Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

It took a quarter of an hour to locate anyone who could tell him where to find Billy Harden. And then someone said he thought Billy might be in the canteen having a last cup of tea before going on duty.

The station was crowded, noisy, the canteen the same. The station smelled of coal smoke and damp wool from the rain, while the canteen smelled of onions, sausages, and warm bodies, overlaid with cigarette smoke.

Threading his way through the tables, Rutledge finally found a thin, hawk-faced man in the proper uniform, hunched over a pot of tea, nursing the cup in front of him.

“Billy Harden?”

“Depends on who’s asking.”

“I’d like to speak to you for a moment, if you please. Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard.” He showed his identification, and the man shook his head. “I’ve told all I know to yon sergeant,” he said, clearly tired of being sought out and questioned.

“It’s rather important,” Rutledge said, sitting down in the rickety chair across from the man. He took the photograph out of his pocket and set it on the narrow table, careful of the rings from cups and pots and glasses. “You said you recognized this woman, and we have your statement. I’m just double-checking information before we go to trial in this matter.”

“Yes, I recognized her.”

“Good. It’s not a very flattering likeness, but all we had. Her hair is much fairer than it appears to be here. The photograph was taken on a dark day, and the color isn’t very clear. I hope Sergeant Fielding pointed this out.”

“He did. And that’s her.”

“She’s much taller than she appears here. Nearly five foot nine.” Rutledge considered Harden. “Tall enough to look you in the eye, I should think.”

“Yes, he told me,” the man said irritably. “Quite a tall lady.”

“And she’s put on considerable weight since this was taken. Two stone, at least.”

“I recognized her. All right?”

Rutledge brought out the frame holding the photograph of his sister that he kept in the drawer of his desk, had done since he had come out of Dr. Fleming’s clinic and faced his first day at the Yard. A reminder of what he owed her.

“This is another photograph I want you to look at. We have every reason to believe the woman you’ve identified put a bicycle on the train the night in question, but there’s a chance that this woman was with her. Does she look familiar to you? I know it’s been some time since you took the bicycle on the luggage van, but it would be helpful to know if she was there as well.”

Harden pushed his cup aside to study the photograph Rutledge put down.

“I can’t be sure,” he said after a moment.

“Yes, I’m glad you are taking this seriously. Take your time.”

After about three minutes of staring, Harden frowned. “She was there. Standing just behind the first woman.”

“I see. Yes, thank you very much.”

Rutledge collected the two photographs and put them back in his pocket.

Turning slightly so that he could see the clock behind the counter, he said, “I left my glasses at the Yard. Can you tell me what the time is? I mustn’t be late, there’s another interview still to do.”

Harden looked up at the clock, squinting. “Nearly half past, I should think.”

Rutledge thanked him and rose. Harden poured a last cup of tea out of the pot and nodded.

Rutledge walked way.

The man was myopic, he realized. The time was almost five o’clock. Not nearly half after. And if he couldn’t see that clock, barely five feet away, then he could hardly recognize the face of the woman standing by the van or the woman behind her. What’s more, Valerie Whitman was not more than five feet six inches tall, she didn’t appear to have gained half a stone, much less two since the photograph was taken, and she certainly wasn’t fair.

He had reached the canteen door when it opened and a burly man in coveralls came in and called, “Harden. It’s time.”

Harden looked toward the voice. “Is it?” he demanded.

But the burly man had gone. Harden finished his tea in a gulp and got up.

Rutledge went outside and waited for him. Standing some five feet away from the door, he said as Harden came out, “Safe journey, mate,” matching the tone of voice and accent of the burly man.

Harden nodded, “Thankee, Sam.” He hurried away, headed for the trains, settling his cap on his head.

Rutledge watched him go, feeling the first surge of hope in days.

He returned to the Yard, set the photograph of Valerie Whitman back into the folder on Fielding’s desk, then in his own office, he restored his sister’s silver frame to the drawer.

It was then that a second spot of luck came knocking at his door.

Inspector Billings stuck his head around and said, “Are you interested in a bit of game hunting?”

Rutledge said warily, “What sort of game?”

“As in chasing wild geese.”

“Come in and sit down.”

Billings did, stretching his long legs out before him. “I happened to be there when Gibson was telling our ACS that the Chief Constable of Hampshire was complaining about losing most of his men to your search for a body. Hampshire being rife with crime these days.”

“Yes, we’ve had no luck.”

“When I asked the good sergeant what he was hunting for in the wilds of Hampshire, he told me about someone whisked off the Medea and then murdered. I hadn’t heard about this, having been sent to the antipodes on a case of my own. The odd thing is, when I asked when this man went missing, the date coincided with a rather unexpected bit of information that came my way while I was looking for someone else. Interested?”

“I won’t know until I hear the unexpected bit of information.”

“I was down along the south coast, sitting in a pub, waiting for someone to appear, when a man came in looking for the local constable. Seems he’d found a body washed up near Dungeness Light. I went to have a look, for fear the man I was after might have run into trouble. By the grace of God, he wasn’t my problem because I got back to the pub just in the nick of time to make my meeting.”

“What did the body look like?”

“He hadn’t been in the water long. No distinguishing marks. Nothing that stood out in my mind. He was dressed well, smooth hands. Not as tall as you, not as dark, strong jawline.” Billings shrugged. “I didn’t stay. There was too much at stake elsewhere.”

Rutledge could understand that.

“Did you follow up later?”

“The local police couldn’t identify him, decided he was a suicide, and buried him.”

“Why a suicide?”

“He’d drowned. There was a mark across his shoulders, bruising while he was still alive, but that could have been the rail of a ship. They notified the ports where sportsmen keep their boats, but no one was reported missing. I doubt they tried as far as Portsmouth.”

“A wild goose indeed,” Rutledge said thoughtfully.

“Yes, well, make of it what you like. But if you’ve lost someone from a docking ship, it’s possible he wasn’t on her when she docked.”

And that was a very perceptive remark.

“I can’t quite see how this would fit into what I’ve been working with. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t.”

Billings got to his feet. “I don’t myself. And I’m off to Staffordshire. The inquiry there is running into difficulties. Again.”

“I’ll keep this to myself for the moment.”

“I thought you might.”

And Billings was gone, striding out the door and letting it swing shut behind him.

Rutledge considered what he’d just been told.

The assumption was that Gooding had killed Matthew Traynor and buried his body somewhere on the London road.