Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

Rutledge said to Hayes, “If you don’t find out about Diaz’s inheritance, then you have done both partners a serious injustice. The police are currently looking at the possibility that Mr. Gooding, the firm’s senior clerk, and his granddaughter have murdered the two men.”

“Mr. Gooding—” Hayes’s intimidating eyebrows shot up with his shock. “But we were counting on him to guide us—his experience—”

“He won’t be there, I assure you.”

“But Mr. Gooding— murder .”

Rutledge had not wanted to bring Gooding’s connection to the inquiry into the conversation, but he had had no choice.

“Scotland Yard has nothing to connect Afonso Diaz to what has happened. He is not in a position, as far as the Yard is concerned, to find and pay a killer. If I can prove otherwise, that he has the money to do this, it will go a long way toward persuading my superiors that he should be scrutinized. By the same token, Mr. French and Miss Whitman have recently ended their engagement. This could be seen in some quarters as a motive for murder.”

“I have met Miss Whitman,” Hayes said starkly, recovering. “If you wish to engage the assistance of my chambers, you will not use her name in this context.”

Rutledge was on the point of replying equally harshly when he stopped himself just in time. Hamish, in the back of his mind, was clamoring for his attention, but he ignored what the voice was saying.

“If you care at all for Miss Whitman, you will not take the risk.”

Hayes considered him. “If I do as you ask, and then I discover that I have been misled, I shall use all the connections accrued in a lifetime of service to the law to see that you are disgraced.”

Rutledge smiled. “You will have to form a queue,” he said with a lightness he was far from feeling.

“All right. I will make the necessary inquiries myself. The elder Mr. Diaz used a firm in Funchal to handle the sale of his property. I can begin there.”

“Thank you.”

“No. I don’t want your gratitude. Where can I reach you when I have learned what you want to know?”

“Call Sergeant Gibson at Scotland Yard. He’ll find me.”

Hayes was surprised. “Very well. I have made a note of it.” He jotted something in a small notebook, then set it aside.

“The Yard will arrest Gooding. Whether he goes to trial or not depends on whether there’s any way to show that Diaz still wants revenge. He’s too old to achieve it firsthand. But he can buy a killer. If there is money, he can reach any number of willing foils. For Gooding’s sake, we had better hope that he has got the funds.”

“And Miss Whitman?”

Rutledge shook his head. “There is circumstantial evidence against her. Who else could have approached Lewis French after he’d quarreled with his sister? He could have driven no farther than the churchyard, to let his temper cool. When she came to speak to him, he’d have got out of the motorcar and faced her. It would have been easy to kill him then.”

“You don’t believe that?”

“No. I doubt the K.C. assigned to try her will believe it either, but he will be charged with convicting her.”

Hayes shook his head. “You are an odd man, Inspector Rutledge.”

“I’ve learned,” Rutledge said, “that sometimes it’s the small things that matter most. Do you know what became of the love child that Howard French was rumored to have had when he was only a young man?”

The hooded eyes considered him. “We have handled no such case for the French family.”

Again that twist of words that solicitors could offer so easily in place of whatever truth they possessed.

Perhaps there was no love child.

But then again, Hayes could be right. Howard French’s father had dealt with the matter on his own, and quite successfully, leaving no records for the future to find. Was that how French himself had learned to deal equally successfully with Afonso Diaz?

“I’ve a dead man and the motorcar that ran him down. But he isn’t French. Who is he? I wish I knew. When I do, I’ll know whether Gooding and his granddaughter or Afonso Diaz is responsible for his death. It would save time—and a great deal of misery for everyone—if you would deal honestly with me,” Rutledge said. He rose and walked to the door.

Hayes made no move to stop him.

Rutledge left his motorcar and walked through the City, aimlessly for the most part.

He had stepped out of bounds, speaking to Belford. And he had more or less coerced Hayes into finding out what he wanted to know. But he’d meant what he said to the solicitor. That going through channels would take six months. He didn’t have six months. Hayes could find the answer in a matter of days. He’d dealt with the solicitor in Funchal before, and while a request to know the contents of the elder Diaz’s Will would appear to be rather odd, Rutledge was sure that Hayes could couch it in terms that seemed reasonable.

And if Rutledge found that Diaz could pay, that murder for hire was possible, then how he had obtained the information was less important than its impact.

Turning, he retraced his steps to the motorcar, the sun warm on his back, his mind clearer. Except for Hamish, whose Covenanter soul was never comfortable with supping with the devil.

Chapter Sixteen

His forty-eight hours at an end, Rutledge presented himself at the door of Markham’s office and, after the briefest hesitation, resolutely knocked.

“Come,” the Acting Chief Superintendent said, his tone of voice indicating that he was busy.

Rutledge stepped inside the door. “Inspector Rutledge reporting, sir,” he said when Markham didn’t immediately look up.

When he did, he pushed back his chair and gestured to the one opposite. “That business in Staffordshire? The police there found the murderer this morning, just before dawn. He was asleep, mind you. Soundly asleep after what he’d done. I can’t fathom it, can you?”

As he knew next to nothing about events in Staffordshire, Rutledge could offer only “No, sir.”

“Well,” Markham said, setting aside the papers in front of him. “What are we to do about Essex?”

“I’ve told you my feeling on that score, sir. We should investigate Diaz.”

“Yes, yes, you’ve made that clear. But I think we must act on what we know, rather than speculate about an old man’s dreams of vengeance. I looked over your interview of the doctor at the clinic. He saw no reason to keep the man locked up. And he’s the professional viewpoint. I don’t hold with all this mumbo jumbo from Austria, delving into a man’s mind. But the good doctor has dealt with Diaz for what? Years? And I should think that by now he’d know Diaz better than his own mother and possibly more objectively. We must accept his opinion and go forward from there.”

He reached for a file, opened it, and went on. “Did Gibson tell you? The trunk in Portsmouth is empty of bodies. It contained the clothing of a gentleman traveling home. But that was good thinking on your part. A clever way to take a body off the ship without being noticed. But I’d like to know. If Traynor had been in that trunk, who killed him? Gooding was on shore, mind you. He couldn’t have done it. Would you lay the killing at Diaz’s door?”

“He hasn’t left Surrey. But I should think he could have had murder done.”

“If that had been the case, I’d be forced to agree with you. But Traynor was not in that trunk, and he isn’t aboard the ship. And Gooding was intending to meet him when he arrived in England.”

“Put that way, I must agree with you.”

“Yes. So here we are. Mr.Traynor missing. Gooding very likely the last person to see him alive. And once Traynor is quietly out of the picture, Gooding can turn his attention to ridding himself of French, if he hasn’t already. What we don’t know is how involved the granddaughter is. Certainly it appears that she had driven French’s motorcar at some point. To the quarry, most likely. And then she went home with her bicycle, only she was clever enough not to claim it at the other end of the line. She could walk home if need be. Less likely to be noticed, I should think.”