Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

“Miss Townsend,” he said, removing his hat.

“Mr. Rutledge? Have you found Lewis? Is that why you’re still in Dedham?”

“Sadly no, I haven’t caught up with him,” he told her. “I’d hoped he would come to London, if not return to Essex. But there’s been no word.”

Her expression had been hopeful. Now it fell into worried lines. “But what’s become of him? Men don’t just disappear. His friends—surely he would be staying with someone. I can’t imagine—”

But the trouble was, she could. When he said nothing, she went on. “Is he— Do you think he might be having second thoughts about our engagement? Is he worried because of my father? I know he’s strict, I know he is overly protective of me.”

With an assurance he didn’t feel, Rutledge said, “I don’t believe his disappearance is connected with you, Miss Townsend. Rather, I think it has a great deal to do with his firm.”

“Do you really? Thank you, that’s so comforting to hear. Thank you, Mr. Rutledge. And if you do find him, will you ask him to write to me as soon as possible? Until I hear, I’ll worry.”

“I promise,” he said, and she hurried away, her step lighter, as if she believed him.

He watched her go, then turned briskly back to the inn, his mind made up.

After giving up his room, he drove directly to the French house.

His knock was answered by the maid, Nan.

“Miss French isn’t receiving this afternoon,” she told him firmly.

“I needn’t speak to her. I’d like to borrow a photograph of Miss Whitman. A recent one if you have it. Will you please ask Miss French if this is possible?”

From down the passage came Agnes French’s voice.

“The one in the right-hand drawer of Mr. Lewis’s desk, Nan.”

The maid turned in her direction, but over her shoulder Rutledge saw the door behind which Miss French had been listening shut.

“Just a moment, if you please,” Nan said and closed the outer door quietly.

In three minutes she was back, and in her hands was a silver frame. She passed it to him. “Miss French would appreciate it if you returned this when you have no further need of it.”

He told her he would and left. It was not until he was outside the gates that he looked at it.

Black-and-white imagery didn’t do her justice. Without the fascinating color of her hair and the ever-changing color of her eyes, Valerie Whitman was just a rather ordinary girl, pretty because she was young, but of no particular attraction.

He turned the photograph facedown on the seat next to him.

Hamish said, “Did ye expect it would be sae different?”

Rutledge replied, “I don’t think I considered it at all.”

“Aye, and pigs fly.”

Chapter Thirteen

Rutledge made good time to London, and he arrived at French, French & Traynor just as Gooding was locking the door for the night.

Rutledge called to him. “Can I give you a lift?”

The senior clerk hesitated, then said, “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

He got into the motorcar and heaved a sigh. “You’ve come more quickly than I expected,” he said. “Still, we could have talked in my office.”

“Yes, I’m sure that would have been best. Why were you expecting me?”

“Didn’t they tell you at the Yard? I called because I’ve had word of Mr. Traynor. I reported it as soon as I’d heard.”

Traynor. The other partner in the firm. Expected any day from Portugal.

“Yes, all right. Tell me.”

“We’ve been waiting for word regarding his arrival. With Mr. French still missing, I thought it best— Several days ago I took it upon myself to contact our representative in Lisbon. I had a response today. Mr. Traynor had indeed left Madeira and arrived in Lisbon. Political matters in Portugal are rather uncertain at present, and he and Mr. French had agreed it would be wise to take certain steps to protect the firm’s interests.”

“What interests?”

“Primarily banking. Mr. Traynor saw to it that the bulk of our funds in Lisbon were transferred to an account here in London, but there was also some concern about the reliability of shipping if the situation grew worse. That too has been resolved. According to our man of business, Mr. Traynor then arranged to travel on to London, and he sailed three weeks ago. It doesn’t take three weeks to reach England from Lisbon.”

“Go on.”

“He’d taken passage on a Greek vessel bound for Portsmouth. Our man of business saw him off, and that’s the last word we’ve had of him. I contacted the shipping line’s agent in Portsmouth. There’s no doubt Mr. Traynor came aboard. In fact he had dinner with the captain on his first night. When the Medea docked in Portsmouth on Saturday morning, as scheduled, Mr. Traynor’s luggage was in his cabin, ready to be taken ashore along with that of others disembarking, and there was a gratuity for the cabin steward in an envelope. When it was discovered several hours later that the luggage hadn’t been claimed, it was put into storage. A trunk and two valises. Meanwhile the cabin Mr. Traynor occupied was cleaned for passengers just coming aboard, and all was in order.”

It was a clear and concise report.

Rutledge turned to stare at Gooding. “Was he carrying the firm’s money from the Lisbon bank?”

“No, sir, that came through channels while he was still in Lisbon, as it should have done. But where has Mr. Traynor got to? He hasn’t come here, he hasn’t arrived at the London house—he’s simply vanished. With this information in hand, I contacted the Yard today and asked for you. In fact, I stayed late in the hope that you were making sure my information was correct before coming here tonight.”

Rutledge, still sitting in the motorcar in front of French, French & Traynor, asked Gooding to repeat every detail.

Then he said, “Have you been to Portsmouth yourself?”

“No, I haven’t. I felt it would be better to let Scotland Yard see to it.”

“And you’re quite certain the dead man you were taken to see is not Mr. Traynor.” But, Rutledge told himself, the timing would be off.

“He hasn’t been home since the war, sir, but I’d know him anywhere. I’ve known him since he was born.”

“Have you spoken to Miss French?”

“Indeed, sir, I saw no reason to worry her.”

“I’ve been away from the Yard all day. I’d like to use the telephone in your office, if you don’t mind. It will save time.”

Gooding got down, unlocked the door, and led the way to his office. Rutledge, sitting in the chair behind the man’s desk and reaching for the telephone, said, “If you’ll leave me here for a few minutes?”

“Of course.” The clerk withdrew, quietly closing the door behind him with the skill of a trained butler.

Rutledge’s first call was to Sergeant Gibson, who reiterated what Gooding had just told Rutledge. “The information is on your desk, sir. You’d already left Dedham when Mr. Gooding contacted the Yard.”

“Has anyone spoken to the harbormaster in Portsmouth?”

“Yes, sir,” Gibson reported. “The missing man disembarked—he wasn’t onboard when his cabin was cleaned—and his luggage was off-loaded with that of the rest of the departing passengers. When no one claimed it, it was put into storage. A trunk and two valises.”

“And every other passenger on the manifest is accounted for.”

“Yes, sir. I asked specifically. The records showed that Mr. Traynor had dined at the captain’s table the first night out, dined alone the second evening. The night before they docked at six in the morning, the purser saw Mr. Traynor on deck, smoking a cigarette. He spoke to Traynor, who told him he was watching for landfall, because he hadn’t been back to England since before the war. The purser didn’t see him disembark, as he was busy about his duties, but Traynor’s cabin when it was cleaned showed signs of orderly preparation for departure, and no indication of struggle or any other problem. It was assumed he had gone ashore as expected.”