Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

“Do you remember anything at all about the attack on you?”

“Nothing. I seem to recall hearing a rustling in the high grass just beyond the arbor. I thought it was an animal foraging. We have quite a number of squirrels and other creatures that come quite close to the house. I sometimes watch them from my dining room window. And so I paid no heed,” he ended, regret in his voice.

Rutledge left soon after.

He found Agnes French at home, and reported to her that MacFarland had had a stroke as a result of his injuries. “I’m told you got a favorable report this morning. A sad turn of events.”

“Well, in a way it’s Mr. MacFarland’s fault,” she replied. “I’ve mentioned to him several times that he should clear out some of the undergrowth beneath the trees and open up the section of his property closest to our park. He harbors stoats and hares and heaven knows what else there, and we have trouble on our side of the wall because he refuses to do as I ask.”

Rutledge smiled. He had learned to expect Miss French to feel that other people’s problems were of their own making.

She thanked him for his news, sad though it was, and he left, glancing up at the painting above the Queen Anne table. He thought perhaps it had been painted in Madeira, which explained its pride of place there by the door. And he was struck again by the strong emotions caught by the artist.

He had put off the reason for being here in Essex as long as he could. Turning the bonnet of the motorcar toward the church and the cottage where Valerie Whitman lived, he prepared himself for what had to be done.

Walking up the path to the door, he remembered how she had reacted to visitors coming out of curiosity rather than compassion. He would pay her the courtesy of taking her away without making it obvious that she was his prisoner, destined for a London prison.

Hamish said, “She willna’ care for that either.”

And Rutledge thought Hamish was right.

Knocking at the door, he waited patiently for Miss Whitman to answer his summons. When she didn’t, he knocked again, a little louder this time. She still refused to come to the door. He was reaching for the latch when it opened just the barest crack.

“Go away. I’ve nothing more to say to you.”

“Will you walk with me? I’ve left my motorcar on the far side of the churchyard, as usual. I’d like to talk to you where your neighbors can’t hear us.”

“Unless you’ve come to tell me that my grandfather has been released from prison and his name cleared, I don’t want to listen to anything you have to say.”

“Then let me in, and I’ll tell you why I’m here.”

“No!” Her voice was sharp. “Please, will you go away and leave me in peace?”

“I can’t, Miss Whitman. I’ll stay here on your doorstep until you agree to come with me.”

Her voice changed in an instant, low and hurt. “Have you come to arrest me?”

“Yes.”

“But why? I’ve done nothing. I can’t leave St. Hilary just now. If I do—if I do, I shan’t be able to face any of my neighbors ever again. Haven’t you caused enough trouble?”

“I’m sorry. I’m a policeman, Miss Whitman. I do what I have to do for the sake of the law.” Surprised at the depth of his apology, he added, “I don’t want to do this. But I’ve been given orders, and I must obey them.”

She made to close the door, but his boot was in the crack, preventing it.

“Give me time to pack a few things,” she pleaded.

“Once this door is shut, I can’t rely on its opening again.”

Suddenly angry with him, her eyes a blazing green in her pale face, she reached behind her for a shawl, then flung the door wide enough to step out in front of him before pulling it shut with a snap behind her.

“I’ll go as I am,” she told him, and set off down the path toward the churchyard.

“Miss Whitman—”

Catching her up, he walked beside her in silence until they had crossed the road and entered the churchyard. He wanted to take her arm and make her face him, to tell her that he was trying to free her grandfather and keep her out of prison. But he couldn’t do either of those things.

They were beside the church when she finally spoke. “I daresay they won’t let me have my own things in a prison, anyway. I’ve read about the way the Suffragettes were treated. It was inhuman. I don’t expect conditions have improved in ten years.”

“A little” was all he could say. The warders would be cold, distrustful, and inured to pleas of innocence, and the other inmates would be of a class she had surely never known.

The curate was coming toward them as they rounded the apse, a broad smile on his face. “Well met. I’ve just finished the painting. How does it look?”

And only as he finished his greeting did he realize that there was something wrong.

Rutledge said easily, “I’ve come to bring Miss Whitman to London. I’m afraid I can’t stop. But from here, it appears to be quite good workmanship.”

The curate turned to Miss Whitman. “Is everything all right?” he asked.

“Nothing has been right since my grandfather was accused of murder.”

“For what it’s worth, I can’t imagine that he— I mean to say, I don’t know him well, but it seems impossible . . .” His voice trailed off in embarrassment.

“Thank you. That was kind,” she rallied enough to say.

He walked with them the rest of the way to the motorcar and, with an expression of concern on his face, watched as Rutledge helped Valerie Whitman into her seat. As if mindful of his duty, he sprang forward to turn the crank. “Is there anything I could do? Please tell me.”

But she looked away, not answering him.

And then Rutledge was driving down the lane toward the main road, his face grimly set. Beside him, for the first time, Valerie Whitman’s calm cracked, and she began to cry, turning away to look out the window, so that he couldn’t see the depth of her despair.

Chapter Twenty-three

Rutledge found the turning for Flatford Mill and stopped up the hill from the river as he had before.

Valerie Whitman, alarm in her eyes, asked, “Why are we here? I thought you were taking me to London.”

“I am. We can afford a few minutes of grace. I shouldn’t worry if I were you. Let’s walk, shall we?”

He had to persuade her to go with him. They had reached the farm when he heard another vehicle stopping where he’d left his own. He thought it might be a motorcycle.

Someone had been following him at a discreet distance ever since he’d left Dedham behind, and he was worried. He had felt the presence, seen flashes of sunlight on metal, and yet no one caught up with him whether he slowed or sped up. He hadn’t expected Diaz to act so quickly. Not when there was a witness in the motorcar with him.

He urged her across the bridge and to the far side of the river, where there was a little more protection. The way they had just come was in the open. The reflection of the brick mill and the miller’s cottage was so perfect that it might have been a photograph. Not a ripple stirred it, and despite the age of the building and the need for repair, it was still a scene Constable would have recognized. But Miss Whitman ignored it.

They had just reached the trees when she stopped and refused to go on.

“What is it? I won’t go another step until you tell me.”

“The trees just there,” he said harshly, taking her arm and forcing her ahead of him. She turned on him, ready to struggle against his grip, when he saw something—someone—move to the top of the slope across the stream. But he had reached the shadows now, no longer a target for anything short of a rifle.