Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

She smiled tentatively, hiding sudden tears, and invited him into the parlor.

“It’s true then about Lewis. And Mr. Gooding. I thought perhaps Miss French was being cruel. I wanted to go and speak to her, but my father felt it would only point up our connection with the family if I did. I even went to see Miss Whitman, taking my bicycle and hoping no one gossiped about that to my father.”

“We have every reason to think it could be true. But we have no proof that your fiancé is dead,” he said gently.

“I’m sure he must be,” she replied forlornly. “Why wouldn’t he try to reassure me that he was all right, if that were the case?”

Because, Hamish was pointing out, the man seemed to be as selfish as his sister.

Rutledge answered, “He may be frightened. It’s possible that Gooding killed the wrong man, thinking it was Lewis, and he’s now in hiding.”

“But Mr. Gooding is in custody. Lewis should feel safe now.”

“Have you met Matthew Traynor? How did he and Mr. French get on?”

“I was to meet him when he came to England. There was to be a party. But of course that’s not going to happen, either. The only comment I remember Lewis making about him was that he was Michael’s man and saw things Michael’s way still. They were of an age, you see. Matthew and Michael. As Lewis was in charge of the London office, the son of the founder, he felt he should be shown more—I don’t know—deference? Mr. Traynor was more isolated on Madeira and should have to change with the times. With Prohibition in the United States, new markets were essential.”

It was true, the Act had gone into effect in January of the current year. And exporters must be feeling the loss of revenue rather strongly, with much of Europe still in shambles. Rutledge could see that Lewis French had been discussing this situation with either Miss Townsend or her father. Was that what had been on his mind—the troubling problem he and Traynor would have to address?

Rutledge said, “I’m sorry that I have no information for you now, but I’ll send word as soon as I know what has become of Mr. French.”

“You’re very kind,” she said, tears spilling from under her lashes. “I’d even asked my father to speak to Scotland Yard, but he refused.” She bit her lip. “He has had one brush with scandal. He doesn’t wish to be connected with another one.”

“Will you tell me what that first one was about?”

The color rising quickly in her fair skin, she said, “He drank more, during an illness of my mother’s. And a patient nearly died. He claimed that he was overcome by worry, but I knew that it had been happening for some time, even before Mama became ill. It was so embarrassing for both of us. Friends turned away, I was taunted by other children. I had even seen my own father too drunk to stand, and that was horrifying. But I lied and told everyone that he had never been overcome by drink. When Mama recovered, he stopped. I was so grateful I’d have done anything for him.”

Her father had put her in a very untenable situation. And now, to avoid new scandal, he’d given his daughter none of the support she needed to help her cope with Lewis’s loss.

“It was rather awful.” She glanced uneasily at the clock, and he knew she was eager for him to be gone before her father came home unexpectedly and recognized the motorcar in front of his door, or her mother returned to find Rutledge in the drawing room. “And then to wonder if Lewis had deserted me as well.”

“It isn’t desertion, if it’s beyond his control.”

Thanking her, he left. She had none of the defenses of Valerie Whitman and wasn’t self-centered enough to stand up to what was happening, the way Agnes French would survive.

He could feel pity for her.

But desertion brought with it a memory of the night before. Of Frances’s confession that she was afraid to leave him to his own devices. Of the sweeping loneliness their conversation had evoked.

He wanted his sister to be happy, to have children and a marriage that was all she could wish for. It was important to him—they had always been close, and he loved her very much.

Using her as a shield against the darkness—someone who was always there when he needed her, someone who didn’t know the truth, who could cheer him up with a word or sweep him off to join her friends for dinner when he was in despair, who shared a childhood with him, safe ground they could revisit without shadows—perhaps he had lost sight of the woman his sister was.

It would be hard. But he would give her away when the time came and say nothing.

He had seen enough of jealousy in the last few weeks. It was not something he would ever let himself be guilty of.

Chapter Twenty

Rutledge was about to leave Dedham for London when he saw the curate pedaling toward him, the market basket on his bicycle filled with purchases, including a bunch of carrots whose frothy tops swung back and forth in front of him like the bar of a metronome. Williams didn’t notice Rutledge at first, his mind clearly elsewhere. When he did, he nearly fell over trying to slow to a stop.

“You aren’t here to take Miss Whitman into custody? Are you?” he demanded.

“No. If it happens, the local police will see to it.”

“Dear God. I can’t take it in. Her grandfather—murder. I tried to talk to her, but she won’t open the door. I wanted to ask if I could do her marketing so that she wouldn’t have to face the whispers and the backs turning.” He gestured to his basket. “It’s the least I could do. And I’ve kept her in my prayers. Her grandfather as well. I don’t want to believe that Mr. French is dead. Murdered. It’s inconceivable.”

Rutledge said, “He hasn’t reappeared. There’s no other conclusion we can draw.”

“He could be in hiding. Frightened, not sure where he can put his trust.”

“Then why hasn’t he come forward now that Gooding is in custody?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps the police believe it was Gooding who tried to kill French, but it wasn’t. And that person is still at large.”

“How did Traynor and French get on?”

“I have no idea. Mr. Traynor was in Madeira when war broke out in 1914. I was looking forward to meeting him. But I should think, being cousins, that they worked together well. The firm appears to be successful enough. There was even talk of enlarging the house, after Mr. French’s marriage.” He grimaced. “Miss French was certain he’d expand across her beloved rose garden.”

And that would drive Agnes French to murder, if nothing else, Rutledge thought wryly. Everyone had a breaking point.

No matter where he turned, Rutledge could see arguments for and against each possible motive for Lewis French’s death.

Where was the proof that he so badly needed to find?

Thanking the curate, he made a decision, turned about, and went back to call on the French family’s tutor, Mr. MacFarland.

He knocked at the cottage door, but there was no answer.

Glancing back at the Green, he could see from where he stood that no one was walking there. Marketing?

On the off chance that the tutor was enjoying the fine weather in his garden, Rutledge walked around to the back of the cottage.

There was a small arbor fashioned out of trimmings from the trees that marked the far boundary of the property, and it was set between a pair of apple trees. From where he stood, Rutledge could see sheet music scattered in front of the bench, but MacFarland wasn’t there.

Calling, he waited for an answer, but there was none.

Hamish, just behind him, was warning him to take care.

It was all Rutledge needed to go forward, toward the bench. Hamish had always had a feeling for trouble. Some of the men had claimed he had The Sight, but Rutledge believed it was only that finely attuned sense that some men had, honed even more sharply by war.