Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

But the attacker recovered quickly, and with an openmouthed roar that was lost in the torrent of water under their feet, he rushed at Rutledge before he could shove himself clear of the treacherous rail.

Neither man could find a foothold on the wet decking as they fought in a silent and desperate pantomime. Rutledge held on to his torch, the only weapon he had, but it was a grave disadvantage.

It was touch and go, and then Rutledge’s boot slipped, and he fell against the rail. Before he could recover, the other man slammed into him, bending him backward toward the swirling water below. Unable to find purchase for his feet on the decking, Rutledge was losing the battle. A fist in the abdomen knocked the air out of him, and he lost his grip on the torch. He could feel the man’s hands drop to his ankle, grunting as he lifted Rutledge’s right leg, the rail hard against his spine and his weight inexorably shifting.

Hamish was shouting in his ear. Rutledge jerked his body hard to the left, managed to break the man’s grip on his shoulder, and felt his hand brush the torch as he went down, his knee crashing into the decking. He caught the torch up just as the shift in momentum went his way. The other man, still holding Rutledge’s ankle, was pulled forward and then shoved back as Rutledge flexed his leg. His opponent was thrown against the rail, letting go, and Rutledge was on his feet, swinging the torch a second time. He missed the man’s head, his wet fingers slipping as he brought the torch around, but it struck the man’s ear solidly.

At the same time the light threw his attacker’s features into high relief. In that split-second glimpse as the man reared back, a hand to his head, Rutledge recognized him.

Breaking free, Rutledge brought his left fist down on the side of the man’s neck.

He staggered, just as a strong gust of wind caught him, turned him, and spun him backward. Reaching wildly for the rail, he caught it and, as Rutledge came toward him, lifted his feet and lashed out at him. But he judged it wrong, overbalanced, and hurtled over the rail.

Rutledge caught at his wrist to stop him, but their hands were wet, and there was no real grip. The pull of gravity was too strong, and the man pitched down into the swirling water, nearly pulling Rutledge with him.

Wheeling the torch toward the water, Rutledge saw Bob Rawlings’s face, eyes wide with fear, mouth open in a soundless cry, as he tried to reach the side of the pool. And then Rawlings was sucked under.

Rutledge waited, but his attacker didn’t come up. He circled the small pool with the beam and finally saw Rawlings. He was no longer struggling, his eyes fixed now, even as the light swept across them.

Rutledge stood there, his chest heaving from the effort he’d made to hold on to Rawlings. And then he turned and walked across the bridge, hatless, the rain pouring down his face.

It was a long way to the house, across the bridge over the sluice gates, then down the lock and over a smaller bridge to the far bank, and another forty feet to the cottage.

He had to pound on the wood to be heard. The keeper opened the door, said, “Good God. Come in,” and slammed it behind Rutledge as soon as he was inside.

“I’m dripping,” Rutledge said as water ran off his hair and clothes to puddle around his feet on the polished floor.

“Wait here.”

The keeper came back with several towels, and Rutledge did what he could to dry off enough to walk into the front room.

“Sit down,” the man said, then looked around as if to find a suitable place to offer his unexpected guest.

“I can’t stay,” Rutledge said. “Is the constable here? Or did he leave when the storm broke?”

“Constable? What constable? There’s been no one here since the last boat came through at noon.”

Rutledge said grimly, “There’s a man drowned in the fish pass. I need to report to the nearest police station.”

“Wait until the storm passes. There’s nothing anyone can do now. I’ll make tea.”

Rutledge let himself be persuaded, but he hadn’t been in the cottage for more than twenty minutes when the wind dropped and the rain was reduced to light showers. To the west the sky was brighter. Toward the Channel and France it was still an ominous purple-black.

He stood at the window of the front room, thinking about Rawlings.

The man couldn’t have followed him here unless he had been waiting outside the Yard for Rutledge to appear. And that made no sense.

What did make sense was a false call to the Yard. Markham had leapt to the conclusion that it was in regard to an inquiry in progress, an inquiry that had been thoroughly covered in the local newspapers, giving MacDowell’s name, Chambliss’s, and even Rutledge’s.

A few words— This is Chambliss in Maidstone. That inquiry in Aylesford? I think your man’s dead. He’s in the fish pass at the Medway Lock with a knife in him. Better send someone to have a look. A constable will meet your man there. We’ve got ropes and hooks coming. I’ve got to go, they’re waiting for me .

And if Rutledge hadn’t been sent, no harm done—it could all be put down to a vicious prank. A dead man in the fish pass? Just an old coat, and someone’s vivid imagination.

It could have been done. It had Diaz’s mark on it, simple, without a trace.

And it had almost worked.

It was a rather daring way to draw him out of London. But why was it Rawlings had been there, and not Diaz?

Rutledge set down his teacup, thanked the lockkeeper, and went back out into the rain, his clothes hardly dry from their earlier soaking.

He crossed over to the bridge above the sluice gates, and saw that the river was still in spate, the heavy rains upstream still rushing toward the sea.

Rutledge wasted no time searching for Rawlings’s body. His concern now was the downed tree blocking his motorcar. He discovered there was just—only just—enough room to drive out past the uprooted trunk. He walked around it, judging it, then went to the crank. His tires slithered and slipped in the torn, wet earth. Then the offside front wheel nearly came to grief, and for an instant he was certain he would lose control entirely. But the others stayed on firmer ground, and he shot up to the road in a spurt of speed that nearly took him across it and into a ditch.

By the time he’d managed to reach the main road, the rain had nearly stopped.

Just as Rutledge had expected, the Maidstone police knew nothing about a knifed man in the fish pass. Indeed, no one had telephoned the Yard.

Chambliss was furious that his name had been used in that connection, angrier still that he now had to deal with the aftermath of the hoax.

“We’ve had no luck in Aylesford. I’d have reported to the Yard if we had. The fool’s gone to ground. He could be in Chatham or Rochester. Or anywhere else. He knows he’ll be safer in custody, but he’s too frightened to come in. And if the dead man is who you tell me he is, he’s got nothing to do with our little problem.”

“London had no choice but to investigate. And I should have been in that fish pass, not Rawlings.”

“Yes, yes, I see that. And there was no way of knowing how bad that storm would be, was there? I don’t like my turf used for a spot of revenge. What sorts of cases have you been dealing with, then, that you’ve made enemies like this one?”

Chambliss didn’t expect an answer. He turned and began to issue orders, then said to Rutledge, “Are you staying? Until the body is brought out?”

It was the next morning before they could try to reach Rawlings’s body, and it was difficult at best, even with the river down, to hook the clothing and bring the body up the steep walled slope onto the earthen bank above.