Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

“Go on.”

“The elder Mr. French didn’t seem best pleased to see us. He told us that the man was out of his head and that he wanted him dragged off to the nearest asylum, not to gaol. I didn’t doubt he was right. The man was still cursing and yelling in a foreign tongue that we were later told was Portuguese. Both Mr. French and his father spoke it. We asked the elder Mr. French to translate, but he got fed up and turned to tell us that there was no reasoning with the man. He said that the intruder accused the family of theft, and it was clear that he would have to be shut up, or he’d come back to finish what he’d begun. Even I could see it was true. It was as if the man was obsessed, shouting abuse and threats even with the police standing right there. That’s when the doctor gave him something to settle him down. Inspector Wade wasn’t happy about that, but I couldn’t see what else to do.”

“That was the end of it?”

“Mr. Howard spoke up, then. He said he felt sorry for the poor devil—his words—and that he was a stranger in a strange land, and he himself would pay for whatever was needful. His care, whatever treatment was required. The Inspector still wanted to know what the fuss was about, and the younger Mr. French said the man’s father had sold a certain property in Madeira to the family, and his son, who had a history of mental disturbance, had taken it into his head that the farm had been stolen from him and that the father had had no right to act without his knowledge. The son had, in fact, been in prison at the time for violent protests against the Portuguese government.”

“Was this true? Was there any legal proof offered to you?”

“It wasn’t for me to ask, and it seemed that the Inspector believed Mr. French. In the circumstances, there was the evidence of our own eyes that the man was mad, and even with the drug he’d been given, you could read his face. He wanted blood. It was as simple as that.”

“Was the intruder taken to the police station and kept in custody?”

“Mr. French asked the doctor for his opinion, and the doctor said that he didn’t think custody was the answer, that the man was too violent and would have to be kept sedated if we expected to handle him. There was also the language problem.”

“This was Dr. Townsend?” Rutledge had been given the answer by MacFarland, but he wanted to be sure.

“No, the doctor before him. I can tell you, I didn’t relish the idea of having to feed and take care of someone all but foaming at the mouth with madness. They discussed it a bit between them, and the doctor suggested a private asylum near Cambridge. I didn’t know anything about it, but Inspector Wade had heard of it. The question was, who would pay for such care? Mr. French said he felt responsible and would see to it that the man wanted for nothing. The doctor replied that it was very generous of him. And it was. He could have had the man up for attempted murder.”

“What then?”

“Mr. French contacted Cambridge. They asked if the patient could be brought to them for observation. There was nothing they could do until they had seen the lay of the land, like. And so Mr. Howard French and the doctor bundled the man into a carriage, and they set out for Cambridge then and there. Inspector Wade wanted me to take statements from everyone first, but as Mr. French was not pressing charges, it was agreed that the matter was no longer the concern of the police.”

“And Wade was satisfied with that?”

“He was. He said that if the man had behaved properly, coming to the house and speaking to Mr. French about his belief that his father had been cheated, rather than forcing his way in and attacking Mr. French, he’d have insisted on giving him a hearing. But he couldn’t speak the language, all the evidence in the case was in a foreign land, and the man was in no mood to be reasoned with. Mr. Laurence reminded everyone there were women and young children in that house, and if the intruder got loose, next time there might be far more serious consequences.”

“Did you learn this man’s name?”

“I did. And I was not likely to forget it. Ever. Afonso Diaz.”

“Was he committed to the asylum for the rest of his life?”

“Yes, of course he was. But there’s new thinking now on such cases. I discovered quite by chance that he was released two years ago. A broken man, the doctors at the asylum said, and no threat to himself or anyone else.”

“Was he sent back to Portugal?”

“No, sir, he had learned a trade and was content to stay in England.”

“What trade?” Rutledge could hear the echo of Hamish’s voice: What trade for a man like Afonso Diaz, who had come to England to commit murder?

“Gardening. He’d spent the last ten years tending the asylum gardens. He talked to the plants, I was told, but was meek as a lamb otherwise. A very modern doctor, it seems, who didn’t believe in keeping such a man under lock and key, judged him cured.” There was doubt in the sergeant’s voice.

“Where did he choose to go to live after leaving the asylum?”

“He went to Surrey, I was told.”

The question was, could this old man be a threat to the family now? Could he have plotted to kill Lewis French, only a child when Diaz had gone to the French house, and something, somehow had gone wrong? How could he have driven French’s motorcar all the way to that quarry? Where indeed had he learned to drive? He would not have forgot where to find the French family, whatever else he could or could not do.

Rutledge could see that he had no choice but to look into Afonso Diaz’s movements in the last few weeks. But it seemed that the sergeant was right. After all, the asylum had chosen to free him, and there was his age, to boot. Still, the Yard couldn’t ignore the connection with the French family.

Terrill was saying, “One good thing came of that night. I was promoted out of St. Hilary the very next week, and another man was brought in from Suffolk. Inspector Wade found himself in the Cambridge constabulary. And the housemaid who had come screaming to my door was told never to speak of that night again, on pain of instant dismissal. She was a clever girl, she knew better than to embarrass the family.”

And so all evidence that Afonso Diaz had ever come to St. Hilary had been expunged. Except in the memories of a tutor and a policeman.

Rutledge found himself wondering if the family had done that out of guilt or out of a care for the firm’s good name. If the land that had made French, French & Traynor famous for its fine wines had once belonged to the Diaz family, and the sale was questionable, the repercussions could have been formidable. Howard French had saved his family—and his firm—by his quick actions.

On the whole, Rutledge believed that French had been telling the truth. He was too good a businessman to cheat a rival.

Hamish said, “Gossip doesna’ hear the truth.”

This was pressing new information. He ought to go directly to Surrey. But there was the matter of the handkerchief still to be dealt with. Until he could learn more about Diaz, the evidence still pointed directly at Valerie Whitman.

And before he left Essex, he would have to call on her.

Chapter Ten

This time Rutledge didn’t watch for Miss Whitman to leave her house.

He knocked on the door and stood there patiently waiting.

After several minutes, she opened the door herself, and he asked if he could come in.

“Must you?” she responded.

“I don’t think what I have to say is something you want your neighbors gossiping about behind your back.”

She stared at him. But he could see that she was torn between telling him to go away and hearing whatever it was he had to say.