Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

“Sadly, no. He died somewhere off the coast of Ireland a month before the war ended. And his brother died in France. He was a doctor. His heart gave out.”

There was no one, then, to help her.

“I’ll do my best,” Rutledge promised.

“She isn’t guilty. Whatever value you may give to the handkerchief as a clue, she did nothing.” Gooding was speaking rapidly now, trying to say what had to be said before the motorcar stopped. “She had no reason to kill Traynor.”

They were at their destination.

Rutledge got out and helped his prisoner out of the motorcar. He seemed to have aged in the time it had taken to drive to the Yard, his feet stumbling over the verge as he tried to put a good front on what was being done to him.

Rutledge made a note to ask for a suicide watch.

And then he opened the door, nodded to the Duty Sergeant, and began the process of charging Gooding with murder.

Chapter Seventeen

When it was done, when Gooding had been led away, Rutledge went to his office and sat down to look out at the street.

He believed that Markham was trying hard, trying to clear each case as quickly and efficiently as possible. But the city of York was different from the city of London, where the Yard dealt not only with its serious crimes but with those of the country as well.

Hamish said, “What if ye’re wrong, and Gooding is the man ye’re after?”

“There may be a way to find out.”

Rutledge rose and left the Yard, driving toward the southern outskirts, through Surrey, and to the Bennetts’ estate.

He found Mrs. Bennett in the house, the game of croquet long since over, whatever photographs taken and, for all he knew, presently in whatever newspapers had agreed to carry such a story. He himself had seen nothing about it.

She welcomed him, saying that he had come in time for tea and ringing the bell for it.

Rutledge listened once more to her philosophy of helping those who had paid their debts and deserved a second chance to make amends for whatever wrong they had done society and resume a proper role in it.

He said, “Most of these men have a criminal past. Mr. Diaz was in an asylum for attacking two men in their house, while children slept above. He chose not to take up his grievance with them through legal channels. Instead he came armed with a knife and demanded that they deal with him directly. In short, he wanted more than the two men could offer him. He wanted revenge, not justice.”

“I expect it was no better nor worse than the other cases. He couldn’t understand the language, you see, and was probably as frightened as they were when he confronted them. He’s gentle as a lamb now, he loves the gardens, he works so well with Bob. It’s time to put the past away and let him live out his years in comfort. I won’t allow you to hound him, make him confront the younger man he was.”

As if Diaz had done such things as a boy, too young to control temper or bad judgment.

Mrs. Bennett was completely blind to the truth, to what these men were and what they were capable of. Rutledge wondered how her staff viewed her—as a gullible fool they could manipulate or as someone who believed in them. She was counting on gratitude, and it was her bulwark against reality. Why her husband permitted her to go on with this program he couldn’t fathom, unless she controlled him as well.

He said, “I’d like to speak to Diaz once more.”

“No, I shan’t allow you to badger him. He is on my property, he is behaving himself, and I see no reason to bring back the past he’s worked so hard to live down.”

“I don’t wish to badger him, Mrs. Bennett. I should like to tell him that a man has been taken into custody for the crimes I thought he could have committed. It’s only fair that I do so.”

She frowned. “In that case, I’ll have him brought to the house.”

“I think I can find him myself. You needn’t disturb the rest of your staff.”

It took some persuasion, another five or six minutes, but in the end, she let him have his way.

And Rutledge went looking for Diaz.

Hamish said, “If he’s the gardener, ye ken, he could ha’ buried a dozen men in yon flower beds, and none the wiser.”

“God forbid! I shouldn’t like to ask the Acting Chief Superintendent for permission to dig them up.”

Hamish chuckled. “Ye willna’ have a choice.”

Diaz was working in the park leading up to the house, some distance from the drive.

He stopped as he saw Rutledge approaching. The heavy secateurs he was using to lop off dead branches were easily able to cut through the flesh and bone of a man’s arm. He lowered them and waited.

“Where is Bob today? I thought he was your hands,” Rutledge asked in greeting.

“He’s taken the first load of brush down to the fire.” Diaz looked up at the sky. “A fine day for burning. It will rain before dark, and finish the ashes. What is it you want?”

Here in the wood, with no one to overhear them, Diaz seemed to be having very little difficulty with his English. There was no gallery to convince, and Rutledge was sure the man had long since taken his measure.

“I came to tell you that we’ve made an arrest in the disappearance of Mr. French.”

Something stirred in those dark eyes. “Have you indeed?”

Hamish said, “He’s worried. Ye havena’ told him who it is.”

“Yes,” Rutledge said smoothly. “I thought I should inform you of this myself. I’ve already spoken to Mrs. Bennett.”

“She will be pleased.”

“She was, and she was glad that the Yard had come to apologize.”

“Yes.”

“There’s the small problem of where the body has been buried. But we’ll have that out of him in time. The Yard is very good at persuading people to talk.”

Diaz turned away to lay the secateurs in the barrow just behind him. “I have no interest in such matters. It is not my affair.”

“Yes, I understand. We’re having more luck with Mr. Traynor’s body. He was in the war, you see, and we can identify him by his scars. Mr. French wasn’t in France, which makes it more difficult. I’m afraid I can’t give you more details, but it’s enough to say that the Yard has matters in hand.”

“It is no surprise to me.”

“Well, then, I shall bid you a good day.” Rutledge looked up. The high boughs overhead crisscrossed and arched like the groins above the nave of a cathedral. The sky was dull, and where the two men stood was gloomy, giving an impression of privacy, of the rest of the world shut out. “Rain is coming? I’m glad to know that. I left windows open in my flat.”

He turned away, careful to do so in such a way that he didn’t directly show his back to Diaz, but the man kept his distance, and Rutledge walked on, until he was out of sight of the gardener.

He could have sworn that nothing was burning on the property. The wind was light and variable, but it had brought with it no whiff of smoke. Then where was Bob Rawlings?

He had almost reached the drive when he heard someone coming through the trees. Rutledge stepped behind the nearest large trunk, uncertain whether he was being followed or the walker was unaware of his presence.

Waiting patiently, he finally saw the red jumper of a man approaching him not from the direction of the orchard or the back gardens but from the front gates to the estate. He thought at first it must be the man who did the marketing, and then he realized that he was too short, the rhododendrons and other plantings swaying lower as he passed through them.

Rutledge worked his way around the heavy trunk of the tree, staying out of sight, expecting the man to head toward the house. Instead he veered toward where Diaz was working. The faint snap-snap of the secateurs could be heard echoing through this end of the park. Overhead a squirrel began to fuss, and Rutledge stayed very still.