if nothing had happened.”

“There was no trouble between the brothers? Or between the brothers and their sister, Agnes?”

“They got along well enough. Mrs. French was the greatest threat to discipline. She had spells of anxiety and uncertainty, and this kept the household in turmoil. It was sad, really, because the children were neither spoiled nor sheltered and a pleasure to teach.”

“I’ve been told that Lewis was jealous of his brother.”

“Perhaps. Certainly no more so than any younger brother when his elder is all that he’d like to be. On the other hand, when he went away to school, Lewis found his own feet quickly. I like to think that I contributed a little to that by treating him as I treated Michael, in spite of the handicap of seizures.”

“Does the French family—or the Traynors for that matter—have any enemies?”

“That’s a strange question for a tutor. Not to my knowledge. The cousin, young Matthew, was a frequent visitor to the house. His family lived on the other side of the village. When his parents died, he let the house for several years. He was living in Madeira, you see. A pity it is standing empty now. Never good for a house. Back to Traynor—he’s a fine young man, like his cousins.”

“I understand Miss Whitman was also a frequent visitor.”

“Yes, the loveliest girl. She was a friend of Agnes’s, and often at the house. I don’t know what happened to the friendship. Suddenly it was over.”

“What was Agnes French like as a child?”

“Often dissatisfied. Not surprisingly, as the only daughter, it was her lot to look after her parents when they were elderly and infirm. And she nursed them faithfully, difficult as it was dealing with her mother. Her father as well, after his stroke. While her brothers were off in Portugal with their father, she was left to care for the house. It seemed to me that she should have been asked to go with them, at least after her mother’s death. Her brothers came home filled with stories about toboggan rides down a mountainside on a stone chute, going up into the volcanic peaks by horseback, or boating around the island, swimming in the sea. It couldn’t have been easy for her.”

Rutledge could understand what MacFarland was saying in a polite way, that the daughter was ignored and, being a plain child, she understood all too well why she was left out. And then MacFarland underscored Rutledge’s viewpoint.

“I couldn’t help but think that if Agnes had been as pretty and as lively as young Valerie, she would have been treated very differently.”

“Did Miss Whitman try to usurp Agnes French’s place, do you think?”

“Never deliberately so. She was just a child, father absent, lonely and looking for an ordinary family life.”