Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

Hamish said, “Traynor was last seen by the rail, ye ken, wanting to watch the coast come up.”

“It would depend on how close to shore Medea was. And how the tides were running. If a man was thrown overboard and he kept his head, he might try to swim. But in the end, he could have tired or developed a cramp.”

He got up quickly and ran for the door, after Billings. Rutledge caught up with him just as he was walking out of the Yard.

The Inspector turned and said, “Forgot something?”

“Yes. Two things. Was the body shod? And was he wearing a coat?”

“No to both. But then a coat might be identified. Or else—” Billings considered Rutledge, appraisal in his eyes. “Or he tried to save himself by swimming.”

Rutledge smiled. “I would have done, in his place.”

“So would I.” Billings nodded and walked on.

Rutledge walked back into the Yard, satisfied.

Chapter Nineteen

Rutledge was kept busy for what was left of the day, finishing three reports on cases coming to trial. His mind was half on what he was doing and half on the possibilities tumbling over themselves in his head.

And Hamish too was there, arguing first one side and then the other, a distraction he couldn’t escape.

It was nearly eight o’clock when he left the Yard. The days were growing shorter, the long hours of sunlight dwindling toward autumn. He had hated the long days in the trenches, the sun beating down, bringing up the stinking miasma that was always there, until he could smell it even when he’d left the front lines, as if it had been absorbed by his pores. Hot, unable to escape the heat, helmets seeming to burn straight into the brain, thirsty, never enough water, never mind fresh water, and then the final agony, charging across No Man’s Land. No chance to bathe, shaving only because the gas mask had to fit, even a fresh uniform filthy before it could be enjoyed, and always the knowledge that if rain came, it would be worse, and sometimes the low-lying mists afterward hiding the deadly gas. He was never sure that winter was any better, the helmet cold, the strap chafing chapped skin, and half-frozen fingers on the trigger of his revolver.

He shook himself, walked to the motorcar, and drove to the flat, grateful to have time to think.

But it wasn’t to be.

Frances was there, waiting for him, asking him to take her to dinner.

“All my friends are out of town. Let’s go somewhere jolly, shall we, and pretend we’re having fun.”

He laughed. “It’s too late for dinner.”

“Well, I haven’t eaten, and I’m sure you haven’t either. Come home with me, and I’ll find something to cook. We can talk.”

He had got to the bottom of it. Something was wrong.

“All right. Give me five minutes to clean up and change.”

She waited restlessly in the parlor, walking about, touching things, moving them a little this way or that, in constant motion, it seemed to him in the bedroom, listening to her footsteps as they crossed the polished floorboards, then the carpet, back to the floorboards again.

When he came out of the bedroom, she turned, relief on her face, and then managed to smile.

“You’re looking remarkably handsome. I like that tie.”

“You should. You gave it to me for Christmas.”

“Did I? I have good taste.”

He took her out to the motorcar, and they drove in silence to the house where they had both lived as children and that now belonged to Frances.

She said as she walked in the door, “Does it ever seem to you that the house echoes when you’re the only one at home?”

“I’d never thought about it that way. I suppose it does.”

Leading the way through to the kitchen, she began to open cabinet doors and peer into the pantry.

“I’m not particularly hungry,” he said after a moment.

“Well, there’s soup left over from my lunch and some roast beef, I think. Pickle. Apples. Cheese. Will you make the tea?”

He picked up the kettle, rinsed it, and then filled it with fresh water.

Frances put down the bread she was starting to slice and then said, “Ian. Peter Lockwood? Do you remember him? You were in school with him.”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do,” he answered as casually as he could.

“He was a pilot in the war. Came back home to marry the girl he loved—and she had already married someone else. He was quite bitter about it. He left England and went to Kenya. But that didn’t suit, apparently, because he’s back now. I’ve run into him quite a lot recently. His father’s dead and he’s taken over the farm. I think it suits him.”

Lockwood’s father had been a gentleman farmer. No title, no great estate, but land that had been in his family since the Armada if not the Domesday Book. Old money, a long tradition on the land, and deep roots there.

“Yes, I should think it would.” He braced himself for what was to come.

“He’s asked me to marry him,” she said baldly.

“And what did you say?”

“I told him I wanted to think about it. And I do. Ian, there was someone in the war, someone I cared for very much, but it was impossible. There were . . . impediments, and we agreed not to start something we might both regret.”

He’d always suspected it. He even believed he knew who the man was and what the impediment was. And that the man hadn’t lived to see the end of the war.

He said, choosing his words carefully, “I shouldn’t be surprised. That you’d met someone. For a time I thought Simon might make you happy. But it didn’t seem to last.”

“No. I like him very much. I really do. But he’s—he’s not considerate. The way he kept his sister’s illness from everyone. He could have said that family affairs had called him away. Instead he simply disappeared from time to time to be with her through the worst of it. I admired that. I felt a little selfish, to tell you the truth, for wanting to know where he was, if there was someone else, if he cared at all. He could have thought of that, couldn’t he? A little thing, really, but I wondered if life with him would be full of little things. And if in the end, I could be happy, always waiting for him to tell me what was on his mind. What worried him. What was important to him.”

Frances was the least selfish person Rutledge knew. He felt suddenly angry with Simon for making her feel she was.

“And Peter?” he asked after a moment.

“I’m so comfortable when I’m with him. When I’m not, he’s still a part of my day, and when he comes to take me to dinner or to a play or just to walk in the park, I feel as if the sun is shining, whether it is or not. Isn’t that odd? I haven’t felt this way since—since the war. I feel safe when he’s with me.”

The kettle was ready and he made the tea, keeping his back to her, letting her talk.

“Then I don’t see a problem,” he said finally.

She was busy with the bread again, cutting slices, the knife clinking against the plate in the silence. He waited until the pot was ready and then poured her tea, placing it on the table beside her.

Setting the bread aside, she said, “I don’t want to leave you alone in London.”

Surprised, he could only stare at her.

“I know how you suffered when you came home from France. Dr. Fleming didn’t tell me a great deal—he said it was better for you if I didn’t know the whole of it—but he was worried about you, and I’ve been as well. You’ve come back to the Yard and done brilliantly. But you aren’t happy, Ian, and you haven’t found anyone since Jean. I don’t know that you’ve tried. I understand that—I know how Peter felt about the loss of his fiancée, you see, and how long it has taken him to get over her desertion. He told me that it was his fault, he’d spent four years dreaming about a woman who didn’t really exist. He just hadn’t realized that when he went off to France. He’d come home to her, not to the woman who had already married another man without bothering to tell him.”