Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

Agnes French’s disgruntled voice carried on the still morning air, and he could hear every word. As all the neighbors on either side of the cottage must surely have done as well.

“It wasn’t enough to take Michael’s love, and then Lewis’s,” she was saying, “you must kill my brother as well. Oh yes, I’ve heard from London. It’s all quite true, your grandfather has been taken up by the police. And I want to see you taken up as well, as his accomplice. Because you must have been. He’s too old, Gooding is, to best Lewis, even with his seizures. He had to have help. I’ve come to ask for my brother’s body so that I can bury him decently where he belongs. I won’t take no for an answer. I’ll stand here on your doorstep until you tell me.” Her voice had risen hysterically, until she was almost shouting.

Valerie Whitman, her face as white as the door she held open with one hand, the other raised a little as if to ward off a blow, stood there listening to the diatribe, uncertain how to answer the charges hurled at her.

“I don’t know anything about Lewis—” she began, but Miss French cut her short.

“Don’t lie to me. You and Gooding were always close, thick as thieves. He’ll not tell the police, but he must have told you. Or did you help to dig the grave? Tell me, where is my brother? ”

Rutledge thought for an instant that Miss French was about to seize Valerie Whitman’s shoulders and shake her.

Crossing the churchyard at speed, oblivious of the traps for unwary feet, he came over the stone wall and across the street.

Miss French turned as Valerie Whitman looked his way, her eyes pleading and then dark with fright.

“He’s come to arrest you,” Agnes French shrieked. “I knew it.”

He opened the gate, came up the walk, and said to Miss French, “That’s enough. Go home and mourn your brother there. If you know anything about the firm, go to London and help them sort out what to do now. This is no place for you.”

She was about to protest, her cheeks a mottled red in her anger, when he held up his hand.

“No. This is not where you should be. She’s not involved. Her grandfather’s statement has cleared her.”

But for how long? Hamish was demanding, loud in the back of Rutledge’s mind.

How long before the police too were at her door?

Rutledge ignored him. “Shall I drive you home, Miss French? You’re very distraught.”

“I want her to tell me where to find my brother. I want to know how he died. I want to bring him home.”

“You never got on with him when he was there,” Miss Whitman said. “You can hardly make demands of me in his name.”

“I loved my brother, which is more than you can say.”

Rutledge said, “Miss Whitman, go inside. Miss French, I’ll be happy to drive you home.”

She burst into tears then, angry, volatile tears, and stamped down the path, shaking off his arm.

“I’ll make her life wretched until I get what I want,” she said, slamming the gate back on its hinges. “I will destroy her. That clerk has told me that I am head of French, French and Traynor now, and I will use the power of that position to run her out of St. Hilary. I’ll see that she’s left to beg on the road, her name anathema to decent people—”

“Stop it,” Rutledge said sternly.

Startled, she stared at him. “Does she have you twisted around her little finger too? How am I not surprised? A pretty face, and even an Inspector from Scotland Yard loses his wits.”

It was his turn to want to shake her until she stopped, but he couldn’t touch her. All he could do was place himself between her and the target of her wrath, forcing her away from the cottage.

She was still furiously angry, unable to stop herself. He could only hope that before they had gone too far, she would wear out her anger and herself.

She raged at him when they were out of hearing of the cottage, shouting at him to do his duty and tell her where her brother was, unaware of the spectacle she presented. Her plain face was distorted, blotchy still, and tears had made tracks through the light dusting of powder that a woman wore when outside her home.

And then, as if a lamp had been turned off, the rage ended. She seemed to know where she was, and with her head down, ignoring him, she began to walk briskly up the road, toward the gates to her house. Her shoulders still shook with her tears, but she kept walking, her mouth set in a grim line.

He stayed with her all the way to her door, turning her over to Nan, saying only that she needed a hot cup of tea and a cool cloth for her eyes. The maid, an arm around her mistress’s shoulders, almost lifted her across the threshold, and then hesitating long enough to be sure that Rutledge hadn’t intended to follow them inside, she swung the door to. The latch caught.

He wondered if the shock of finding herself in charge of her grandfather’s firm had driven Miss French to this outburst. Beware what you wish for . . . She had felt left out, ignored, untutored in what brought in the family’s wealth, what supported its position, and now she would be expected to show that like the males in her family, she was up to the responsibility. And she’d be doing it in the spotlight of a murder trial.

He didn’t envy Agnes French.

Rutledge stood there staring at the closed door, his ears still ringing with her angry words, and then he turned and walked back to the Whitman cottage.

But Valerie Whitman wouldn’t come to the door. He called to her and even tried the latch. In the end, he could do nothing more than walk away himself. Back to the churchyard, where he could keep watch.

After an hour or more of pacing back and forth amongst the graves, he gave up and went to fetch his motorcar.

When he drove back toward the main road, he saw that Valerie Whitman had come to her gate, was standing there waiting until he drew even with her.

“Is it true? Has my grandfather been taken into custody for murder?”

“I’m afraid so. He confessed in a statement. In an effort to keep you safe.”

“He confessed to what? To murder ?” Warm as it was, she wrapped her arms around her, and he could hear her teeth chattering from shock. “I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true. As far as it goes. Matthew Traynor is missing as well.”

Her eyes flew wide at that. “He’s in England? Or is he still in Portugal?”

“His ship docked barely twenty-four hours before Lewis himself disappeared. He disembarked, and that was the last anyone saw of him. His luggage went unclaimed.”

“Dear God. And my grandfather is accused of killing him as well?”

“Yes. He knew what he was doing, Gooding did, when he confessed. The original plan was to take you into custody, you see. As an accomplice. You would have gone to prison.”

She had begun trembling violently. He wanted to offer comfort, but it was not possible. He was the enemy now.

“I didn’t know. I’ve done nothing wrong, I haven’t harmed Lewis or anyone else.”

“You must be very careful. If Miss French comes again, she may bring the constable or even the Inspector from Dedham. Keep your door locked and stay away from windows. It will blow over, but until it does, keep a small valise packed and ready by the kitchen door. You may have to leave in a hurry.”

“This is my home. I can’t leave it. I have nowhere else to go. Not even to my grandfather now.”

“Have you no relatives you could stay with for a short time? Until the shock of this news wears off, and people like Miss French come to their senses?”

She shook her head.

“I’ll see what I can do. There’s the tutor. He lives nearby—”

“No, please. I’m safer where I am.”