Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

When finally he was conducted to Hayes’s office, he asked, “Any news from Portugal?”

“As a matter of fact, I was going to telephone the Yard this afternoon. Mr. Diaz was cut out of his father’s Will entirely. You were right about that.”

Rutledge had expected no less. Still, it meant that Diaz, without funds to support his vendetta, would have had nothing to bargain with to arrange a murder on land, much less at sea.

Hamish said, “Blackmail?”

It wasn’t likely that Diaz had gleaned enough information from the men in service with him at the Bennett house to force a man to kill for him.

Rutledge took a deep breath. Perhaps Markham was right, and he’d been too stubborn to see it.

Hayes was waiting.

“It’s a disappointment, your news. The father had threatened, but I needed to know whether he had carried out that threat.”

“Yes, fathers often bluster, but in the end, blood tells.” The solicitor considered Rutledge. “Was it so very important, this information?”

“It was possible that Mr. Diaz had sought to revenge himself on the French family for his long years in a madhouse. I’ve reason to wonder if he was ever mad in the true sense, just murderously angry. But the fact that he received no money from his father changes the picture entirely.”

“You believe he, not Mr. Gooding, is responsible for the deaths of Lewis French and Matthew Traynor?” The hooded eyes were nearly black.

“Yes. I do. As I told you on my last visit. Diaz is old. He couldn’t physically do what Gooding is accused of doing. But he could have hired a killer. And that requires money.”

“I was surprised when Mr. Gooding was taken into custody. I’ve dealt with him for many years, and a more conscientious employee would be hard to find. But then even the most conscientious man can be driven to measures unthinkable in normal situations.”

“I’m afraid so. And now the Yard has issued an order for Miss Whitman to be taken into custody.” Rutledge rose. “Thank you for your help. I’m sorry it wasn’t better news for Gooding.”

“Miss Whitman? Preposterous. We acted for her father, you know. Captain Whitman. And a finer officer never lived. Sit down, young man.”

Rutledge, eager to be on his way to Essex, did as he was told. Something in the man’s voice had changed.

“You asked me for a particular bit of information. I found it for you. But you have just indicated that it was not the inheritance that was so urgent to discover. What you really asked of me was to find out if Diaz had funds at his disposal. Any funds. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then you should know this. I saw no reason to tell you earlier, since it was not included in your request. Mr. Diaz is not destitute. Although his father had cut him off, he had inherited his mother’s money while still a young man, and most of it is still in the bank in Funchal, untouched because he was incarcerated first in Portugal and then in England. Here he was never allowed to speak to a Portuguese official, he was never asked if he wished to obtain legal counsel. He was simply locked up. He should have been tried for two attempts to murder English citizens, and so I felt no pity for him. The clinic must have been kinder than prison. And so the money has accrued. It’s nowhere near the sums that would have come to Mr. Diaz from his father’s Will. But it is most certainly sufficient to hire a dozen murderers, if he so chose. Mr. Diaz is not wealthy—but he could live for another ten years on the income from his mother’s bequest without touching the principal.”

Stunned, Rutledge could only stare at him, and then as he digested what the solicitor had just told him, he felt a surge of blind anger.

Anger at himself, for not thinking to widen his request. Anger at Hayes for that narrow lawyer’s mind, for telling Rutledge precisely what he had asked for, and no more. He would easily have gone away and never known the rest of the story. If he hadn’t mentioned Miss Whitman, would Hayes have told him about Diaz’s mother?

Swearing silently, Rutledge could only trust himself to ask, “And you are certain about this?”

“I don’t as a rule make mistakes,” Hayes told him frostily.

“Has he made any use whatsoever of these funds?”

“When he was released into the care of Mr. and Mrs. Bennett, he contacted an agent in Funchal, asking him to act for him in the matter of a cemetery plot near those of his parents. He also has given a large sum of money to the church he attended as a boy, to say perpetual prayers for his soul. And he arranged the transport of his body from London to Madeira, after his death. A stone has been commissioned to mark the place he will be interred. The agent has done just that—and no more.”

Rutledge thanked him and got out of Hayes’s office before he lost his temper entirely.

At the door, he said, “It’s possible you’ve saved Gooding from hanging.”

And with that he turned on his heel and left.

Outside, cranking the motorcar, he gave vent to his fury. So like a lawyer’s way of thinking, to hold back what was not in his view pertinent.

As his anger cleared, Rutledge did quick calculations in his head. Leaving the motor running, he strode back into the solicitor’s office. Mr. Hayes was already with another client, but Rutledge was not to be deterred.

As Hayes looked up, Rutledge said, “What does Diaz pay this agent of his? And what about the prayers for his soul? I need to find out if that’s exorbitant, even for a man who knows he’s a murderer. What’s more, what is the disposition of the account, once Diaz is dead?”

“I can’t—” Hayes began, but Rutledge cut him short.

“Rather you won’t. I understand your reluctance to look into that man’s affairs again. But if you want to prevent an injustice, you’ll find a way. When I leave here, I’m driving to St. Hilary myself to take Valerie Whitman into custody. How long do you want her to stay in a women’s prison? It’s in your hands.”

Hayes was on his feet, shoving back his chair. “I won’t be threatened.”

“I don’t perceive it as a threat. It’s a friendly warning that you are in control of her fate. How you feel about that only you can know.”

And he was gone, driving out of London at a pace that was a reflection of his mood. Hamish, in the back of his mind, was busy as well. But it was no mistake when Rutledge turned south toward Surrey instead of north toward Essex.

What he’d asked Hayes to do was essential. If the agent as executor was to pay all debts incurred by Diaz at the time of his death, a usual clause in English wills, then he could include any sums that Diaz had borrowed—untraceable—from him before that time. Sums that could already have been transferred to England with ease, from this agent to clients with no apparent connection to Afonso Diaz. An unscrupulous solicitor, paid well for his time, would ask no questions.

Clever indeed. And hopeless to untangle without the help of authorities on Madeira.

But even more urgent was his need now to stake out the goat, and let the tiger know it was unarmed.

Afonso Diaz had had his way for far too long.

Chapter Twenty-two

When Rutledge arrived at the gates to the Bennett property, he pulled over before reaching the house.

Diaz was usually at work in the grounds, and while Surrey was overcast and promised rain, Rutledge rather thought that Diaz preferred his own company to that of his fellows. He would be outside, away from the happy games Mrs. Bennett seemed to enjoy devising or the men’s conversations in the servants’ hall. Diaz had little in common with any of them. Indeed, he must tolerate Bob Rawlings only because the man was useful to him.