Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

“Then I’ll ask the curate to keep an eye on you.”

“Don’t make his life wretched. Please, I’ll be all right.”

But Rutledge wasn’t sure of that. Before he could argue the point, she had turned away and hurried back into her house.

He waited until he was sure the door was locked, and then he went in search of the curate.

Williams had heard nothing. Shocked and alarmed by what Rutledge told him, he stared up at the church tower and said, “What am I to do? I can’t stay in her house—the gossips would make the worst of that. And she can’t come here, for the same reason. If I were as old as my predecessor, it might have been all right.”

“Well, then, the least you can do is keep an eye on her. If she’s in trouble, if anyone—Miss French included—badgers her, go to the police. Constable Brooks must protect her. She hasn’t been accused of anything.” Or at least not so far. Rutledge felt helpless and very angry. “She’s not her grandfather.”

“Yes, yes, I know that. If I could find some older woman— But if Miss French accuses her of knowing more than she ought to know, everyone will have second thoughts. It will be impossible to persuade anyone to come.”

Williams would have passed by the man lying beaten and robbed on the road and left him for the Good Samaritan, Rutledge thought grimly. And then he swore at himself, and afterward at Gooding.

“Think of something,” Rutledge urged. “I’m needed in London. I’ll ask the police in Dedham to send a constable round, but I don’t think they will have one to spare.”

He had to do something, but until he heard from Belford, there was not much he was free to do.

Frances. He could take her to his sister’s house. But even as the thought came to him, he knew it was impossible. He had arrested Valerie Whitman’s grandfather. His hands were tied.

He said to the curate, “Keep an eye on her. It’s your duty.” And with that, he got back in the motorcar and drove away before Williams could argue or find another reason to refuse.

He stopped in Dedham, spoke to the police, and was told that they would take his request under advisement. Miss Whitman had neither made a request for protection nor claimed she was being harassed.

“See that she isn’t,” he snapped and walked out.

All the way back to London, Rutledge found himself going over every bit of evidence they had so far. He picked up the rain again, and that helped to concentrate his mind. He went first to his flat, shaved and changed his clothes, and as soon as he could, he went to call on Belford.

The man shook his head when Rutledge asked if there was news. “But I hear you have the chief clerk in custody. Surely that’s sufficient?”

“Early days,” Rutledge said easily. “There’s enough circumstantial evidence, yes, but I’m not convinced that he’s the right man.”

“Hmmm.” It was a noncommittal response.

“What do you know about the name and direction I left for you last night?”

“Now that’s very interesting. It’s a lodgings in the east end of London. The man Baxter, whose name you gave me, is not the brother of this man Rawlings you mentioned earlier. What’s more, the woman in whose house he had taken rooms hasn’t seen him for several weeks.” Belford walked to the hearth and took down an envelope that Rutledge recognized. “This was waiting for him. She was told that any future letters should be held for our—er—colleague, as Mr. Baxter was of necessity visiting friends elsewhere. She appeared to understand that Mr. Baxter was evading the police. There have been no other letters in recent weeks. She rather thought that Mr. Baxter came from Manchester. She had been married to a Manchester man at one time—she recognized the accent.”

Rutledge took the letter and put it into his pocket.

“I think it should be opened, in the event there’s information there that we can use,” Belford said.

Rutledge smiled. “I’ll let you know if there is.”

He thanked Belford and was about to leave when the man added, “I have a feeling—for what it’s worth, mind you—that Mr. Baxter may be your man. He came to London some six weeks ago. He and another man, who didn’t stay in London very long, shared the room. The woman was glad to see the back of him . She said he was trouble walking if ever she’d seen it.”

Bob Rawlings had a half brother. Was this the other man?

And as if he’d read Rutledge’s mind, Belford informed him, “I sent someone to Somerset House. Rawlings appears to have been an only child.”

If Belford had gone to that much trouble, then the information was correct.

Rutledge said, “I’m fond of lost causes. I think I’ll stay with this and see where it leads.”

“Then I wish you luck.”

Rutledge left and didn’t touch the letter until he was well away from Chelsea. He pulled into a quiet lane and opened it carefully.

But to his bitter disappointment, it was not what he’d hoped.

The letter was written by a different hand from the envelope.

It has been a while since I’ve heard from you. I deserve better, and remind you of promises made.

There was nothing else, no greeting and no signature. It could have been a letter to a lover. Or a reminder of family obligations. Or even a warning that Baxter had failed in some way.

Diaz had been extremely careful, putting nothing down on paper that could in any way be taken as proof that he had hired a killer.

Frustrated, Rutledge returned the letter to its envelope.

Diaz appeared to be a simple gardener. But he had been to university, and he had been in prison, schooling of a very different kind.

And Gooding was still standing in the shadow of the hangman’s noose.

Chapter Eighteen

Rutledge was sitting at his desk dealing with the Gooding file when there was a tap at his door and Gibson came in.

“Someone had already been to the lodging house where Baxter lived before the constable got there. A tall man, grubby clothes but polite manner. He took a letter with him. My guess is that it’s someone sent by Baxter.”

Belford. Or one of his people.

“Did you get a description of Baxter?”

“The constable did. Ordinary looking, those were the words of the woman who lets rooms in the house. Brown hair, brown eyes, nothing to turn your head for a second look. He left the house the Friday before the body was discovered in Chelsea and never came back. He’s paid up until the end of the month.”

Rutledge considered that. “Do you think he could be our dead man?”

“It’s possible that Gooding got him to help with French or meet Traynor in Portsmouth, then got rid of him after he’d done what he was paid to do. If French was already dead and in the back of the motorcar, I can see Gooding running Baxter down, then leaving him where no one would recognize him.”

Not Gooding. Not Diaz. Rawlings. Rutledge would have bet on it.

It would be a telling point if the dead man was Baxter. Because he was connected not to Gooding but to Diaz. The letter proved it.

“Clever sod, whoever is behind this business,” Gibson commented. And almost in echo of Rutledge’s thought, he added, “My money is on Gooding. Which reminds me. An Inspector from Dedham was sent to question Miss Whitman. She barred her door and refused to speak to him.”

He had warned her there would be questions. But not this soon, surely?

Rutledge said, “Has Gooding requested legal counsel?”

“This morning. He asked Hayes and Hayes to provide someone.”

“Any luck searching for a body along the road north from Portsmouth?”

“Not so far. The Chief Constable for Hampshire isn’t best pleased with all his men strung out across the county.”