Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

Doyle, still minutely examining the motorcar, said, “Yes, sir, I’ll pass the word.”

Rutledge walked on to the Belford house and knocked at the door. A housemaid answered and showed him into a small parlor. It was rather formal: dark blue and cream, the drapes dark, lined with the lighter color, the carpet the reverse, cream with a dark blue pattern, the chairs covered in a shade that complemented the drapes. Still, it had the appearance of being well used, as if the owner preferred it in the evening to the drawing room.

Within less than a minute after the housemaid had left Rutledge there, Belford came into the room.

He was a man of medium height, with iron gray hair and a trim mustache. There was an air about him that would have suited an earl, and he said without waiting for Rutledge to speak, “I’ve told Constable Doyle all I can about last night and sent out Miller with my motorcar. What is it now?”

There was neither irritation not curiosity in his voice, only impatience.

“I’m Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard,” he answered easily. “I understand that you saw nothing unusual when you returned to your house last night a little after midnight.”

“That’s true.”

“The dead man was lying on the far side of the road. Could you have missed him? You were driving yourself, I understand.”

“I was. And I would most certainly have noticed a corpse on my street.”

“And your footman returned the motorcar to the mews where you keep it?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Can you be certain that he didn’t strike the man?”

“Miller? He would have told me.”

But would he have? Still, there was no damage to the vehicle.

“Before the body is taken away, I’d like to have you look at the victim and tell me if you recognize him. He could well be a neighbor, although Constable Meadows didn’t know him.”

“Very well.” Belford turned on his heel, led the way out the door and through the foyer to the street, not waiting to see if Rutledge was following. The body had just been put into the rear of the van when Belford reached it, and he said, “Show me the man.”

The driver hesitated, looked over his shoulder at Rutledge, who nodded once, and then uncovered the face of the corpse.

Belford peered at it intently, as if to memorize the dead man’s features, then turned to Rutledge. “I have never seen him before. I can be quite sure about that.”

“Can you?” Rutledge asked as the hearse’s driver waited for permission to cover the body again.

“Absolutely. He does not live on this street, he did not serve under me in the war, he does not move in circles that I frequent, and I can think of no other occasion when he should have come to my attention.”

“Thank you, Mr. Belford.” Rutledge gestured to the driver, who nodded, dealt with the corpse, and shut the doors of the hearse.

Belford stepped to one side, waited until the hearse was driving away, and then said, “I should like to know what he was doing here, on this street.”

“There is no identification on the body,” Rutledge said. “We have no idea who the man is, where he lives, or what brought him here.”

“Then I can be of no further service to you.” With a brisk nod, Belford walked away. But he’d taken no more than a half-dozen steps when he turned and said, “Constable Doyle said the man was dragged some ten feet. I should think that would indicate an intent on the driver’s part to see his victim dead.”

“We haven’t determined whether he was or not,” Rutledge replied. “Constable Meadows could find no evidence of dragging after he discovered the body. But judging from the scrapes on the man’s face and the state of his clothing, it struck him as very likely.”

“Then you must take your inquiry elsewhere,” Belford said with some satisfaction. “Because the likelihood is that the dead man was not killed on this street at all, but brought here and left for someone to find.”

Rutledge studied Belford for a moment. “That’s an interesting supposition. What evidence is there to support it?”

“See for yourself, Inspector. He appeared to have been dragged after he was struck by the motorcar, but you can find no marks on the street, no tracks where his heels dug in or his body disturbed the dust. Nor does there appear to be any blood where he was found. Therefore he must have been dead for some time before he was left here. He’s not a resident of this street, and he couldn’t have been leaving a dinner party at that hour because he isn’t dressed for dining out. Those are more country clothes, in my opinion. Your men are going house to house, and if you came to call on me, then asked me to identify the victim if I could, you have had no success thus far. My motorcar bears out the fact that I have not run anyone down. Nor, clearly, has my footman. The question you must now ask yourself is, who wanted this man dead, and who brought him here after killing him elsewhere? I have no enemies who could have done that to embarrass me, and I think you’ll find that this will also hold true for my neighbors, when you have interviewed the remaining residents here and those in the streets on either side of this one. Now I have other matters to attend to, and I will leave you to your own work.”

Rutledge took out the watch. “This was in his vest pocket.” He held it by the chain, and it twisted for a moment before stopping, the early morning sun reflecting from the gold case. “Is there anything about it that strikes you?”

Belford reached out to touch the watch with the tip of his finger, turning the face his way. “You’ve looked inside for an inscription?”

“Yes.”

“It’s French, of course. And expensive. A gentleman’s watch, I should think, possibly inherited, because of its age. That’s all I can tell you.”

This time when he turned away, Belford continued to walk on toward his house without looking back, shoulders straight, head high, like the officer he must have been in the war. Rutledge had met officers like him, disciplined, fair, but strict observers of the rules. He found it interesting that the man had chosen not to use the honorific of his rank after returning to civilian life. For that matter, it would be interesting to know just what rank he’d held in the war.

Behind Rutledge, Constable Meadows was saying, “He makes a very good point, sir.”

He did, Rutledge thought. Observant, concise in his interpretation of what he’d seen, Belford had told Scotland Yard how to proceed. But Rutledge himself had reached the same conclusion. If the dead man had not been lying here by the side of the street when Mr. Belford returned home, he must certainly have been killed elsewhere, and someone had had time before daylight to rid himself of the body.

No identification. No business, as Belford had put it, in this street. And no sign of blood in the roadway to show where he’d died.

But Belford had driven here from somewhere. He could have brought the body this far, and left it to be found by a neighbor or the constable on his rounds. A cloth could wipe away any bloodstains on the leather seats. But that brought Rutledge back to the condition of the motorcar’s exterior.

Rutledge turned to Meadows. “How well do you know Mr. Belford?”

“He keeps himself to himself. Money—there’s a staff there, footman, two maids, cook, housekeeper, and valet. And never a minute’s trouble. I should know, I’ve been here ten years myself.”

“Which isn’t to say that Mr. Belford doesn’t have another life outside Chelsea.”

“True enough, I expect. But I’ve never got wind of it.”

Rutledge nodded. “The first order of business is to identify our body. Only then can we be certain he has had no interaction with Mr. Belford. When you and the other constables have finished speaking to everyone on this street, and you have no more information than you possess right now, begin on the adjacent streets, working your way toward the river. If there’s a connection with this part of London, we must find it before going farther afield. If there isn’t, then perhaps the watch will open up other avenues.”