Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

Rutledge didn’t know what to say. He’d never told her that Jean had been terrified by the man she’d seen in hospital, and that somehow he’d had the good sense to set her free, however much it had hurt at the time. He’d never told Frances what he’d felt for Meredith Channing, either. It had been too personal, too unexpected, too soon. Too difficult, even to admit to himself that he’d cared.

In a way, he realized, Meredith had deserted him as well.

“I’ve been too busy to fall in love,” he said, striving to speak lightly. “It was hard, returning to the Yard after four years in the trenches. I’ve had to catch up. And there have been times when I didn’t feel very much like going out in the evening. That’s the nature of being a policeman.”

She knew him too well to be satisfied with that.

“Ian—”

“You needn’t worry,” he said, summoning a convincing smile. “I’ll be all right. When I meet the right person—as you’ve clearly done—then I’ll be as happy as you are now.”

He could hear Hamish in the back of his mind. He looked down, busy stirring his tea, so that she couldn’t read his eyes.

“Peter is a good man,” he said after a moment. “I could see how you would suit.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.” Ignoring the wave of loneliness that was sweeping him, he added, “Now that we’ve settled this between us, do you think you could finish those sandwiches?”

She laughed and leaned across the table to kiss his cheek, then picked up the bread again.

Rutledge didn’t know if he’d convinced her that he was all right or if she wanted so much to believe it that she would.

The next morning, after a night of little sleep, Rutledge drove down to the coast, to Dungeness Light.

It took him the better part of two hours to find the fisherman who had first discovered the body on the long stretch of stones that passed for a beach.

The man was suspicious at first, facing an Inspector from Scotland Yard.

“What is it you want from me?”

They stood there looking out toward the sea, the Lighthouse behind them.

“We think we may have stumbled on his identity. The question is, could he have come off a passing ship?”

“It would depend, wouldn’t it, on how well he could swim.” The man turned to squint up at Rutledge. “The sea takes what it wants. If he could fight it and not tire, he could reach a point where he would wash ashore here. Dead, he’d float for a time, bloated and all, then sink to the bottom. This ’un could have made it, I’m thinking, because he was fit enough and the light would guide him the right way. It was just a bit farther than he had the strength to make. Tides are funny things. Predictable as night and day, but the current, see, the current’s another matter. It’ull catch a body and spin it, and take it the wrong way, then capricious, it will turn it another direction. This one hadn’t been in the current too long.”

“His pockets were empty. No identification. Not even a coat.”

The fisherman looked out to sea again. “If I were to want to kill a man, I’d do it quiet, just squeezing the back of his neck until he blacks out, then empty his pockets before heaving him overboard. No signs of harm done, see, no way to identify him. And hope that far out, the sea wants to keep him.”

Rutledge smiled. “You’d make a good murderer.”

The fisherman didn’t return the smile. “I killed men in France. Any way I could, so’s they wouldn’t kill me first. And I didn’t hate those I killed. That’s the odd thing. I just did it, to be sure I was the one who saw the next day’s sunrise. I wasn’t proud of it.”

“I meant no offense.”

“None taken. But I’ll never kill again. Not even to save myself. If that’s all you wanted, I’m off.”

And without waiting for an answer, the fisherman walked away, heading toward one of the little shacks where men kept their gear and sometimes lived when the fish were running.

Rutledge let him go, standing there alone, the wind whipping his trouser legs against his ankles, the whisper of the waves rolling in coming to him, calling to him. He went closer to them, after a while, his shoes crunching through the stones all the long way, trapping his feet in much the same fashion that heavy sand might, pulling at the muscles of the calves until they ached. The tide was out, hadn’t yet turned.

He could imagine a man making it this far, tired, almost spent, and then the struggle with the stones would defeat him, and before he could quite reach the safety of the tide line to fall down to sleep, he fell to his knees, and then was knocked over by a wave, drowning because he couldn’t lift himself out of the oncoming water.

Not a pretty way to die, within sight of living.

Rutledge stayed where he was a little longer, then turned and made his slow, laborious way back to his motorcar.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

There was some truth to that old adage, Rutledge thought as he crossed the Thames and headed to Essex.

He had left a note on his desk, saying that he was tying up a few loose ends. And that would have to do.

He reached Dedham finally and then drove on to St. Hilary.

This time Miss French was willing to see him.

She had, he could tell, much on her mind.

“All these years,” she said, “we trusted that man Gooding. Out of pity we gave his granddaughter freedom of this house, even allowed her to become engaged to my brothers, and that wasn’t enough. He wanted more, and look at the grief he’s brought us.”

“Are you so sure he’s guilty?” Rutledge asked with interest, taking the chair she indicated.

“The police say he is. That’s good enough for me.”

“What would it gain Mr. Gooding to kill your brother?”

“I expect he didn’t think he would be found out. He would go on running the firm, in the hope that eventually I’d have no choice but to make him a partner because I depended on him so. His granddaughter avenged, his own ambition satisfied. Now I must travel to London and try to salvage the firm. I don’t know anything about wine, I was never asked if I wanted to learn. It will serve my father and my brothers right if I botch it. But I can’t afford to, can I? It’s my own livelihood at stake too. And what I shall face on Madeira I don’t know. I can’t even speak the language. I was never encouraged to learn it.”

“Why should Gooding wish to harm Traynor? If it was revenge he was after?”

“How do I know what was going through his mind? He must have thought that Matthew would make choices about the London office that didn’t include him. One seldom promotes even a chief clerk to head of firm.”

It was a good argument, and would be telling if Miss French was called on to testify.

“I wondered why we’d had no news of Matthew’s arrival. So strange, so unlike the man to be so inconsiderate of us. And all this time, Gooding had kept it secret so that he could meet Matthew himself. Odd how things turn out. My father, I think, had hoped that I’d marry Matthew, but he became involved with some woman out there. Perhaps if my father had allowed me to visit Funchal, I’d have had a chance in that direction. Shortsighted, wasn’t it? And serves him right.”

The diatribe ended. Rutledge thought she was about to cry, but she mastered the urge—if there was one—and said briskly, “You didn’t come all this way to listen to me complain.”

“Do you remember that when you were a child someone came to the house looking for your grandfather? He caused such an uproar the constable had to be called to restrain him.”

“Is that true? Who told you such a thing? Was it Gooding?”

“I don’t know that Gooding was told. It was something your grandfather wanted to keep in the family.”