Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

Chapter Nine

Rutledge had not questioned the London household until now. He was fairly certain that Agnes French had told them very little—and learned even less. French had last been seen in Essex, after all, and when Miss French arrived in London, the staff not only had been surprised to see her there but were totally unprepared to receive her. Now, with the motorcar surfacing in Surrey, so close to London, the complexion of the case had changed.

It was still a fashionable address, although Mulholland Square had been built years before the turn of the century. Rutledge, looking up at the mansard roof and the stone facings at the windows, decided that if Howard French had bought the property as an investment, it had been very sound. And it spoke of old money, settled and respectable.

He lifted the knocker and let it fall.

The middle-aged woman who answered the door opened it wide for him to enter when he told her he was from Scotland Yard.

Miss French had stayed here, but she hadn’t felt at home here. The staff was her brother’s, not her own, and it was now his principal residence. She had taken the train back to Essex rather than wait for news of him here. That, then, was Rutledge’s starting point.

The woman said. “I’m Mrs. Rule, housekeeper to Mr. French. Is there a problem, Inspector?”

“It would be best if we spoke in private,” he replied with a glance toward the staircase. He could just hear someone using a carpet sweeper on the first floor.

She too glanced over her shoulder toward the stairs, then took him to a small parlor, where he was offered a seat. Still standing, she waited for him to begin, her hands clasped lightly in front of her as if to calm her rising concern. He could see the tension around her eyes.

“When was the last time you saw Mr. French?” he began.

She looked at the painting on the wall behind him as if it could give her the date. “It’s three weeks now, almost. He drove to Essex to visit his fiancée and to prepare the house in Dedham for his cousin’s visit.”

“When do you expect Mr. Traynor to arrive in England?”

“Any day now, I should think. Mr. French was expecting him last week, but apparently it has been difficult to arrange passage. Quite frustrating, he said, but then Mr. Traynor did speak the language.”

“Why was it difficult?”

“Mr. French didn’t say, only that Mr. Traynor had had to travel to Lisbon first, then take passage from there, rather than come directly from Madeira. I believe there are packets that bring wine and messages to the City on a regular schedule. Mr. Gooding—he’s the senior clerk in the firm—is to notify me as soon as he learns a date. Word will come to him, as he must know where and when to meet the ship.”

“And Mr. Gooding hasn’t contacted you?”

“No, sir, not yet. I did ask Miss French when she came to the house if she had heard any news, but she said she hadn’t, that she wasn’t privy to her brother’s arrangements. I’d thought at first that she had come down to greet Mr. Traynor. She was always fond of him.”

“She didn’t tell you why she visited London so unexpectedly?”

“No, sir, she was in a fractious mood when she came, meaning no disrespect to her, and she spent most of her time in her room, even taking her meals there.”

“Does Mr. French usually drive himself?”

“Yes, sir, he prefers it.”

“Who maintains the motorcar for him?”

“He sees no reason to keep a chauffeur. We have a footman who sees to it. He’s quite good with mechanical things.”

“Has there been any recent damage to the motorcar?”

“I haven’t been told if there was. George would have said something. He’s very particular about it, you see.”

“I’d like to speak to him later.”

“Yes, sir. Has something happened to Mr. French, sir? Seeing that you’re from Scotland Yard . . .” She let her voice trail off as if afraid to put what she was thinking into words.

“We don’t know. He left Essex some days ago, and we haven’t been able to locate him.”

“That’s unlike him, sir. Mr. French generally keeps Mr. Gooding informed of his whereabouts. Have you spoken to him ?”

“He hasn’t been contacted by Mr. French. Have you met Miss Townsend?”

“She and her parents came to dinner here on their last visit to London, just before the engagement was to be announced.”

“Tell me about her parents.”

She said, “I don’t wish to speak out of turn, sir.”

“You won’t be. Not to a policeman.”

“Well, there’s little to tell. Her father is a doctor and rather—” She searched for the right word. “He’s a man who knows his own mind,” she ended.

Rutledge interpreted that to mean he was hard to please.

“Her mother is such a kind lady, very quiet but with a surprising sense of humor. It was a pleasure to serve her.”

“Dr. Townsend is very strict where his daughter is concerned,” Rutledge commented and watched her brows go up in surprise.

He wondered if she would have used another word. But she said only, “She’s such a lovely young lady. I’m sure he means well.”

“Did you meet the young woman Mr. French was engaged to before he met Miss Townsend?”

“Miss Whitman,” she replied warily. “She came to dinner a few times. The staff liked her very much. I was sorry to hear that she had broken off their engagement.”

“How did Mr. French take it?”

“He was not as upset as I’d expected. More philosophical, you might say.”

Rutledge could just imagine that he was.

“He left for Newmarket the very same day, expecting to meet friends there. Dr. Townsend was also invited. I happened to hear Mr. French tell another of his friends that the doctor would arrive for the weekend. I expect that’s how he came to know Miss Townsend.”

Or he was already intending to court her father, and then her.

As if she’d heard his thoughts, Mrs. Rule said, “It did seem that his broken heart mended very quickly. But young men will be young men.”

Rutledge took out the handkerchief that he’d retrieved from under the seat in the motorcar. “We found this in Mr. French’s motorcar, in Surrey. A lady’s handkerchief, I should think. Do you by any chance know the owner?”

“I would have no way of knowing, sir. Except that Miss French favors handkerchiefs with her initials in the corner. Did you say you’d found the motorcar—but not Mr. French?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She was shaken. “When I saw a policeman at the door, I knew something was wrong. Is—is there bad news? Was there . . . a crash on the road?”

He said, “We have very little information at all. That’s why I’m here. Did Mr. French often visit friends in Surrey?”

But Mrs. Rule knew very little about her employer’s personal life and could say only “I don’t know that I’ve heard him mention visiting anyone in Surrey. Certainly we’ve not entertained guests from there in return.” Her eyes began to fill with unshed tears. “I do hope there’s nothing wrong.”

When she had recovered a little from her shock, Rutledge asked to speak to George.

He was directed to the mews, where the motorcar was kept.

George as it happened had been an aircraft mechanic during the war, and he had taken the position of footman because he would also be in charge of the motorcar. When Rutledge asked him if there had been any dents or scratches on the chassis of French’s motorcar, he was indignant.

“It’s in perfect condition,” he said. “And no one can say any different.”

“You’d swear to that?”

“I would, sir, yes. That’s to say, when it left here it was. But Mr. French is a careful driver, and he wouldn’t bring it back to me in any shape but the one he’d found it in.”