Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

“On suspicion of murder. It may be that they’ll tell us what we need to know, if only to avoid the hangman.”

Rutledge was once more fighting a rearguard action. But there was nothing else he could do.

He said, “There’s Miss French. She has lived in the shadow of her brother and her cousin and the firm for as long as she can remember. She wouldn’t have been the only woman to decide that she would like to take charge of her future.”

“She has staff. You’ve said as much yourself.”

“I’ve yet to determine whether that staff is loyal to her or to her brother, who pays their wages.”

“All right then, find out. But don’t dawdle over it. I’ll give you forty-eight hours.”

“Meanwhile, if Sergeant Gibson could ask if any other unclaimed bodies turned up the weekend that Traynor landed in Portsmouth, or after French was reported missing, it might make our task easier.”

“Fair enough. But that’s all the time I’m giving you. There’s a matter in Staffordshire that could well require an Inspector from the Yard. I want you available.”

Rutledge thanked him and left.

Markham was running the Yard as he had run his Yorkshire police, taking the lead in examining and solving each case. Without the personal contact with witnesses and suspects, depending on his own instincts to interpret what he read in reports.

He was not likely to succeed in London for very long. But Markham wasn’t Rutledge’s immediate problem.

Forty-eight hours. That would hardly see him to Essex and back.

He felt trapped.

Hamish said as Rutledge walked into his own office and closed the door, “Ye ken, he didna’ give you any more time on purpose.”

And that was very likely the case.

Rutledge had warned Gooding. That was all he could do.

Traynor’s disappearance put paid to any focus of attention on Diaz. The point could be made that Diaz had never threatened Traynor’s family and had had no reason to attack them because it was Howard French who had bought the Diaz property for his vineyards. The Traynors had come into the firm in the next generation.

There was still Fielding and his search for the owner of the bicycle. Rutledge had stopped by the Yard the night before, after setting Gooding down, and left the photograph of Valerie Whitman on the sergeant’s desk.

Unable to sit still, he got up and went in search of Fielding. He was told that the sergeant had come in early and then left again.

With the photograph, surely.

Rutledge went back to his own office and sat there staring out the window, waiting for the sergeant to report.

But it was after three o’clock in the afternoon when Fielding finally appeared. He was out of breath from taking the stairs two at a time, his face slightly flushed.

“The man on the luggage van that night—when the bicycle was brought to him—was back in London today. I showed him the photograph. He was quite taken with it. He thought the woman in it had very likely left the bicycle. It was ticketed as far as Thetford, and no one has claimed it. It’s still there.”

“He was certain—or thought it very likely.”

“I don’t know. To tell you the truth, he’d said the woman’s hair was brown, he thought. And it looks brown in the photograph. He thought her eyes were brown. And they look brown in the photograph. She was pretty. And she appears to be pretty in the photograph.”

“Her coloring is rather different. Her eyes, for one, are hazel.”

“Yes, well, in a hurry in a poorly lit station, they could have seemed to be brown.”

“He must see hundreds of people every week. Why should he remember her, that long ago?”

“He says, because the bicycle fell and broke his Thermos of tea.”

“I can see that that might stay in his memory. But the person, after the fact?”

“Yes, I take your point. Still, he says it’s Miss Whitman, and there’s nothing to be done about it.”

“And he’s willing to swear that he saw this woman, that she handed over the bicycle?”

“I’ve sent a constable to take his statement.”

“What was she wearing?”

“Dark clothes. That’s all he remembers.”

Rutledge took a deep breath. “You must give this information to Markham.”

“Yes, I know.” Fielding frowned. “Is— I need to ask you, sir. Is this woman a friend of yours?”

“I met her for the first time when I interviewed her in St. Hilary.”

Fielding’s face cleared. “Well, then. I’ll be about my duty. As soon as Constable Dean brings me the van guard’s statement, I’ll take it directly to the Acting Chief Superintendent.”

“There’s one other link I need to be clear about. Hold up that statement until I get back, will you?”

“If you say so.”

“What I intend to learn could reinforce the guard’s statement.”

“Yes, of course. That’s sensible. I’ll hold off, then.”

“Thank you.”

Rutledge waited until Fielding had gone, then quietly left the Yard. He met no one in the passage or on the stairs, and felt like a felon slinking out to his motorcar. He had forty-three hours, and he intended to use every one of them.

Chapter Fourteen

He drove as fast as he dared, but a storm broke just north of London, and he was forced to pull over. Wind tossed tree limbs, littering the streets of the village with leaves and puddles of heavy rain when it came. He could feel the shoulder of his coat getting wet and raced for the door of a tea shop while he could, watching the storm from its windows, then asking for a cup of tea until it passed.

Frustrated at the loss of a precious hour, Rutledge lost another where a tree had been blown down across the road, sent around on a detour that seemed to go on forever before it led him back to the main road.

Finally the outskirts of Dedham were in sight, and the sun came out. He drove on to Thetford, and at the station asked to see the bicycle in Left Luggage.

It was a lady’s bicycle, black and ordinary. He had wasted time coming to see it.

Thanking the man behind the grille, he turned back toward Dedham, then went on to St. Hilary.

He stopped first at the French house, and it was late enough that Nan answered the door herself.

He hadn’t considered how he would approach the maid. It was not something that he could simply walk in and ask. How loyal are you to your mistress? Would you cover up a murder for her sake? Would you go so far as to act as an accomplice? And where have you hidden the body of her brother?

With Hamish humming in the back of his mind, Rutledge smiled. “It’s late, I’m afraid, but it’s rather important—”

“Miss French has already gone up to bed, sir. Unless it’s urgent. She’s been that upset, hearing that her cousin is missing as well. Mr. Gooding informed her this morning.”

“I understand. As a matter of fact, it’s you I’ve come to speak to.”

“Me, sir?”

“Just a few questions that could help us in our search for Mr. French.”

“Anything I can do, sir.”

“Tell me again about the night Mr. French left.”

“There’s not much to tell. He came down to dinner as usual, and afterward he and Miss French had a few words in the study. I don’t know what it was about, but it ended with Mr. French going upstairs to change to his driving clothes, and then I heard the door slam behind him.”

“What did Miss French do?”

“She was in the sitting room, and she ran out after him. I don’t know what was said. The motorcar drove away, but she didn’t come in. I went out to look for her after a while, and she was in the little Greek temple, and she was crying. I asked her to come in out of the night air. She refused, said she thought he would come back and she wanted to wait. She dismissed me, but I got up again close to two o’clock, and she was in bed.”