Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

Rutledge found Diaz in the back of the property, wrapped in an old cape of some sort and tending a fire burning the wood the two gardeners had been busy clearing out of the orchard and the park. The scent of applewood was strong, and watching from a distance as the man tossed new fuel on the blaze, he realized that Diaz was far more vigorous than anyone thought, given his age and his wiry build. He had had a way of appearing shrunken, a man who had been defeated by years in an asylum with no expectation of ever seeing Madeira again.

In fact Diaz reminded Rutledge strongly of the painting he’d seen in the French house of a shepherd on a high, windswept hill, watching a flock of sheep.

But here there was no loneliness, no despair. Just a formidable need that had fed on itself for decades. And a mind clever enough to do something about that need.

The thought gave Rutledge his opening, for he hadn’t prepared for the encounter, uncertain what the circumstances of their meeting would be.

“Senhor Diaz?”

The man whirled, dropping into a crouch as if to protect himself from attack.

As soon as he saw Rutledge, he slowly straightened, and with that curious stillness that he must have cultivated in the asylum in the face of the madness around him and that was part of his very nature now he waited.

“I’ve just come to tell you that you’ve won.”

“I don’t understand.”

Rutledge kept his distance, for he could see as he took another few steps forward the wicked-looking pruning knife for high branches that lay at the man’s feet.

“It’s an expression,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what it means. What does matter is that you have succeeded beyond your wildest dreams. French is dead, and although we haven’t found his body yet, so is Matthew Traynor. Gooding is sitting in a prison cell awaiting trial for their murders. His granddaughter will be taken into custody this afternoon as an accomplice in those murders. For my sins, I’ve been ordered to see to it as soon as I can reach Essex. The House of French, French and Traynor is in serious disarray, left in the hands of a woman who is unfit to take it over or run it properly. Give her five years—if that—and it will be worthless. She will be destitute.”

He could see the gleam in those dark, unfathomable eyes.

“The only person still alive who witnessed your visit to the French household all those years ago is very likely to be so severely brain damaged that he will be no threat to you. You’ve wiped the slate clean, and I daresay your English is good enough to appreciate that idiom.”

Diaz simply stood there, hands by his sides.

“There is nothing I can do to change what you have accomplished or to save Mr. Gooding, who didn’t deserve to be dragged into his employers’ troubles. But I must admit, it was quite cleverly done, even though I abhor it. I salute you. You have even bested Scotland Yard.”

Without moving, Diaz searched the trees through which Rutledge had had to come.

“No, I left no listeners there. We’re quite alone. I didn’t relish having anyone hear what I came to say.”

Rutledge made to go, then appeared to think better of it.

“It was my inquiry from the start. Still, I wasn’t sure myself where the truth lay. Whether it was Gooding wanting power or a falling-out of the two partners that resulted in the death of one or both of them. Or even if Miss French had disposed of her tiresome brother. I couldn’t find any proof of your guilt, no matter how hard I tried.”

He met Diaz’s gaze. “That is to say, until one of your underlings made the very serious mistake of firing at me as I drove Mr. MacFarland to the doctor’s surgery. I can’t believe that either Miss French or Miss Whitman is good enough with a revolver to come so close to hitting me. That was when I saw your hand in these events.”

Rutledge smiled for the first time. “And so, you see, I have come to congratulate you on a superbly perfect plan. But I am also here to tell you that I will hound you until the day you die, and if I am lucky, I will find the proof I need. However long it takes. I do not care to be made a fool of, Mr. Diaz, and you have made a deadly enemy. In the end, I’ll prove to be more clever than you. I live for that moment.”

He saw, quick as a flash, those dark eyes flicker toward the pruning knife and back toward the fire. And then they were impassive once more, waiting for Rutledge to finish and leave. Tempted though Diaz was to kill him here and now and burn the body along with the deadwood in the bin, he was unwilling to risk it. He might well kill Rutledge, but this was sanctuary, this position with the Bennetts, and too valuable to lose.

Rutledge laughed. Intentionally. “I’m a match for you, old man,” he said with contempt. “The Germans couldn’t kill me and neither can you.”

Dark color spread into the enigmatic face, and Rutledge saw it before he turned away.

Over his shoulder, he added, “And don’t bother to send your underlings to find me. I’m more than a match for them as well. I’m your Nemesis, and there is nothing in the world you can do about it. Nemesis. That’s a classical term, one you no doubt studied at University in Portugal. I shouldn’t have to translate it for you.”

He kept walking, still avoiding the house, until he had reached the gates to the drive. His motorcar was where he’d left it, and he drove off.

He didn’t go far.

There was a farm lane just before the village, and he turned down it, following a track that led toward several outbuildings. The war had taken the horses, and their stalls were already in disrepair. At the far end, a new Fordson F tractor had taken their place, its great iron-spoke wheels thick with mud from the late summer plowing. Rutledge pulled his motorcar off to one side, where it couldn’t be seen from the road or the farmer’s house, marked by tall chimney pots on the far side of an orchard.

And then he walked back to the road, taking up a post behind the shed where the milk cans were left each evening.

It would be a long wait, he expected that. Diaz would have to write his letter and Rawlings would have to find an excuse to carry it to the village for posting.

Settling himself as comfortably as he could against the trunk of a tree, Rutledge tried to ignore the rumbling voice in his head arguing the comments he’d made to Diaz and finding holes in his arguments.

“He willna’ risk everything to come after ye. It would cost too much. He missed his chance by yon fire, and he kens it verra’ well. And ye’ll be faced with a man ye’ve niver seen. It will be when ye least expect it that he’ll strike.”

But this wasn’t the first time that Rutledge had set himself as the goat to draw out a killer. Once it had been necessary to protect the next victim. Another time he had seen it as the only way to bring a suspect back to where he could take him in. In Diaz’s case, the man had achieved what he had set out to do and was in the clear. Their relationship had had to be reduced to a personal challenge. Not hunter and hunted, but a test of nerve. Would Diaz choose the prudent course and rid himself of the last threat to his schemes? Or would he cut his losses and take the chance that there was nothing Rutledge could find in the way of proof, however long he might go on searching?

“I don’t think he’ll trust a surrogate. I believe Diaz would prefer to kill me himself to be sure nothing goes wrong.”

“He hasna’ put a foot wrong. Ye told him that.”

“Yes, but his underlings have. I think the man we found in Chelsea was intended to be French, but something went wrong, and another man died in French’s place. The mistake was rectified, and the other man became a decoy, complete with French’s watch.”