Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

Hamish said, “But he didna’ live there verra’ long.”

It was a good point. The boy Afonso had gone to the Portuguese mainland to school, had got himself into trouble there and served out his prison sentence there.

And for a man who purportedly knew very little English, he had circumvented Rutledge’s question very neatly.

There was, Rutledge thought, more to Afonso Diaz than met the eye.

But suspicion was not proof of any wrongdoing. The question remained—had his years in an asylum changed him for the better? Or the worse? He had not been mad, not in the accepted sense. But he had been shut up with the mad.

“Have you had any contact—directly or indirectly—with the French family since your release?”

“I don’t understand ‘directly or indirectly.’ ”

Rutledge waited for a beat before rephrasing the question. He would have wagered that Diaz knew perfectly well what the words meant. “Have you written, spoken to—even on the telephone—or seen a male member of the French family since your release?”

“I can think of no reason to do this.”

“Have you asked anyone else to write, speak to, or call on any member of the family for you?”

“I know no one in England, except for the Senhora and the people at the asylum. Who would I ask to do such things?”

Rutledge changed tactics. “Do you hold Lewis French to blame for his grandfather’s decision to purchase your father’s land?”

“I do not know this Lewis French.”

Which was true, in the literal sense. Diaz had never seen the French children when he came uninvited to the house. But he could have made it his business, since his release, to find out what had become of the senior members of the family. The Bennetts must read the London papers. And at some point, French’s name would have been mentioned in connection with a charity event or business meetings on exports and imports, or even a social gathering.

“If it could be arranged for you to return to Madeira, would you be willing to leave England straightaway?”

Something stirred in the back of the man’s eyes. Rutledge could have sworn it was a smile.

“Yes.”

Because his work was done? French was dead?

There had been a Portuguese contingent in the last two years of the war, but Rutledge had had no personal contact with them. He had been told that they were good men but that their music had been dark and fatalistic.

It offered him no key to this man standing patiently waiting for his next question.

Diaz had come to England alone, knowing very little of the language, and yet he’d found his way to Dedham to demand what he believed was his right.

“When your father died, did he leave you any of the money he’d been given for the farm in Madeira?”

“When I went to prison, he told me he owed me nothing.”

Now that, Rutledge thought, was interesting. If Diaz had lost his inheritance because of his fall from grace, it was well before the family vineyards had been sold to the English firm. It was possible that he had come to England for a very different reason from the one everyone had believed. Of course there was the language barrier at that time, but Rutledge was fairly sure the French family must speak Portuguese fluently in order to do business in Madeira and on the mainland. Whatever the doctor and the police were told, Howard and Laurence French would have understood what was driving this man. The land had been taken away before he’d had a chance to redeem himself in his father’s eyes. And his father, after the sale, had remained adamant about an inheritance.

Why hadn’t Howard French or his son told the authorities the whole truth?

Attempted murder—attempted revenge—would have brought Diaz into the courtroom to face trial. But they had chosen to send him to the asylum.

Rutledge realized that they must have been very afraid of him—and afraid to trust the courts to keep him away from them. The only safety lay in putting him somewhere they could rely on his being locked up for good.

And as far as Rutledge was concerned, studying the closed face in front of him, this man had a better motive for killing Lewis French than anyone he’d interviewed in St. Hilary.

The problem was going to be proving it.

How had Diaz managed to leave this estate without his absence being noted and reported to the clinic by the Bennetts?

Or would they have done so? Their experiment was succeeding against the odds. If one of their staff was involved in any crime, it would mean the end of their comfort.

Diaz was still waiting for the next question, clearly in no haste to end their conversation.

Rutledge nodded. “Thank you. I’ll come back if there are any more questions.”

“I have nothing to hide,” Diaz said, then as an afterthought, he added “Sir.”

The game was over when Rutledge reached the lawn again. Mrs. Bennett was closeted with the photographer and was not to be disturbed.

Rutledge turned to Luke. “Do the members of the staff leave the estate for any reason?”

“No, sir. Even the doctor comes here when he’s needed.”

“What’s his name?”

“Dr. Burgess.”

“Do any of the inmates send or receive letters?”

“Most of us have no one to write to,” the boy said. “Much less anyone who cares enough to write to us. Mrs. Bennett always tells us that we are her family now. We don’t need anyone else.”

“That’s very kind.”

“I think,” the boy said, practical as well as honest, “it’s not kindness so much as knowing we don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Chapter Eleven

Rutledge had said nothing to Mrs. Bennett about calling on Dr. Burgess. And so he had not asked her where the doctor’s surgery could be found, assuming it must be in the nearest village.

To his surprise when he pulled up in front of the first surgery he came to, the name on the board was not Burgess. He went inside anyway and asked the woman behind the desk if she could direct him to the right place.

She frowned as if displeased by his question, saying only, “He lives on Blackwell Street, just off the High, next to the shoemaker’s shop.”

Rutledge thanked her and went to find Blackwell. It was more a lane than a proper street, narrow and running off at an angle several streets past the square. He found the shoemaker easily enough but was surprised to see that Burgess lived in a modest house with no surgery attached.

He knocked at the door, and after a time it was opened by a slender, once-handsome man whose bloodshot blue eyes and overlong, graying hair told their own tale. But his voice was not slurred as he said, “What is it you want?”

“I’m looking for Dr. Burgess,” he said.

“And I am he. I no longer practice medicine in this community. If you need care, see Dr. Preston. He’s on the High, you can’t miss his surgery.”

“Are you still able to practice medicine?”

“That, sir, is my business and not yours. I bid you good day.”

But Rutledge had his boot in the door and said, “I was just at Mrs. Bennett’s house.”

Burgess paused. “We had an agreement, she and I. I would treat her staff, as Dr. Preston would not, but no one else. Neither friend—nor foe.”

“Why did Dr. Preston refuse to serve her staff?”

“If you’ve been there, I don’t have to tell you that the good doctor suggested to her that convicted felons and madmen caused his other patients some disquiet. Poppycock. He’s afraid of them himself.”

“I’ve come to your door because I need to talk to you about one of her staff.”

Burgess made to close the door again. “I cannot discuss my patients.”

“You can discuss your personal relationships with them. My name is Rutledge, and I’m from Scotland Yard.”