Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

“We don’t have it.”

“Is she a strong enough woman to pedal a bicycle for miles?”

“The ground is relatively flat.”

“Indeed. And what’s become of the bicycle?”

“Abandoned, at a guess. Or she may have decided to take it along. To account for it later.”

“Absolutely. Yes. And now her description, if you please.”

Rutledge gave it. Fielding raised his eyebrows. “A pretty young woman. Yes, very helpful, that. And where will you be meanwhile?”

“I’m going back to St. Hilary. There are some loose ends to clear away.” Rutledge gave Fielding the name of the inn in Dedham.

“I remember Dedham. Such a pleasant town. Hard to believe it could harbor a murderess.”

When Rutledge reached Dedham, it was very late. He had to rouse the night clerk to beg a room, and it was on an upper floor, eaves sloping down to the windows, giving it the feeling of walls closing in. He opened a window to let in the cool night air, tried to shut out Hamish from his mind, and settled himself to sleep through what little was left of the night. But the deep Scots voice, unrelenting and intolerable, kept him awake. In the end, he got up and sat in a chair by the window listening to the night sounds of the town until he fell asleep as a false dawn brought color back into the world.

There was one question that he needed to put to Miss Whitman: who else had been in her cottage the night that someone was killed with Lewis French’s motorcar?

He found her coming back from market, a basket of early apples over her arm.

She slowed as she saw him waiting in the churchyard, near the wall, where she couldn’t miss him.

“You again,” she said, her voice carrying to him where he stood.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“You’ve found Lewis, then. And he’s dead.”

“What makes you believe that?”

“It’s the only reason I can think of that would bring you back to the churchyard.”

He stepped over the wall and was walking toward her. “He’s still missing.”

Miss Whitman frowned. “That’s not like him. He’s always busy.”

“It’s possible he struck the man we found dead. And he’s afraid the police will be waiting to take him up.”

She shook her head. “That doesn’t sound like Lewis, either. If it was an accident, he’d have said so.”

“And if it wasn’t? If it was deliberate?”

“No, he has no enemies. Why should he have killed that man?”

But he did have an enemy, Hamish was pointing out. And if the man had tried to kill Lewis first, he’d have been justified in running him down.

That still didn’t explain Lewis’s disappearance.

Rutledge took a deep breath. “Do you live alone, Miss Whitman?”

“I have for some time.”

“Do you have servants?”

“A daily who comes three times a week. A woman who prepares my lunch and my dinner. I am perfectly capable of cooking my own breakfast.”

“And can they swear that you were at home the night that Lewis French went missing?”

She looked away then. “I doubt it. The women are sisters. They live here in St. Hilary. Their brother took ill in Thetford, and they asked to go to him. They were away for the weekend, and for most of the week that followed, taking turns nursing him. Very inconvenient for me, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Why should anyone think I would kill Lewis French?” She was suddenly angry. “I didn’t love him, you know. I don’t know that I loved Michael. He went to war so long ago that sometimes I have trouble remembering how I felt.”

“Then why did you agree to marry him?”

“It was expected, I think. Even the Queen was engaged to one brother and married the other.” Her voice was strained.

“Pride can be hurt as quickly as one’s heart.”

She turned back to him. “Yes. Pride.”

He probed a little deeper, aware of some undercurrent that he couldn’t quite put a finger on. She had all but grown up with the French family, and yet she lived here in this modest cottage with only a daily and a cook. She had been engaged to both brothers, which meant she had the blessing of the family. And yet a doctor’s daughter was more socially prominent.

“Are you related to the family? A cousin, perhaps?”

She smiled. “Not at all.”

Against his will, he said, “Because of the handkerchief, the Yard is nearly convinced that you are in some way responsible for Lewis French’s disappearance and the death of a man whose body was found in Chelsea.”

Her head to one side, she studied him. “You’re a policeman. You must have dealt with the very worst sort of person. Do you really believe I’m capable of murder?”

Hamish’s voice was loud in his ears, drowning out the bells in the church tower marking the hour. “ ’Ware!”

And Rutledge heeded the warning.

“I’ve told you. There’s no mark of Cain to guide us in finding a killer.”

She turned, walking away. “Then come and take me into custody when you’re ready.”

He watched her go, and just as she reached for the latch to open her door, he asked in a quiet voice that would carry to her and not to the neighbors, “Afonso Diaz. Do you by any chance know the name?”

She had said all she intended to say to him. She shut the door firmly behind her, leaving him with no choice but to return to his motorcar and drive away.

There was another call he intended to make this morning.

Miss French was in her garden, he was told when he arrived at her house, and Nan, the maid, had answered his knock.

And he found her there, a pinafore over her dress to protect it as she worked among the roses in a garden shaped like a half-moon.

Looking up, she recognized him and said quickly, “Well? Have you found my brother?”

“Not yet. We’ve located his motorcar. It was in Surrey.”

“Surrey?” She frowned. “We don’t know anyone there.”

“As far as I can tell, it wasn’t your brother who abandoned his motorcar in a chalk quarry.”

“Aband— I think he cared more for that motorcar than for me. I don’t believe you.”

“Nevertheless, it’s true. And I’m afraid I must ask you a few questions as a result.”

She wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist, pushing away her hair, and said, “The summerhouse. Over there.”

He followed her to a round Greek temple set on a slight rise that enabled her to view the garden in comfort. Cushioned bench seats followed the rail, and she took one side, offering him the other. From this vantage point he could see that there was a ten-foot section only just added to one side of the garden. The earth was different there, indicating that it had been plowed recently.

“This must be a spectacular view when all the plants are in bloom,” he commented.

“Yes, I’ve worked on it since I was twelve or thirteen. But you aren’t here to admire my roses, are you? What is it you want to ask? And please hurry, I’d like to finish my work here before the day grows too warm.”

“Are you sure there’s no one in Surrey? Someone—perhaps a girl—your brother knew and you did not.”

“It’s quite possible. But I have no idea where he met her or who she may be. It won’t be as easy to jilt Mary Ellen Townsend. Her father has been very happy to tell everyone that his daughter is marrying a French. He won’t care to eat those words.”

“I was told Miss Whitman ran free in this house as a child. And that she was engaged to your elder brother before his death. There must have been a connection somewhere, or Laurence French would have looked for better prospects for his elder son and heir.”

“I wasn’t for that engagement, but then no one asked my opinion. I thought he could do far better.”