Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

He reached the bench and saw that the music had not been put down but had been scattered and trampled. As he lifted the sheets, collecting them, he saw a stain in one corner.

Blood. And quite fresh.

He cast about under the trees, but there was no one there. He felt the urgent need to go through the house, but while he was here, he walked on to the high grass just beyond the apple trees. And there he found MacFarland.

The man’s white hair was dyed red with his own blood.

Rutledge, swearing under his breath, ran forward, pushing aside the heavy clumps of grass to kneel beside the tutor.

He was breathing. Just. Someone had struck him hard on the back of the head, and the ground beneath him as well as his shirt was wet with blood.

Rutledge lifted him a little, speaking his name.

“MacFarland? Can you hear me? It’s Rutledge.”

There was no reaction at first, and then the man’s eyelids fluttered. He uttered something that sounded like a muffled cry of fear and struggled to free himself.

“You’re safe, MacFarland. It’s over. I’m from Scotland Yard. Remember?”

The tutor’s eyes cleared, focused, and then he said, “Rutledge?” as if the man from London had appeared out of nowhere. “Beware! I think he’s still here.”

And with that he lost consciousness again.

The attack had only just happened, Rutledge thought. Had his arrival frightened off whoever it was? Looking back toward the house, he could see where the grass had been flattened by dragging MacFarland into cover, to hide his body from whoever had arrived without warning. A hasty attempt, in the hope that the caller would go away again?

Would the attacker come back? Or had he fled when he had the chance?

There was no way of knowing.

Rutledge reached down, collected MacFarland’s unconscious form, and with some difficulty, lifted him into his arms.

Despite the need to hurry, Rutledge took his time getting out of the heavy grass with his burden, for fear of tripping. But once out into the open, he moved quickly, through the kitchen garden, around the house, and to his motorcar.

Depositing MacFarland there, he cranked the motor, got in, and started toward Dedham. Looking behind him, he saw that no one had tried to follow him from the back garden, and he felt a surge of relief that he’d got the tutor clear. He had just reached the wooded parkland that surrounded the French family’s property when something whizzed past his ear, followed almost at once by the sound of a shot. Hitting the accelerator, he felt the big touring car leap forward, putting distance between him and danger before anyone could aim and fire a second time.

Hamish was urging him to stop and find the shooter, but Rutledge was intent on getting MacFarland to Dr. Townsend. His mind was already processing what little he knew, that the shot must have come from the trees very near the wall that surrounded the French family’s park. He couldn’t afford to lose MacFarland, his only witness to Afonso Diaz’s attack on Howard French. The shooter could wait.

The pieces fit together. It would be very easy to reach the rear of the MacFarland cottage from the place where the shot had been fired. Into the French park, over the wall, through the scatter of trees and high grass, protected from view from most of the village, protected even from the MacFarland house. A killer had only to wait for the tutor to walk into his own back garden on a fine day. It must have been a habit of MacFarland’s to sit in that arbor for a time, one the killer must have noted. But why attack him in the first place?

When he got to the doctor’s surgery, Rutledge left the motorcar in front of the door and raced inside, praying that Townsend had returned from his lying-in.

He had, coming out to see what the commotion was about as Rutledge demanded to see the doctor at once.

Cutting short Townsend’s angry “What do you think you’re—” Rutledge turned to him and said, “I’ve got a dying man in my motorcar. Come at once and help me bring him inside. He’s already lost a good deal of blood.”

Townsend said, “Who is it?”

But Rutledge was already out the door, and after a brief hesitation, the doctor followed.

“He’s one of my patients!” Townsend exclaimed, bending over the man slumped in the seat next to the driver. “Here, take his legs, turn him a little.”

It was not easy, getting MacFarland out of the motorcar, but between them they managed, carrying him into the surgery.

“That way,” Townsend grunted, jerking his head toward a door down the passage from the entrance. “Examining room.”

Rutledge found it, managed to open the door, and helped Townsend stretch MacFarland out on the table.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there,” Rutledge said. “I could tell that the blow was recent, and got him to you as quickly as I could.”

“Yes, I’m glad you did.” Townsend was already running deft fingers over MacFarland’s scalp, saying after a moment, “My God, someone struck him. That’s not where you usually find injuries from a fall. That’s more often here, on the ridge along the back of the skull. This blow is lower. It should have killed him. I’m astonished he’s still breathing.”

The doctor continued to work, and after some time straightened up. “That’s all I can do. That and cold compresses The rest is up to his constitution. Have you reported this to the St. Hilary constable?”

“There was no time.”

“Yes, well, you were there, that’s what mattered most. I’ll keep him in the surgery. He should go to hospital, but I’m not happy with the thought of moving him again. There’s a woman in the village who is very good at nursing. I’ll send for her.”

“Ask her to write down anything he might say as he comes to his senses. It could help us find whoever did this.”

“I’ll see to it. No idea why this happened? You were calling on him, there must have been some reason for it.”

“I intended to ask him whether he knew anyone else we might contact to track down Lewis French, where he went when he left St. Hilary. Boyhood friends, a particular place he was drawn to. A fresh look at his habits.”

Townsend’s brows flicked together at the mention of Lewis French. “I can’t see why you haven’t found a body yet. He must be dead, my wife and I have had to face that. My daughter continues to hope against all hope. Gossip has been unkind to her. The fiancée of a murder victim? The French family in disarray? People seem to talk about nothing else, even my patients. They break off guiltily when I come into the room, then stare. And I know what the topic of conversation must have been.”

“I’m sorry. Your daughter deserves better. If you’re sure MacFarland is stable, I’ll leave him in your hands. There’s the constable to find.” Rutledge turned to go, then added, “Have you ever heard French say anything about his counterpart in Madeira? How he felt about Traynor’s handling of the firm there, whether there were conflicts over decisions or clashes of temperament? Resentment of any sort?”

“I don’t see how that can matter now. If they’re both dead.”

“It could be important. For all we know, French left St. Hilary to meet the ship that Traynor was traveling on.”

“I thought it was Gooding who met the ship,” Townsend replied, alarmed. “He’s been taken up for murdering Traynor, hasn’t he, and French as well? Do you think he found the two men together? Or he’ll try to persuade the jury that he had?”

“We have to look at every possibility. Otherwise Gooding’s lawyers will cast doubt on the evidence being presented.”

“We can’t have that. The only thing I know about relations between the men was something I read in my predecessor’s file. The seizures that Lewis French had—they probably weren’t epilepsy. He was injured as a child. He was riding a pony too large for him, and later he told his parents that young Traynor had taunted him into riding it. As a result he was thrown. The seizures began after that, according to his mother. But they blamed both boys equally. Traynor for his taunts and Lewis for heeding them.”