Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

Finally she opened the door and let him inside.

The cottage was furnished with lovely old pieces that must have been inherited, and the colors of the curtains, the carpets, and the chair coverings were pleasing. The room to which she took him was done up in pale greens and creams, and several of the paintings on the wall were quite good.

Offering him a chair, she stood by the hearth, indicating her intention to keep the interview short.

He could see again how different she was from Miss Townsend. In manner, appearance, temperament. And he regretted having to show her the handkerchief and question her about it.

Then he changed his mind, holding it out to her. “I believe this belongs to you,” he said simply.

She came to take it from him and looked at it. He could read her face, and he knew before she answered what she was going to say.

“Wherever did you find this?” she asked warily.

“I believe it was embroidered by Miss Delaney.”

“Yes, yes,” she said impatiently. “But where did you find it?”

“It was found beneath the driver’s seat of Lewis French’s motorcar.”

“ Where? Why should Lewis have my handkerchief?”

“I don’t know that he did. It was found under the seat. He might not have seen it there.”

“Well, then, if you’ve located his motorcar, you can ask him.” She gave the handkerchief back to him.

“I told you that we had the motorcar. So far we don’t have Mr. French.”

“Oh.” She digested that, then said after a moment, “Are you saying that you believe I had something to do with his disappearance?”

“As you can see, the handkerchief is relatively fresh. It couldn’t have been where it was for months. For that matter, the man who sees to the motorcar for French tells me he cleans it thoroughly whenever it is taken out. He would have found the handkerchief long ago.”

“Then Lewis put it there. For some ridiculous reason of his own. I didn’t. I will swear to that.”

“If he’s engaged to another woman, why should he have kept your handkerchief?”

“I didn’t say that he did. I’m not always at home. The house is unlocked. The shop sells these to other customers. You must ask him these questions. I can’t answer them.”

“Miss Whitman, if you will help me, I’ll be better able to help you.”

“I don’t need your help. I don’t need anyone’s help.”

“The Yard is going to find the person who used Lewis French’s motorcar to run down and kill a man. Someone who may’ve thought he was killing French himself. And if French is still alive, he may well find him and not bungle his murder a second time. In some quarters, you appear to have a very good motive for killing French—for all we know, it was you who got the wrong man. The Yard will be looking closely at you and at how your engagement to French ended. At any hard feelings you may still harbor. Tell me what you know—or what you suspect has happened. It will save you a great deal of grief. Believe me.”

She considered him. “Do you really think I could have killed anyone?” Her voice began to shake at the start, and then she brought it under control.

“Sadly, for the police there is nothing that marks a murderer. Nothing that allows us to look at you and know whether you are guilty or innocent.”

“I’ve killed no one,” she said huskily. “Please go. Please.”

Cursing himself for what he’d had to say, he rose. “If you need help, send for me. I must go to London straightaway, and you can reach me through Sergeant Gibson at the Yard. Will you promise me to call?”

He waited, but she said nothing more, her gaze turned away from him, her face half in shadow so that he couldn’t read her expression or see the color of her eyes. He had no choice. He left the house.

As he walked back to his motorcar, Hamish spoke unexpectedly.

“Ye ken, if she tried to kill him, and instead killed the wrong man, he couldha’ helped her dispose of the corpse.”

Men had done stranger things, but Rutledge couldn’t picture Lewis French being cajoled into doing it. Unless he’d found it the only way out.

“Then why did he disappear afterward?” Rutledge asked, speaking aloud.

“Because he’s had second thoughts about the wisdom of marrying the other lass.”

It held together too well for comfort. Lewis French could have disposed of the corpse by driving it to Chelsea, and then left the motorcar in the quarry to throw off the police. If true, this would most certainly explain why the dead man was carrying Lewis French’s watch. After all, French would eventually get it back after the police had finished their inquiry.

But where was he now? Why hadn’t he come forward with a tale of being robbed, his motorcar taken away, leaving him too dazed to find his way home again until now?

And why was Hamish suddenly defending Valerie Whitman?

Rutledge stopped at the French house to ask Agnes French if she had heard from her brother.

As he expected, she had not.

She said waspishly, “He never thinks of anyone but himself. Michael was never as selfish as Lewis. But then my parents spoiled him because of his seizures. He expects me to treat him the same way. And I refuse to cater to his whims.”

“If you hear from him, will you let the Yard know where he is and where he’s been?”

“If you want to know my brother’s whereabouts, look for him yourself. I won’t be made my brother’s keeper even for Scotland Yard.”

Rutledge left it at that and set out for Cambridge.

The asylum on the outskirts of town was, he discovered, a small private clinic for the mentally ill. It struck him as he drove up the short drive that it had been very wise of Howard French or his son Laurence, whoever had made this decision, to put their problem into an isolated private clinic where he could be successfully hidden away. With no family or friends in England, Diaz would have no way of leaving on his own.

Rutledge wondered if Michael or Lewis French had unwittingly neglected to pay for the man’s keep, which had allowed the doctor in charge to decide to release him without letting the family know. If there had been no provision for the fees in the late Laurence French’s will, and the sons knew nothing about the intruder in the house, it would be understandable. For that matter, the elder French, after his stroke, could have forgot the man existed.

The manor house was well kept, the grounds pleasant, and no fences spoiled the image of a private country estate. A place where unwanted family problems could be discreetly kept out of the public eye. Even the King had allowed young Prince John to be locked away until he had been all but lost to public view.

Hardly the place one would expect to find a Portuguese farmer’s troublesome son.

Rutledge opened the door into a lobby where a woman was seated behind a small but very pretty cherry desk.

She greeted him pleasantly and asked if he was a visitor.

“I’ve come to speak to one of your doctors about a man who used to be a patient here. My name is Rutledge. Scotland Yard.”

The smile slipped a little, but the woman said, “If you’ll be seated, Mr. Rutledge, I’ll ask if Dr. Milton is available.”

She turned and stepped through the door just behind where she was seated. And she was gone for some time.

He was on the point of following her when she finally came back, held the door open, and an elderly man preceded her into Reception.

“Mr. Rutledge? I’m Dr. Milton. Senior medical staff.”

They shook hands, and then Dr. Milton suggested, “Perhaps a stroll in the grounds would be best. You can speak freely there.”

Or, Rutledge thought, the doctor himself could.