Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

Rutledge said, “Where do you keep the chamois you use when cleaning the vehicle?”

“Under the front seat, sir. Mr. French likes to see the headlamps and other chrome bright. I leave one there for him.”

“Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“A lady’s handkerchief?”

“No, sir, never. Why should I have done that? Has Mr. French made a complaint, sir?”

“He hasn’t. But we found the motorcar in Surrey, and we haven’t been able to speak to Mr. French so far.”

“He can’t be far away. Here, you haven’t left him without it?”

It was all Rutledge could do to prevent George from claiming the motorcar in the name of Lewis French and driving it to Surrey to search for him, even though he couldn’t think where to start. “It could have been a malicious prank, sir, and he’ll be quite angry.”

Rutledge had to tell the footman that no prank was involved.

When he left, George was standing in the door of the mews, looking like a man who had lost a friend.

And Hamish was hammering away at the back of Rutledge’s mind, reminding him that the dent in the wing wasn’t evidence until the dead man’s clothing had been shown to match the bit of cloth found on the frame.

Gibson had returned to the Yard by the time Rutledge got there. He encountered the sergeant in the passage beyond the stairs.

“What did Gooding have to say when he saw the body?”

“He didn’t know who it was. Certainly not Mr. French. He worried me, did Mr. Gooding. His hands were shaking so he could hardly get out of the motorcar when I took him back to the wine merchant’s.”

“He thought it was going to be Mr. French?”

“I expect he did, the Yard finding the motorcar and then calling on him for news of his employer.”

“Was the body Mr. Traynor, by any chance?” It was only a wild guess.

“I didn’t ask. But he knows Mr. Traynor, and he’d have said as much when I asked him if he could identify the body.”

That was true.

“Did you feel he was telling the truth?”

“He appeared to be. What’s to be done with the motorcar now, sir?”

Rutledge gave him instructions to return it to the Mulholland Square mews, and Gibson nodded.

“I’ll see to it, sir. Meanwhile, while I was at the morgue, I took the liberty to bring back the packet with the dead man’s effects in it, including his clothing.”

“Let’s have a look.” As they walked back toward Rutledge’s office, he told Sergeant Gibson what he’d learned at the French family’s London house.

It was Gibson’s turn to ask, “Did you believe the housekeeper and the footman?”

“On the whole, I think I did. There’s no reason for them to lie. They have good positions, and Mr. French doesn’t appear to be a difficult employer.” He opened the door to his office.

A large brown parcel bound in string covered his desk.

He cut the string and opened the paper. It yielded shoes, stockings, undergarments, trousers, suspenders, a shirt and tie, and a coat.

Rutledge set most of the smaller items aside and looked at the shoes first.

The toe of one and the side of the other were scuffed, adding further proof, if it was needed, that the dead man had been dragged.

Then he spread the trousers out across his desk, where he could examine them carefully. There were rents in one cuff, snags here and there, but as far as he could see, there were no places where a piece of the cloth was missing.

He turned from that to the coat. At first he couldn’t find what he was looking for. The front and one arm had suffered from being dragged—threads pulled here and there, bits of gravel and dirt lodged in the fabric, and the back seam had opened up near the collar. It wasn’t until he had lifted the collar that he saw the hole.

He took out his handkerchief, unfolded it, and held the contents up next to the coat.

The pattern matched perfectly, although the bit of cloth from the motorcar was stretched and distorted from having been ripped forcibly from the coat.

Rutledge put his finger gently into the tear. It went through the lining, although the shirt, when he checked that, had no matching rip.

Had the man’s neck snapped as the coat snagged, ripped, and then with the weight of the body, pulled free, leaving behind only a tiny telltale bit?

“It’s murder, isn’t it, sir?” Gibson asked, looking over his shoulder.

“Or the driver panicked and tried to cover up what had happened.”

“Then who was driving, sir? It couldn’t have been this man. It must have been Mr. French. And that’s why the motorcar had to be disposed of. With that dented wing, the evidence was too strong, once we’d connected the dead man to Essex.”

“If it was French, why didn’t he simply report an accident?” He could have told any tale that suited the circumstances, and Lewis French, of Dedham, would have been believed.

Rutledge’s mind made the leap before Gibson could answer his question.

The tutor had told him about a man bursting into the house and threatening the family. That was decades ago. What had become of the intruder?

If he’d been in prison until now, if he’d been released, finally, having served his sentence for attacking Howard French and his son with a knife, he could have come back to Essex with murder—or blackmail—in his heart.

Was this the troublesome thing that French needed to discuss with Matthew Traynor? Had an approach been made?

What if the killer, thwarted in his intentions, had resorted to murder and had got the wrong man? It would explain why French—without his motorcar and uncertain where to turn—had gone to ground. Was he waiting for his cousin to reach England before coming out of hiding and demanding that the police do something? If he’d been injured in the struggle, he might very well have found sanctuary until he had healed sufficiently to deal with the situation.

That would also explain how French came to lose his watch.

Hamish spoke, his deep voice with its soft Scots accent echoing in the room so loudly that Rutledge expected Sergeant Gibson to stare about looking for the source.

“The man was killed with French’s ain motorcar. Wha’ else but French couldha’ been driving?”

And the only answer that Rutledge could think of was Someone he trusted .

Which brought him back to the lady’s handkerchief with the little embroidered pansies in the corner.

Pansies. For remembrance.

Eager as he was to drive straight through to Dedham, while in London, Rutledge made a detour to the shop of the jeweler.

Galloway was pleased to see him, asking immediately if the pocket watch had been helpful in bringing in a murderer.

“The inquiry is still open, but yes, it’s proved immensely helpful,” Rutledge replied. “Now there’s another small matter I’d like to explore.”

He brought out the miniature and set it on the counter in front of Galloway.

“Well, well. What an exquisite little ivory,” the jeweler said, leaning forward to admire it. “Certainly fine workmanship, and the sitter is quite lovely. How did you come by it?”

Rutledge was prepared with a portion of the truth. “There’s another man in this inquiry besides the owner of the watch. He lives alone, his family having predeceased him. This miniature was in the house his grandmother had left to him, and we rather think the image may be hers. Her son was an estate manager in Worcestershire. It would be helpful if we could learn more about her grandson and about his family. This is the only clue I have. If we could find out who the artist was, we might discover who the grandmother was.”

“Have you tried Somerset House?”

“I’m afraid the sorts of records I’d like to uncover wouldn’t be there. For instance, who were the true parents of this young man? And does he have any connection with the family who presented the watch? The public record can tell me when he was born, and who is officially listed as his mother and father. The Yard can find out if the father had ever been in prison or suspected of any crime. If he served in the Army. Known facts. Not gossip. It could well be that the grandmother was the child I am looking for. There was money at one time, enough to have this painted when she came of age. Did she marry well? Poorly? What did she tell her son and grandson about her past? What, for that matter, did she even know to tell them?”