Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

“In what way?”

Goaded, she said, “Whatever you heard about Valerie playing here as a child, she isn’t one of us. Her father was a Naval officer, that’s true. But her mother was the daughter of the firm’s chief clerk, Gooding. Because her mother died in childbirth, and her father was always off in the South China Sea or somewhere just as distant, my own mother felt sorry for her and brought her here to play with us.”

Rutledge turned away to look out over the garden so that she couldn’t read the expression on his face.

It was damning, that bit of news. Valerie Whitman had admitted that she didn’t love Lewis French. But if she had married him, she would have become one of the family. No longer the daughter of the firm’s chief clerk .

She might have been willing to let Lewis French go if she hadn’t cared for him. She herself, in Rutledge’s opinion, could have done far better than French, judging by what little he’d learned about the man.

But was she as willing to let go that leap into a different world? Wealth. Social standing. A house in London.

Miss French was saying, “I often wondered how she could attract both Michael and then Lewis. It was amazing to me. Yes, she was always underfoot, they were used to her. It’s not as if she’s actually pretty, like Mary Ellen Townsend.” It was said enviously. “I could have understood it if Michael had fallen in love with her .”

Rutledge was still considering the ramifications of the connection between Valerie Whitman and Gooding when he realized that Miss French had asked him something.

Turning back to her, he said, “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“I asked if you thought Valerie was pretty.”

What she read in his face brought a deep flush to her own. “You do, don’t you? You’re just like the rest of them, even my father.”

“I’m a policeman,” he said. “Involved with a murder inquiry. It doesn’t matter what I think.”

“But it does,” she said viciously. “If I’d killed Lewis and buried him there in my rose garden, you’d believe it quickly enough. But if Valerie has killed him for jilting her, you’ll not. You’ll make excuses and look for flaws in the evidence, and put off taking her into custody. Why is it,” she went on, the venom in her voice pinning him where he was, “that some women can be forgiven anything? There were times when I hated my father and my brothers. They never saw me. If I’d suddenly become invisible, they wouldn’t have wondered what had become of me until they needed me to look after Mama or keep the house open and ready for them whenever they took it into their heads to come to Dedham—”

She broke off, as if she suddenly realized where her outburst was leading. Breathing hard, she stared at Rutledge, and then turned her back on him, one hand on the railing, the other already groping for her handkerchief. “Go away. Just—go away.”

He glimpsed the edge of the pretty square of linen as she gripped it tightly, and saw in one corner the dark red embroidered rose, the petals just open and a drop of white-thread dew on one of them.

Hamish was urgently trying to tell him something, but he turned without a word and walked around the house to the drive, where he’d left his motorcar.

Shaken by the woman’s angry words, he wondered if he had indeed been looking for flaws in the evidence, twisting and turning it because he didn’t want to believe that Valerie Whitman could be a murderess.

If Afonso Diaz was simply an old man waiting to die and go back to his native country in the only way open to him—in a coffin—then he, Rutledge, had failed to do his duty in a proper and timely fashion.

His doubts and Hamish’s violent rumbling in his head carried him all the way back to Dedham and the inn.

And still he sat there in the tiny telephone closet for all of ten minutes before reaching out, taking up the receiver, and putting a call through to the Yard.

Chapter Twelve

Fielding was finally tracked down and brought to the telephone. Rutledge, waiting impatiently, said at once, “Any news?”

“Early days,” the sergeant replied. “But there was a bicycle put on the train here in London on the night in question—that’s to say, the night after you found the body in Chelsea. We’re still looking into that, sir. Male or female, the man doesn’t remember, only that the bicycle’s rear wheel knocked over his Thermos of tea as he was loading it and sent the tea rolling away. He was afraid to drink it after that for fear the Thermos had broken inside, and he was still angry about that. He does recall that it was a woman’s bicycle.”

“He’s quite sure about that?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I’m looking into who might have bought a ticket to Dedham or the vicinity. But I daresay whoever it was used a false name.”

Rutledge suggested it before he could stop himself. “Or put the bicycle on board without any intention of claiming it in the end.”

“There’s an idea, sir. I’ll look into that as well.”

Rutledge thanked him and ended the call. Restless and unwilling to sit still, he drove back to St. Hilary and went to find the curate.

Williams had made progress on painting the Rectory. Rutledge followed the wet spills around the side of the house to the kitchen gardens and found the curate just beginning to paint the trim on the porch there.

Williams was whistling to himself as he worked and broke off to see who was coming. “Inspector. You’ve called often enough that I feel I should offer you a coverall and a brush.”

Rutledge laughed. “You’ve done nice work on your own.”

“Yes, well, that’s the new description of a clergyman. Jack-of-all-trades. I couldn’t ask the church warden to have the Rectory painted when there’s so much needing to be done in the church. Not when I’m young and fit.”

“Thinking of getting married, are you?”

Williams blushed. “Um—there isn’t gossip already, is there?”

“None that I’ve heard. Are you?”

The curate changed the subject. “What brings you here this morning?”

“I don’t really know,” Rutledge told him truthfully. “I’m in a quandary about the missing Mr. French. Ever hear of anyone called Afonso Diaz?”

“Who is he when he’s at home?”

“He’s from Madeira.”

“In that case, the French family ought to know. That’s where they do business.”

“Thank you. The other problem is, what has become of Lewis French? He’s been gone away too long, without a word to anyone. Someone must know the answer to that. He’s got a business in London that needs his attention. He’s expecting his cousin to arrive in England at any moment. He has a fiancée who must miss him.”

“It sounds to me rather as if he’s dead,” Williams said grimly as he carefully descended the ladder. “But that brings us back to the question of who would wish to kill him?”

“Perhaps his sister. She’s been left to cool her heels at home all these years while the sons of the family prepared to take their place in the firm.”

“Yes, I can see that. But if Lewis were dead, she’d be in London going through the books. Her time come at long last.”

Rutledge thought that might well be true, but, devil’s advocate, he said, “If she’s clever enough to kill him and get away with it, I should think she’d be clever enough to not to show her hand too soon.”

The curate grimaced. “I really don’t like to think of anyone in my flock being a murderer.” Wiping his fingers on rags that were even more flecked with paint than his hands were, smearing the droplets in every direction, he said, “Tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”