Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

“And he seemed to be acting naturally when he was seen moving about the ship? Nothing to show that he was fearful or worried?”

“So it appears, sir.”

“Call them back. Ask them to open that trunk. Locked or not.”

There was a moment of silence, then Gibson said, “You think he might be inside?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“Sad to say, sir, they have.”

When the sergeant had disconnected, Rutledge called the Yard a second time, asking for Fielding. But he was not in.

Hamish said, “Twa men, partners in the same firm, missing. It’s no’ likely to be coincidence.”

“No,” Rutledge said. “But how did anyone here in England reach Traynor on that ship?”

“Ye ken, it wasna’ necessary. They had only to wait for him to disembark.”

Which eliminated Diaz, if he had never left the house in Surrey.

But Traynor would have gone with Gooding. He knew the man and trusted him.

The question then was, why not take the trunk and valises with them? It would have been easy enough to drop them into the Thames later. Possibly along with Traynor’s body.

Still, it was foolish to kill both partners so close together, drawing down suspicion on the heads of whoever had done it. Unless it was feared that when the partners got together, some discrepancy in accounts or other misdeeds would come to light.

Back to Gooding.

Rutledge rose, went to the door, and called. The clerk came out of one of the other offices and said, “Did you reach the Yard?”

“They confirmed your account. What I don’t understand is why anyone would wish to kill both partners. I can see that one might wish to be rid of the other; it happens. Still, the two men serve very different purposes. One manages London, the other Madeira.”

“You haven’t found the body of either man,” Gooding pointed out quietly.

“Not yet,” Rutledge agreed.

“Until you do, I refuse to give up hope.”

“Can you continue to manage the firm without them?”

“Not for an extended period, no.”

“What about Miss French? Does she have any authority to act on behalf of her brother and cousin?”

“I don’t know, sir. The question has never arisen. She’s never been to Madeira. She knows nothing about that side of the business, or how the wine is made.”

“There must be managers there. Otherwise Mr. Traynor couldn’t have left.”

“There are. But Mr. French and Mr. Traynor were body and soul of the firm, like their fathers before them. It’s different, their roles. It’s what’s kept this firm alive since the time of Mr. Howard. He was a very unusual man, Mr. Howard. It’s his legacy, you see. And he laid it out for his heirs to follow.”

Listening to the clerk, listening for any indication that he was capable of taking over French, French &Traynor, Rutledge heard only a man’s concern for something he’d given his own life to. But then he’d be stupid to crow too soon . . .

It was the nature of his business, Rutledge thought, to be suspicious. To weigh every expression and every word, to watch the eyes and the way the body betrayed itself. To listen to the voice, a change of tone as a person lied. And still, he would have sworn that Gooding was sincere.

But this had been a very clever scheme, whoever was behind it. And he found himself thinking that Gooding had to be a clever man, intelligent and capable, to have kept his place at French, French & Traynor for so many years.

He said, filling the silence that had fallen, “There’s no more we can do tonight. I’ll drive you home.”

Gooding took out his ring of keys and began to lock the door to his office. He said as Rutledge watched, “My granddaughter has written to me.”

“Indeed?”

“She has told me about the handkerchief. While many were made for her, I’m sure Miss Delaney used the same patterns for others.”

“She’s dead,” Rutledge said baldly. “And the woman in the shop didn’t seem to think it was likely, as these were particular clients—ones who regularly ordered their favorite patterns. There were other choices available to those who came in off the street.”

He saw Gooding glance at the portraits as they made their way to the outer door. The man said, as he turned the last key, “She isn’t a murderer. But I suppose now, with Mr. Traynor missing as well, you will consider me one as well.”

“Tell me where else I should look,” Rutledge answered him, his voice sharper than he intended it to be.

“I don’t know. I would have said that the partners had nothing to fear from anyone. But I see too that this business is hard on the heels of Mr. French deciding not to marry Valerie. It smacks of revenge. The truth is, I was glad he changed his mind. They wouldn’t have suited. She might have been happy with Mr. Michael. He was a good man. But not with Mr. Lewis.”

“Why?”

Gooding got into the motorcar as Rutledge turned the crank. His words were nearly lost as the motor turned over and caught.

“Mr. Lewis wanted someone like his sister, compliant, willing to remain in the background when not required to act as hostess. I’m afraid Valerie has more mettle. Still, she was the granddaughter of a clerk in his firm, regardless of the fact that her father was a Naval officer and came from a very fine family. Miss Townsend is the daughter of a doctor. She has been under her father’s thumb and will accept Mr. French’s will as her own.” He gave Rutledge directions to his house in Kensington, then said, “If you take me into custody, what will become of the firm? I have to ask. The junior clerks are not— They don’t have the experience to deal with unexpected problems.”

“There appear to be no other suspects. According to you, the Medea came in on a Saturday morning. You could have met the ship and dealt with Traynor without anyone suspecting that he’d landed. Unless you have someone who can vouch for where you were that morning.”

“I live alone.” Gooding took a deep breath. “Well. There is nothing to be done. But I will not let you touch Valerie. She has done nothing wrong. If I must choose between her and the firm, I will not hesitate.”

“She was in St. Hilary when Lewis French disappeared. Were you?”

Gooding opened his mouth, then shut it again. Which, Rutledge assumed, meant that there were witnesses who could answer that question—one way or the other—and the man was not going to give the Yard their names.

Hamish said, “Ye’ve driven him into a corner. It’s no’ wise.”

But Rutledge had already shown the clerk the forces arrayed against him. And that too had been unwise. He said, as they approached the street where Gooding lived, “If you do something foolish, you will not be here to protect her when the burden of guilt falls on her. And as an officer of Scotland Yard, I cannot.”

“I have no wish to kill myself. I can still hope that one or the other of my employers will turn up alive and well.”

“There’s still the dead man from Chelsea.”

“Ah yes. But he cannot be laid at my door. Or Valerie’s. Not until you know who he is.”

With that the man got out of the motorcar, crisply thanked Rutledge for bringing him home, and went inside his dark house without looking back.

Lights bloomed in the entry and then in a room left of the door, and Rutledge, watching Gooding’s progress through the house, wondered if he was suddenly afraid of the dark.

Acting Chief Superintendent Markham, weighing the facts at ten the next morning, shook his head. “There’s no alternative but to bring in both Miss Whitman and her grandfather.”

“There appears to be none,” Rutledge agreed. “But we’ve got a body without a name or a past, while the two missing men haven’t turned up alive or dead. How do we charge Miss Whitman or Mr. Gooding, if there is no proof that a crime has been committed? At least not yet.”