Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

Why had the killer overlooked that watch when he—or she—had emptied the dead man’s pockets?

By accident? Or by design?

The only other chance for an early identification was for a family member, a neighbor, an employer to report the victim as missing.

Rutledge turned around to his desk, wrote a description of the dead man, and carried it to Sergeant Gibson.

“We don’t have the doctor’s final report yet. Once we do, this should be sent out to your list of county police stations,” he told the sergeant.

“All of them, sir?” Gibson asked, already calculating the work involved.

“The victim could have come from Cornwall or Northumberland or any county in between. I’m afraid it’s all of them.”

With a nod, he went on to speak to the Acting Chief Superintendent, who grunted when Rutledge had finished, then commented morosely, “I’ve always said nothing good would ever come of a gasoline-propelled vehicle.”

Rutledge wasn’t sure whether the remark was intended as dark humor or whether the Acting Chief Superintendent was thinking about distances that could be covered more quickly.

It was late the next morning before the report arrived from the doctor who had examined the body.

Dr. Parker wrote:

My first estimate of the time of death still stands, as does the fact that the victim was dragged. Male, in his very early thirties, no distinguishing marks on the body, no indication of livelihood from his hands or his clothing. Possibly a gentleman of independent means, judging from the quality of said clothing. Internal injuries consistent with being struck by a motorcar. Broken left arm. No war wounds.

War wounds had become a factor in identification.

Rutledge passed the report on to Sergeant Gibson, and then read through the interviews from the constables canvassing the streets on either side of the one in which the body was found. The upshot was that everyone was accounted for in each of the houses that had been visited, and no one had had guests on that particular evening.

Hamish said, “Ye’ll no’ have any luck with this one.”

Rutledge was beginning to think he was right.

Chapter Four

Rutledge was in his office finishing a report on another case when Sergeant Gibson walked in.

“We’ve received three responses about your dead man,” he said, “but there’s not much to choose from between them.” He passed the sheets across the desk to Rutledge, who gestured to one of the chairs.

Scanning the three pages, he had to agree with the sergeant.

The first was in regard to a husband missing for the past two years. The constable reporting had added at the bottom of the sheet, Mrs. Trumbull being somewhat of a termagant, I expect Mr. Trumbull would have gladly thrown himself under the wheels of any motorcar to escape being returned to Derbyshire.

Rutledge said, “The man was a butcher. If it was the only trade he knew, then there’s probably no connection with our victim. Butchers generally don’t have the hands and nails of a gentleman. Still, we’ll keep an open mind.”

Moving on to the second sheet, he frowned. “A schoolmaster from Kent. It’s possible.”

No comment had been added here, but Gibson said as Rutledge finished reading, “I took the liberty of putting in a call to Kent. I happen to know Constable Parry from the war—a case having to do with the report of a spy at the Chatham Shipyard. False alarm, as most of them were. He tells me the schoolmaster recently lost a child and he’s not been sober a day since then.”

“Our man hadn’t been drinking, according to the doctor.”

“True, sir. But still . . . we’ll keep an open mind.”

The third was also a possibility. An Inspector from Norfolk wrote, I’ve no reason to think that your corpse is that of Gerald Standish, for he hasn’t been missing for any length of time. On the other hand, I must tell you that he has tended to wander off without notice since he came home from France. He was seen by his daily walking toward the edge of town one evening, apparently out for the exercise, for he greeted her quite naturally. His bed was not slept in that night, but she made no report as he generally reappeared in a day or so. This time was the exception. The constable in Moresley has had no word from or about him since.

“Did you speak to the Inspector?” Rutledge asked Gibson.

“Sir, there isn’t a telephone where I can reach him.”

“Then we’ll wait a few more days to see if the watch can tell us anything before taking these queries any further. There’s something more. What have you discovered about Mr. Belford in number 20?”

“I’m waiting for a reply from the War Office. He’s not known to the Metropolitan Police or to us.” Gibson cleared his throat. “Reading the report from Constable Meadows, I gathered Mr. Belford was cleared of any involvement.”

“So far. But he knew rather too much—or guessed more than he should have done—to strike him off the list just yet.” Belford’s manner hadn’t rankled—Rutledge was always grateful for whatever a potential witness could contribute, for it was impossible to know and see everything in a neighborhood he didn’t himself live in. Still, there had been something in the man’s brisk reconstruction of events that had been very different from the usual shocked response the police were accustomed to dealing with in the face of sudden death.

It was next afternoon when Gibson returned with a puzzled look on his face and handed Rutledge a sheet of paper without comment.

He scanned it, then slowly reread what was printed there.

As far as anyone could determine, Mr. Belford was precisely what he seemed to be—a helpful neighbor. There were few details added to that—the household staff had been with him for at least ten years and in two cases for fifteen. He had never been in trouble with the law. His military career had been exemplary, and he had risen to the rank of Captain. He had seen action at Mons, Passchendaele, the Somme, and Amiens, was wounded three times, and returned to active duty as soon as he was cleared by his doctors.

Rutledge had never encountered Belford in France, but that wasn’t too surprising. What was, was the fact that he’d never heard the man’s name mentioned. When new companies were being transferred in, there was usually information about where they’d come from, what regiment they had served with, and the name of the officer in charge of their sector.

Gibson said, “That’s all there is. The War Office was too quick to answer our questions. Makes you wonder.”

Pulling information out of the War Office was generally an exercise in patience, as all records were handwritten and the filing system was archaic. Sometimes it was also a matter of obfuscation. When Rutledge needed to know something urgently, he was forced to call in favors to speed up the search.

“As he hasn’t been shot at dawn, he can’t be a German spy living among us,” Rutledge said wryly.

Gibson answered, “Indeed, sir. When Constable Meadows asked the servants on either side of his house, they said he was an ornament to the neighborhood.”

“Good God,” Rutledge said blankly. “How did he achieve such a distinction?”

“The constable was told that he gives generously to any charitable cause.”

“Ah.”

“Always anonymously.”

“Interesting. Then we’ll keep Mr. Belford in the backs of our minds until we know more about the dead man.”

Two other reports came in from the description that had been sent out. One from Cornwall, the other from Chester.

Gibson followed them up.

The Cornishman had gone for a walk on Exmoor and hadn’t been seen since. He had a history of shell shock, and his actions were not, according to Constable Tilly, predictable. Still, the man had been missing for three weeks. In that length of time he could reasonably have reached London, if he had traveled by train or even on an accommodating lorry headed anywhere.