Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

Galloway nodded. “I take your point. As you know, I have a brother with connections in the art world. If he can’t tell me more about this little painting, then I’ll be very surprised.”

Rutledge smiled. “Thank you. When we’ve finished with it, I shall have to return it to its rightful owner. Meanwhile, I leave it in your care.”

The call on Galloway had not taken an inordinate amount of time. When he reached Dedham, the shops were still open and Rutledge went in search of one that sold embroidered handkerchiefs. The first two carried only initialed, Irish linen, or lace edged. Hand embroidery, he was told, was hard to come by since the war, most people accepting the inferior machine-made handkerchiefs for lack of a better choice.

The third was a shop called Mary’s. The window was decorated with paper flowers, children’s pinafores, and an assortment of gloves.

A middle-aged customer was gossiping with the woman behind the counter, regaling her with a story in a low voice that indicated how salacious it was. She broke off in some confusion as Rutledge came through the door, and hastily bade the younger woman a good day before hurrying out.

There were no other customers in the shop, and the woman behind the counter turned to Rutledge with a polite “Could I help you with anything, sir?”

He took the handkerchief out and placed it on the counter, so that the embroidered corner was uppermost. “I’m looking for something like this for my sister.”

She didn’t need to examine it. He could tell that she had recognized it at once.

Smiling sadly, she said, “I’m afraid we don’t carry these any longer. The woman who embroidered them for us died in the spring. She was quite elderly, but her fingers were as nimble as a girl’s. My customers bought them as a kindness, because this was her only income, but also because they were so charming. Flowers, birds, puppies, kittens.” Shaking her head, she added, “I could have sold dozens of them, but of course she could turn out only so many.”

“Who bought them?”

She frowned. “I don’t talk about the people who come to my shop.”

He took out his identification and set it on the counter next to the handkerchief.

She stared at it, then looked back at him. “Why are you here? Not for a lady’s handkerchief, surely.”

“It’s precisely why I’m here. Did other shops carry this particular line of embroidery?”

“They were exclusive to Mary’s. Because Miss Delaney could only provide so many a week.”

“Did Miss French, for example, purchase the pansies?”

“She preferred roses. Miss Whitman and Mrs. Harris bought pansies.”

“Who is Mrs. Harris?”

“She’s the sister of the owner of the Marlborough Head.”

This was the inn just down the High Street from the Sun.

“Was there a large market for the birds?”

“Yes, they were quite popular. The chats and the tits were quite lovely. My mother was fond of the puppies. Could you tell me why you’re asking these questions? Has it to do with Mary’s?”

“This handkerchief was found in Surrey. I don’t know how it came to be there. Or why. If this handkerchief was exclusive to your shop, I needn’t waste my time in London or Hatfield.”

She appeared to be relieved. “Yes, of course. I can tell you that this particular example was indeed embroidered by Miss Delaney because of the delicacy of the stitches. See for yourself.” She went to a drawer along the back wall of the shop and took out several handkerchiefs. Bringing them to Rutledge, she pointed to a nosegay of violets. “Compare these to the pansies.”

“Yes, I do see,” he replied. The difference was noticeable. He found himself thinking that Miss Delaney must have had extraordinary eyesight to take such tiny stitches, giving the colors almost a three-dimensional quality. “Thank you.” He picked up the handkerchief and returned it to his pocket. “I must caution you not to discuss my visit with anyone. It’s police business at the moment.”

“Yes, of course, I do understand.”

The door behind him opened, and two women came in, chatting and laughing. He used their presence to make his escape without having to answer more questions.

His next call was at the Dedham police station. The constable behind the desk looked up from the forms in front of him, realized that Rutledge was a stranger, and asked, “Yes, sir. Could I help you?”

Rutledge identified himself. “I’m here about an old case that might—or might not—have a connection with an event in St. Hilary some fifteen or twenty years ago. You’re too young to remember. Is there anyone who might recall the event?”

The constable’s face brightened. “That would be Sergeant Terrill. He’s only just retired. You’ll find him in Laurel Cottage on the St. Hilary road.” He gave Rutledge directions, adding, “If there’s more we can do, Inspector Thompkins will be in shortly.”

Terrill’s cottage stood in a small open space just before a copse of trees. Both the house and the gardens were in such good condition that it was clear the sergeant had found time heavy on his hands after his retirement to civilian life.

Rutledge ran him down in the back garden, cultivating between rows of vegetables, sleeves rolled up and his forehead creased with the effort.

Terrill looked up, straightened quickly, and said, “I don’t believe I know you.”

“You don’t,” Rutledge replied. “Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard. The constable on duty in Dedham told me how to find you.”

Terrill visibly relaxed, saying, “And what brings you to Essex, sir?”

“Curiosity,” Rutledge told him. “I have heard that, some years ago, a madman broke into the house belonging to the French family and made threats. But he was quickly apprehended and sent away to be locked up. Had you joined the police by that time?”

“I had, a green constable who hardly knew his arse from his elbow. But how did you come to know about this?”

“A tutor had just arrived to be interviewed for a position teaching the two French boys. He was in the house at the time.”

“Was he, by God. We were never told about that. Someone would have interviewed him.”

“I don’t think the family wanted that. And I find that curious. Will you tell me what happened?”

Terrill led Rutledge to a pair of benches under a tree.

“One of the household, a maid, came running into the police station in St. Hilary, where I was posted at the time. She was frightened out of her wits, and I sent her along to Dedham on my bicycle, to find Inspector Wade. I got to the house first, of course, being closer. It was already dark, and the door stood open to the night. From inside I heard raised voices, and I was that glad to see the Inspector arriving on my heels. The maid had run into him coming out of his house after his dinner. He set me to watch the door and charged inside. There was even more of an uproar, and he shouted for me. I ran in to help. In the drawing room, it was a sight. Overturned tables and chairs, the elder Mr. French standing there like something carved from stone, and the Inspector trying to handcuff a dark-haired man who was so red in the face, I thought he would have an apoplexy. I added my weight to that of the Inspector, and we finally got the fellow under control, wrestling him into a chair while French watched.”

“French. Which member of the family was he? The father or the grandfather of the present Mr. French?”

“Lewis French’s grandfather. Mr. Howard French. He had just come up from London. His son was lying on the floor, blood on his face and murder in his eyes if I ever saw it. I went to help him, and he shook me off with an oath, stood up on his own, swaying a little. The doctor was there; he’d been attending to Mr. Laurence, and next he went to look at Mr. Howard’s lip. I could see a bloody knife on the floor, kicked to one side.”