Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

“I was about to stop anyway. Now’s as good a time as any.”

“Someone said to me not long ago that Dedham was too pretty a town to harbor murder. Does St. Hilary seem as charmed as Dedham?”

“I don’t know that either of them is charmed in that way. Even beauty can cover a multitude of sins. Yet for all you know, the murderer is waiting to be discovered in London.”

“Would it were that easy.” But Rutledge reminded himself of the clerk, Gooding. Could he have tried to murder Lewis French? Because of his granddaughter? If true, it might go a long way toward explaining why French was afraid to show himself, if he was still alive. The flaw was, Gooding wasn’t a young man. Was he still capable physically of putting a deadweight into the motorcar, driving all night to London, leaving a body in Chelsea, then walking away from the Surrey chalk pit and bicycling back to London? Surely he’d need an accomplice.

Rutledge could hear again Miss French’s angry accusation: You’ll make excuses and look for flaws in the evidence, and put off taking her into custody.

Realizing that Williams had already gone inside and was holding the door for him, he shook himself mentally and followed the curate into the tidy kitchen.

There had been a woman’s touch here once. The faded but still pretty curtains patterned with bunches of cabbage roses on a cream background that matched the cream walls gave an unexpected warmth to the plain room. He took the chair the curate offered and watched the man’s deft preparation of their tea. Rutledge decided that the curate had been a bachelor for some time and liked his comforts.

“Did Lewis French ever come to you with a troubled mind? Especially over his decision not to marry Valerie Whitman?”

The curate, his attention on counting spoonsful of loose tea into the china pot, shook his head. Finishing, he said, “He might have spoken to my predecessor, if he were still here. He was older, you see. Someone with whom French might have felt comfortable discussing his feelings.”

“And Miss Whitman? Did she confide in you when she was jilted?”

Color ran up into the curate’s face again. “No. But this I can tell you about her. She has enormous strength of character. I’ve seen it. She came to Sunday services the day after she had agreed to end her engagement to French. And she sat there, knowing the gossip going on behind people’s hands, the speculation, the questions. Then when French announced his engagement to Miss Townsend, she endured their pity. I asked her why, when I saw her that same afternoon, why she hadn’t stayed at home. She told me, ‘It will be over sooner if they can see me. If I hide in the shadows, it will only encourage them to wonder how I felt.’ ”

It was clear that Williams was half—probably wholly—in love with Valerie Whitman.

“And Miss French? What did she have to say?”

“You’ve met her. You know how forthright she can be.” Pouring water from the kettle into the pot, the curate kept his face turned away from Rutledge. “I heard her tell someone that her brothers never asked her opinion on any subject, least of all their love affairs.”

It was callous and very much in Miss French’s style.

As he set a cup in front of Rutledge, and put the sugar bowl and milk jug to hand, Williams said, “I’m afraid we got off the subject. What did you come to see me about?”

“Actually I already have asked you about that. The man Diaz.”

“Oh. Well, then I’m sorry I couldn’t help.”

“You said you believed French was dead. What makes you think so? Aside from the fact that he hasn’t made any attempt to contact anyone.”

“I was thinking about it the other day after speaking to Miss French. She was buying a small stone. It looked extraordinarily like a rough-hewn tombstone. I asked her what it was for, and she said she felt she should add a little something to her rose garden. That it lacked perspective. I thought that rather odd, and afterward wondered if perhaps she has indirectly faced the fact that her brother is not coming home.”

“Why a tombstone for a garden, then, if there will eventually be one in the churchyard?”

“You must ask Miss French. It might have been nothing more than my own fancy.”

Rutledge hadn’t noticed a stone when he was there. Had Miss French changed her mind about it after her conversation with the curate? Or was it still waiting to be placed?

When they had finished their tea, Rutledge asked one final question.

“What did you feel when the engagement between French and Miss Whitman was called off?”

“I was glad, to tell you the truth. I didn’t think they suited at all.”

“Is it possible he had a change of heart and decided he wished to marry her after all?” Someone had left—or put—her handkerchief in that motorcar, and if Valerie Whitman believed French was having second thoughts, she might have gone for a drive with him. “Would she, you think, have wanted to marry him still?”

Williams shook his head. “That’s unlikely. No, I can’t imagine that. She’s quite proud, you know. She wouldn’t have him back.”

If French had had a seizure and hit someone on the road, would Miss Whitman have helped him conceal it? Rutledge wanted to ask the curate that as well, but in the end decided that the man wasn’t able to look at Miss Whitman objectively.

Rutledge said, “Thank you for the tea. And the conversation.”

“Anytime. Although it might speed up my work if you took up a brush after all.”

The words were lighthearted, but Rutledge could see the worry in the curate’s eyes. “Look in London, Inspector. St. Hilary isn’t hiding a murderer.”

London had left a message for him. The clerk at the Sun’s desk called to him as he walked in and said, “Mr. Rutledge. Could you ring Scotland Yard as soon as possible?”

He thanked the man and went into the telephone closet.

It was Gibson who answered this time. “Fielding is speaking to someone at the railway station. He’s asking for a photograph of Miss Whitman. Do you know where one can be had on short notice? It appears to be urgent.”

There was Gooding, of course. But Rutledge would have preferred to speak to him first. And Miss French might well have a photograph, but it would be here in Essex, not London. He thought for several seconds.

“The housekeeper at French’s London house. A photograph of the happy couple on their engagement? She might know of something like that.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll send a man round straightaway,” Gibson said and rang off.

A photograph. And needed urgently. That did not bode well for Miss Whitman.

Rutledge went out into the street, walking without any direction in mind, just . . . walking. He paused at the square to watch the construction going on there, realized that this was to be Dedham’s war memorial, and quickly moved on.

He had only a matter of hours. How best to spend them? Where could he find new information that would offset what the luggage van man would most surely say? Or the ticket agent in his kiosk.

Where would Afonso Diaz go to find a killer for hire?

Bob Rawlings? The undergardener with the belligerent attitude? Or one of the other staff, hiding the fact that he knew someone who had killed before and would for the right price kill again? For that matter, where had Diaz found the money to pay such a person?

It was a dead end. There was nowhere left to go with the inquiry into Afonso Diaz, no matter how promising it had seemed in the beginning.

Then why, Rutledge asked himself, had he felt so sure that it was worth pursuing?

Wishful thinking? Or sheer instinct?

Someone spoke to him, and he came out of his reverie to see French’s fiancée standing in front of him, smiling.