Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

“Absent?”

“Yes, her father was Royal Navy. Her mother died in childbirth, and she was left with her nurse when he went back to sea. He could hardly take her with him. And to tell truth, I think Valerie was happy enough as it was, running in and out of the house, playing with the French children. She never seemed to notice that she lacked a mother, or that her father was generally away. Everyone made a pet of her, and her sunny disposition, her sweet nature, endeared her to the staff as well.”

Rutledge took out the miniature now, and showed it to MacFarland. But while the tutor admired it, he said, “I don’t know who the sitter is. Sadly. A lovely child.”

Rutledge was on the point of thanking him and leaving when MacFarland said, “You know, I had nearly forgot. Something happened years ago. I expect the children never knew about it because they were upstairs in the Nursery asleep. I was talking to Mr. Laurence French. I’d come to be interviewed for the position of tutor, you see, and after dinner, we left Mr. Howard French in the drawing room and withdrew to the study to finish our conversation about my experience and references. Suddenly a man came bursting into the house. He shoved aside the maid who’d answered the door, and he ran up and down the passage, flinging open inner doors, shouting for Mr. French. Mr. Laurence and I hurried out into the passage to find this strange man with his hands around Mr. Howard’s throat, on the point of throttling him. Mr. Howard backed up, forcing us into the study again, and I entered the fray, trying to pull the man off him. I’d just succeeded, with Mr. Laurence’s help, when the man broke away from us and pulled out a knife. He lunged at Mr. Howard, but Mr. Laurence threw himself in the way and was stabbed in the chest. Mr. Howard cried out in fury, and between the two of us we were able to disarm the man without anyone else getting hurt. I can tell you I was in a state of shock, I’d never dealt with anything like that. Anyone could have been downstairs—Mrs. French—the children—guests, if there had been any—right in the midst of the brawl. Someone would have got badly hurt.”

“What happened next?”

“I sent the housemaid who had opened the door for the footman and the coachman while Mr. French attended his son. Thank God the wound scored his ribs but did no greater damage. All this while, the intruder was babbling in a language I didn’t know, but Mr. French said it was Portuguese and he began questioning him. It was quite dramatic, couldn’t have lasted more than five minutes from start to finish. But I felt I had battled with that man for hours.”

“Did anyone summon the police?”

“Just the doctor. Mr. Howard French had a cut over one eye, the intruder had a split lip, and Mr. Laurence French was bleeding from that chest wound. I was luckier: only my hands were badly bruised.”

“Was this Dr. Townsend?”

“His predecessor. And he gave the man something that made him more manageable. I was asked to stay the night, and in the morning the man was gone. I don’t know what became of him. When I asked, I was told the incident had been handled by the police. But no one ever questioned me.”

“Did French tell you why this man was so angry?”

“Apparently his father—Howard French—had decided to grow his own grapes in Madeira and bought a large farm for the purpose. The previous owner had lost his wife to cholera and he didn’t have the heart to go on. He sold the land to Mr. French for what was then considered to be a fair sum. But the owner’s son, who was in prison in Portugal, felt that he had been cheated. When he was released, he came to Madeira, nearly killed his father, and threatened Howard French. He was tried and convicted but escaped when he was on his way to a Portuguese prison. Somehow he traced the family to England, and he came to Essex demanding justice. He must be dead by now. He was about forty years old when he came to Dedham.”

“Still, he could have passed his feeling that he was cheated on to another member of the family. Do you know, was the vineyard where the farm had been more valuable?”

“I have no idea. I shouldn’t be surprised. It was probably what the man wanted, to be paid the difference. If he’d been intent on killing French, he could have done it more efficiently with a knife or a pistol. Instead he went for his throat.”

“Do you remember if you ever heard the intruder’s name?”

“I could have done and never realized it. I don’t believe he spoke any English. Or if he did, I never heard him. At any rate, I was hired on the spot, for what I’d done to try to help Mr. French fight him off. Something good came of a rather nasty shock.”

“And Mrs. French—was she aware of what had happened?”

“She was upstairs resting. She hadn’t come down to dinner, in fact. But she must have heard the uproar, because the housekeeper later told me she was convinced an irate husband had come to the house. At any rate, she went to bed for a week, refusing to see anyone, even the children. It was given out that she was suffering from a migraine. Naturally I kept my mouth shut. It was a good position, one I was happy to have.” MacFarland shook his head. “I’m sure this has nothing to do with present problems. Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it to you. But it came rushing back, the way memories sometimes do.”

“And you’re quite sure the children were unaware of the intruder?”

“Absolutely. Michael never spoke of it. Lewis heard something, most likely the carriage being brought around, but had no idea what it was all about. If the man had appeared an hour earlier, he would have found the children downstairs saying good night to their father. I shudder to think about that.”

“Did you wonder what had become of the man?”

“Yes, I’m as curious as the next person. But there was my position, you see. I couldn’t ask. Since nothing more was said, I assumed he was taken to London and dealt with there. It would have been the best way to avoid gossip. Besides, the man was as mad as a hatter.”

Rutledge wondered if that was why MacFarland had been hired on the spot, rather than for his resourcefulness in coming to French’s aid—to prevent him from gossiping.

He thanked the tutor and took his leave. Hamish was saying in the back of his mind, “The person to ask is yon clerk. Gooding.”

It was a very good idea.

Rutledge was walking back to fetch his motorcar when the local constable came peddling toward him.

“There you are, sir!” he called out with evident relief. “There’s been a summons from London.” As Rutledge turned to wait for him, Constable Brooks added, “A Sergeant Gibson, sir.”

The constable slowed, got off his bicycle, and fell in step with Rutledge. “The Yard telephoned the inn. They were fairly certain you were out, but the sergeant was insistent. The inn sent for the police, and when Dedham didn’t have any luck finding you, Sergeant Gibson told the constable to look in St. Hilary. He came to me, and we went off in different directions, looking for you. I saw your motorcar in the Rectory yard, but I didn’t know which way you’d gone from there.”

“I’m to call the sergeant? Or return directly to London?” Rutledge couldn’t believe that Chief Superintendent Markham had grown that impatient. But it was the only reason he could think of that Gibson hadn’t left any message.

There was nothing for it but to go back to Dedham and put in a call to London. The two men walked toward the church together, Brooks leading his bicycle. As he was passing the Whitman cottage, Rutledge glanced that way. He could have sworn that he saw a curtain twitch in one of the front windows.

Had Miss Whitman also seen the motorcar on Church Lane and kept an eye out for him, to be forewarned if he came knocking at her door again? He’d waited for her in the churchyard the last time.