Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

By this time Gibson was on his hands and knees, his face alight with curiosity. He straightened, offered Rutledge a hand up once he was clear of the chassis, and said, “You found something then.”

Rutledge pulled off his driving glove, and there was the small dark square, the weave stretched and twisted from the stress put on it as it snagged.

Gibson said, “Ah,” and poked it with a finger. “Will it match the dead man’s clothing, do you think? There were several tears, as I remember.”

Rutledge dropped the bit of cloth into his handkerchief for safekeeping, folded it, and put it carefully back into his pocket. Using his gloves to dust his coat and trousers, flecking off the worst but unable to budge most of the finer particles, he said, “Did you search the interior?”

“Cursorily, to see if we could find anything to tell us who it belonged to. I told you. The Acting Chief Superintendent ordered us to wait for you.”

Rutledge gave up, putting his gloves back on. “I’ll do that, and afterward we’ll take it to London. I want Gooding, the wine merchant’s clerk, to give us a positive identification. It might shake his complacency.”

Opening the motorcar’s door, he began to examine the interior, looking anywhere that something could have fallen and escaped the killer’s attention.

He thought at first his search was a waste of time. There were no bloodstains or scuff marks to show that a body had been transported any distance in the rear seat. But then a clever killer would have come prepared with a blanket or tarp. Still proceeding methodically from back to front, he asked Gibson look in the boot.

The sergeant had just called to say that it was empty but for the tools usually kept there when Rutledge put his hand beneath the driver’s seat. He pulled out the chamois used to keep the motorcar clean, and something else came with it.

He saw that it was a woman’s handkerchief, lace edged and embroidered with a pretty design of pansies in one corner. It was smudged, as if someone had cleaned his or her fingers on it, then shoved it under the seat out of sight while he or she drove.

He held it up for Gibson to see.

“Do you think a woman could be our killer?” the sergeant asked.

Rutledge had been thinking just that. He said, “How would she lift the dead weight of a man’s body into the motorcar?”

“She has an accomplice,” Gibson answered promptly.

Standish?

Rutledge went on searching, brushing his gloved fingers over the carpets in the hope of bringing to light any small clue that the killer had missed.

The motorcar was clean.

The French household, like Belford’s, would have a chauffeur or a footman in charge of seeing that the motorcar was kept running and ready whenever the owner called for it. If that handkerchief had been there before French’s disappearance, it would have been removed, laundered, carefully pressed by one of the maids, and presented to French to return to its owner—or not, as he saw fit.

The thought was depressing.

“We’ve done what we can,” Rutledge said finally, looking up at the sky as he got out of the motorcar. The sun was disappearing behind clouds, and he thought it best to start for London as soon as possible. “Can you drive this one back to London? It will save some time.”

“I think the Surrey police would be just as glad to be shut of it.” Gibson went to speak to the constable at the entrance.

Watching him go, Rutledge pulled out the handkerchief and looked at it again. It was too clean and fresh to have been under that seat for any length of time. And there were three women in Lewis French’s life who could have left it there. Or a fourth, if Agnes French was right, that her brother had found someone else. He still couldn’t picture Miss Townsend as a murderess, and she would surely have been in the motorcar as a passenger. Agnes French could argue the same, that she’d driven out with her brother during his stay in Essex.

Which left him with Miss Whitman, who claimed she hadn’t seen French since the engagement had been broken off.

And Markham was prepared to put his money on Miss Whitman.

Rutledge glanced up to see that another man had joined Gibson and the local constable. Dressed in street clothes, he looked like an inspector. Gibson had reached the constable on duty, and the other man stepped forward to join the conversation. Then Gibson was thanking them, shaking hands, answering a final question put to him by the newcomer. He appeared to be satisfied when the sergeant had finished speaking, giving him a nod. Without turning even to glance Rutledge’s way, the newcomer walked off, taking his constable with him.

Gibson came back to say, “They’ve no complaint. But they’d appreciate a copy of the final report on the motorcar and the inquiry regarding it.”

A standard courtesy.

Rutledge took the crank in hand and reached down to insert it and turn it. He said, “I’ll follow you. If you have any trouble, signal me, and I’ll pull over.”

He made certain that Gibson could manage the extraction from the quarry, told him what he wished to do, then led the way out of the gates to the nearest road as thunder rolled in the distance, like the guns in France. Rutledge was grateful that he had his own motorcar to himself.

Gibson pulled up as close to the wine merchant’s door as he could, and Rutledge stopped just beyond him. The rain had held off, but only just.

He went inside, leaving Gibson with the two motorcars, and asked for Gooding.

When the senior clerk came into the room, Rutledge said, “Will you step outside for a moment?”

Gooding frowned. “Do you have more information, Mr. Rutledge? You can speak freely here.”

“That will depend on what you can tell me first.” He turned and held the door. Gooding had no choice but to precede him outside.

The wind had picked up. Gooding looked first to his right, as if expecting to see someone standing by the door, and only then to his left. His frown deepened as he recognized the vehicle, his gaze moving on to Sergeant Gibson behind the wheel.

“That’s Mr. French’s motorcar.” He hesitated, then asked, “Will you please tell me what it is you know?” His voice was strained. “Why is a policeman driving, and not Mr. French?”

“The motorcar was reported abandoned. By the Surrey police.”

“ Surrey? Has there been an accident? Is Mr. French all right?” Gooding began to walk toward the motorcar, his eyes going directly to the deep indentation in the wing.

“It was found just as it is in an unused quarry. Was it damaged that way when last you saw Mr. French driving it? There, on the wing?”

“No—no, it wasn’t. He stopped by here to sign some papers regarding a shipment, and I walked out with him afterward. But what was he doing in Surrey ?” He might as well have said “the antipodes.”

“And you would be willing to swear that this is indeed Mr. French’s motor?”

“Yes, I assure you,” Gooding replied testily. He looked at Rutledge. “What is it you aren’t telling me? Do you know where Mr. French is?”

“I wish I did,” Rutledge told him somberly. “I have another call on my time this afternoon. But if you will accompany Sergeant Gibson, there’s a body I want you to see. And this time, like it or not, you’ll view it for Scotland Yard.”

“Dear God. But surely— Are you telling me Mr. French is dead?”

“We don’t know,” Rutledge said. And he stayed with Gooding while he told the junior clerks that he would be away for an hour, helping the police with their inquiries, then saw him off with Gibson.

When they were out of sight, Rutledge got into his own motorcar and drove to the house where Lewis French lived in London.