Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

She was in Belgium still, although he was the only person who knew her whereabouts. Most of her friends assumed she was visiting in Scotland—or Yorkshire—or possibly Devon. It was not his charge to enlighten them.

He had been sent to the scene by the Acting Chief Superintendent with the comment “Bloody motorcars. The sixth death in London this month, by my reckoning. And not likely to be the last.”

“I should think a traffic death would be handled by the Metropolitan Police,” Rutledge had answered.

“As a rule,” the Acting Chief Superintendent had agreed. “But Constable Meadows felt the circumstances were a little odd. For one thing, the vehicle didn’t stop. For another, there are no witnesses. Not even a milk van, mind you.”

Someone should have seen or heard something, in spite of the fact that the accident had occurred in the predawn hours. The motorcar braking suddenly, the force of the bonnet or the wing striking the victim, even if there had been no time for him to cry out.

Sergeant Gibson, just coming up the stairs as Rutledge was leaving, greeted him with a nod and then said, “The doctor’s been and gone.”

“What did he have to say?”

“Injuries consistent with being struck by a motorcar, but he put the time of death closer to midnight than dawn.”

Rutledge thanked the sergeant and went on his way. He had noticed, but had said nothing about it, that Gibson was himself again. And he was happy to see it.

Chief Superintendent Bowles’s sudden illness had caused drastic upheaval at the Yard, compounded by frantic jockeying to fill his shoes and the temporary assignment of several Acting Chief Superintendents until Bowles’s condition had been clarified. When the new man had been brought in from Yorkshire and appointed to take his place for the foreseeable future, there had been a settling out.

As shocked as anyone about what had happened, Gibson had withdrawn into a strictly by-the-book mode that had made him prickly and unhelpful, as if by holding himself to Bowles’s standards now, he believed he could assure that no one would guess his true feeling about the man or the number of times he’d gone behind the Chief Superintendent’s back. But like good resolutions at any time, this one had been short-lived. Everyone was weighing the new man, but no one had uttered an opinion. Rutledge had already formed his own.

Constable Meadows was still standing guard over the body, waiting for the undertaker to arrive. Behind him, Rutledge could see two more constables, brought in for the purpose, canvassing either side of the quiet street. If the neighbors were curious, they were keeping indoors and watching events from their windows. But then Huntingdon was not the sort of street where residents or servants stood and gawked.

Meadows was a thin, quiet man of perhaps thirty-five, and he said as Rutledge approached, “Scotland Yard?”

“Inspector Rutledge.”

“Yes, sir. I was asked to wait until someone arrived.”

“I understand you felt the circumstances surrounding this accident were odd?” Rutledge stooped to lift the blanket that had been placed over the victim’s body. The man appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties, slim and well dressed, brown hair matted with blood from the wound where the back of his skull must have struck the uneven edge of the street, one arm at an angle that would be unnatural in life, and trousers torn at the ankle.

Meadows reached down and turned the body a little so that Rutledge could see where the man’s coat was torn near the collar and covered with dust and bits of stone and grass. There was a long scrape down one side of his face. “It appeared that he was dragged some distance. The doctor’s estimate was close to ten feet, until the coat or even that edge of his trousers tore away. But if you look in the road there’s no sign of anything dragged.”

Rutledge let the blanket fall back into place and rose. Looking back down the road, the direction in which the body would have been carried by the motorcar, he had to agree with the constable. No sign at all, although the man was not slight, and even a sack of coal would have left some impression in the soft summer dust.

Meadows was saying, “For another thing, sir, the doctor told me he’d been dead longer than I’d thought. I walk this street at least once every hour on my rounds, and he wasn’t here before half after four. I’d swear to that. For another, there’s nothing in his pockets to show who he is. And you’d expect to find a wallet, if he was coming home at this hour.”

“Was he robbed, do you think?”

“Sir, no. No sign of that that I could see. Pockets weren’t turned out. And there’s a watch in his vest pocket. Rather a nice one. French, at a guess. No one would miss it, even in the dark. There’s a nice chain on it as well.” He held out his hand, and in the palm lay the watch and chain.

They were expensive. Rutledge could see that for himself, both case and chain well made and of smooth, heavy gold. They matched what he had seen of the man’s clothing.

Flicking open the case, he looked for an inscription, but there was none. “The jeweler or watchmaker who sold this might have a record of it,” he said. “Before the war, I should think. And you’re right, the face appears to be French.”

“I’ll see that’s passed on, sir.”

“Better still, I’ll ask a jeweler I know what he makes of it. And then the Yard can begin a search for the owner.”

Just then the undertaker arrived, and Meadows stepped forward to speak to the driver.

At the sound of a door closing, Rutledge looked up the street. A constable was coming down the steps of a house near the corner, and he turned in Rutledge’s direction.

Rutledge went to meet the man, leaving Meadows to deal with the removal of the body.

“Constable,” he said. “Found a witness, I hope?”

“Sir, not precisely. But the footman in the house with the iron railings above the door was waiting up for the owner to return from a dinner party, and I spoke to the gentleman as well. When he came home at a quarter past twelve, he saw nothing in the street. He’s willing to give a statement to that effect.”

“Was he driving? Could he have knocked the man down?”

“I’m to look at his motorcar, sir. The footman has gone to bring it around. But I’d say Mr. Belford was unlikely to have been the one we’re looking for.” The constable cleared his throat. “He’s a rather formidable gentleman, sir.”

“Perhaps I should have a word with him. After we’ve looked at his motorcar. He was driving himself? There was no one else with him?”

“No, sir, he was alone.”

“Could he have been too drunk to realize what he’d done?”

“According to the footman, Mr. Belford isn’t one for the drink.”

“Indeed. Ah, here comes the motorcar. Let’s have a look.”

The footman was an older man, to Rutledge’s surprise. As a rule it was a position for younger ones. He drew up in the street next to the two policemen and said, “Here you are, Constable Doyle. Have a look.” He nodded to Rutledge. “Sir.”

But they could see straightaway that the meticulously maintained motor had not been involved in any street accident. It could have rolled out of the showroom door only yesterday, it was in such excellent condition. As he was examining it, Rutledge saw the footman take out a handkerchief and briskly rub an edge of the near-side headlamp where Constable Doyle had briefly rested his hand as he bent to look more closely at the frame. The frown on the man’s face as he polished away the offending print indicated that the motorcar was in his charge and his joy.

Rutledge turned to Constable Doyle. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Belford. Will you tell Constable Meadows that I’ll be back shortly? He’s not to leave until I return.”