Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

“No. I should think he wouldn’t be.”

Rutledge thanked Gibson and ten minutes later left the Yard.

It took three quarters of an hour to find the lodging house where Baxter had stayed. Tucked away on a side street, it was easily missed.

Hamish said, “A verra’ good place to hide.”

And it was. The frumpy woman who answered the door to his knock looked him up and down. “The police have come and gone. I don’t need any more of you frightening away my lodgers. And I know my rights. You can’t search here without proper papers.”

“I don’t want to search. I’d like to show you a portrait and ask you if it reminds you of any of your lodgers,” Rutledge said with a smile.

“A portrait?” she asked suspiciously. Her hair was still done up in rags, and she put a tentative hand up to them as if she were already considering his request, in spite of her doubts.

“Yes, it belongs to a firm in the City.”

“And you’ll take me there and bring me back? In that motorcar? I’ve never ridden in a motorcar.”

“Absolutely.”

“Then wait here.”

She was away for nearly three quarters of an hour. When she came down the stairs again, the rags in her hair were gone and in their place were fair, tight curls that seemed to bob when she walked, despite the ugly hat holding them into place. The dress she had been wearing when she opened the door had been changed to a black one with severe beading at the neck and cuffs. It was better suited to a funeral. But she surged out of the house, walked up to the motorcar, and waited for him to open the door for her. Amused, he settled her in the seat, then turned the crank before joining her there.

She sat up very straight, her purse clasped tightly in her hands, her eyes darting here and there as she took in the passersby, the houses on every street, even the traffic, telling him breathlessly at one point that he was driving far too fast, it made her dizzy.

They arrived without incident at French, French & Traynor. Rutledge handed her down, and she stood there on the pavement like a frowsy duchess while he knocked.

Simmons, the junior clerk Rutledge had seen before, came to the door, stared with open mouth at Rutledge’s companion, and then shut it smartly as he ushered them into the outer room.

The woman’s gaze swept the furnishings and lamps, the thick carpet and the polished floorboards, not even trying to conceal her curiosity. The junior clerk, confused, asked how he could help Mr. Rutledge.

“I’ve brought this lady to see the portraits of your founders. I hope that she will find one of them of particular interest.”

“The portraits?” If Rutledge had asked to see the giraffe, the man couldn’t have been more unsettled. “Er—those in the passage?”

“Yes. It’s all right. I’ve studied them many times. It’s the lady who wishes to see them.”

The clerk nodded, then opened the inner door, leading the way.

The woman walked ahead of Rutledge, still taking in everything. She would dine out on this excursion for months. The first portrait got her immediate attention. “A fine-looking gentleman,” she said of David Traynor, Matthew’s father, and moved on.

Standing in front of Howard French’s portrait, she tilted her head to one side. “It’s not Mr. Baxter,” she said. “I mean, I don’t see a real likeness. Still, if you squint your eyes just so”—she demonstrated a squint—“you could say it’s similar in a way.”

“Could they be related?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. It’s the coloring, I expect. Ordinary. Brown. Not like the other gentleman, so fair. You’d take notice of him on the street, wouldn’t you? And perhaps the shape of this one’s face. Not round, not long or square. Just—ordinary.” She turned to Rutledge. “Who is this gentleman, then?”

“It’s one of the owners here,” Rutledge said before the clerk could give her a name.

“Is Mr. Baxter connected to him?” She pointed again to the portrait. “Is that why you wanted me to come here?”

“Not connected. But perhaps someone looking at this portrait and seeing Mr. Baxter later in the day would be reminded of a similarity.” He had no intention of speaking of the dead man he’d found in Chelsea.

She gave some thought to his answer. “Well, not if you knew them, like.”

Satisfied that she had seen all there was to see, she turned back down the passage. “Looking at him from this direction,” she said, pointing to Howard French once more, “I don’t quite see any likeness, not when his eyes are on me. Still, I understand why you wanted to bring me here. It was clever, better than asking me to tell you what Mr. Baxter looks like.”

He thanked the clerk, escorted her to the motorcar, and started back toward her lodging house. It had not solved anything, this visit to the wine merchant’s office. But he could take comfort in the fact that Baxter wasn’t out of the running.

“How fast can it travel? This motorcar?” she asked.

“Fast enough. Shall I show you?”

She uttered a frightened squeak and shook her head, the curls bobbing in tandem.

When at last they reached her street, she sighed. “Well, I thank you very much for the outing. I dunno as it did you any good, but I was pleased.”

He saw her to her door, thanked her, and left.

Back at the Yard, he sat down at his desk, facing the window. It was a rather daunting task, this, he told himself as he stared out at the heavy clouds building in, a dark backdrop to the trees that blocked his view of most of the street.

Hamish said, “Ye’re catching at straws.”

He was. And getting nowhere.

As the storm gathered, Rutledge sat there watching it, the lightning flaring like the flash of artillery, while the muffled thunder seemed to echo up and down the river. He flinched in the face of it, almost feeling the earth shake as the window glass rattled. He fought against it as long as he could, and then was back in the trenches, struggling to stay alive, to keep his men alive, and as the rain hit the window, propelled by the wind, like machine-gun fire, he clenched his teeth and tried to wait it out. But the room was dark as night at the storm’s height, and it was all he could do to stop himself from calling out to men four years in their graves, encouragement, warnings, changes in orders, swearing at the laggards, promising the wounded he wouldn’t forget them.

Not here, please, God, not here where everyone will hear me—

And then the storm had moved on, and he was sitting there, hands locked on the arms of his chair, perspiration wet on his forehead and trickling down his chest.

He remained where he was until he was steady again, the worst over.

Hamish said, “Ye should lock yon door before the next storm.”

Toying restlessly with Fielding’s note as the rain let up and a steamy sunlight tried to push its way through the clouds, Rutledge realized what was between his fingers, and in that instant decided what to do. He would test the sergeant’s indictment of Valerie Whitman as the young woman with the bicycle.

He had no reason not to accept Fielding’s findings. The man was a very good policeman, thorough, careful, and dependable.

Conversely, if he himself believed that Diaz was the killer, then Valerie Whitman and her bicycle had never been on that train. To show that would surely weaken the Gooding case, even if it did nothing to support his own inquiry.

He opened his desk drawer, took out the frame he kept there, and went down to Fielding’s desk.

There were a number of folders on the desktop, and he opened each in turn until he found the one with the statement taken down and signed by the van guard. He made a note of the man’s name and then removed the photograph of Valerie Whitman that he’d given the sergeant.