Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

“He doesn’t have a brother. According to Somerset House.” And according to Mr. Belford.

“You are misinformed. The boy was taken in by Bob’s mother when his own mother died. No one bothers much with the arrangements of the poor. No lawyers come to smooth the way. But they grew up as brothers, and it was enough.”

Rutledge remembered the scowl on Rawlings’s face coming back from the village only a few days ago. What had been in the letter he’d received? News he didn’t want to hear?

Was it Baxter who had been found dead in Chelsea? Had he been the man hired to kill Lewis French? It must have seemed to be an easy way to earn the money on offer, attacking an unsuspecting target.

But how did Baxter come to die? And where was French?

Who had made the decision to leave the body in Chelsea?

There was no time to consider whether Diaz was lying or telling the truth about Rawlings.

Rutledge said, “Did Rawlings go to the rooming house in London before he went to the Allington Lock? He must have done, to be so angry. He waited for me to come, you see. In spite of the storm. He didn’t want to miss his chance. But he wasn’t clever enough to impersonate a Maidstone Inspector on the telephone. Someone else did that. Still, it was sheer luck that I went to Kent, that someone else wasn’t sent instead. How did he persuade Mrs. Bennett to allow him to leave the estate?”

Diaz smiled. “She has a soft heart.”

Or hadn’t been told.

“How many other brothers did Rawlings have?”

“I have no idea. You could have asked him, if you hadn’t let him die.”

There had to be at least one other person at Diaz’s beck and call. Because if Baxter had been killed in Essex, who had brought his body to London and then hidden the motorcar in the quarry? Who had struck MacFarland on the back of the head and then taken a shot at Rutledge? Who had been watching to see if Rutledge left the Yard and headed for Kent? If it wasn’t Diaz himself, who was it?

Perhaps Belford knew. That would explain his urgent message.

Watching him, Diaz said, “You claimed you were my match. I have proved you are not.”

“I was Rawlings’s match,” Rutledge replied grimly.

“As you say, I have had trouble with underlings. But that has been . . . remedied.”

And Rawlings was dead; whatever he knew or had been a part of had died with him. Baxter was very likely dead. Rutledge was certain Diaz wouldn’t mourn his tools. If they knew too much, he might even be grateful to be rid of them. But would their loss make it more difficult to hire others?

With a nod, Diaz walked off in the direction of the orchard, angling away from Rutledge rather than moving past him.

Rutledge started toward his motorcar. Diaz had come to gloat. From some vantage point he’d seen Rutledge searching for him and must have guessed that Rawlings was dead. But he had been in the shrubbery for several minutes before he’d come forward into view.

Why?

Rutledge skirted one of the larger rhododendrons and was about to round the second when he heard a soft chink!

And in the same instant, Hamish shouted “ ’Ware .”

Rutledge stopped where he was.

Diaz had not taken the last opportunity to kill Rutledge with the pruning knife. Had he regretted that, and today taken advantage of the new chance Fate had unexpectedly provided him?

Rutledge looked around, saw nothing, and then moved his foot very gently forward.

There was that sound again, like a chain . . .

He could feel the cold sweat on his body.

Somewhere here there was a mantrap. And he had accidentally nudged part of the chain that held it in place. If he hadn’t heard that slight chink . . .

He saw a short stick under the azalea beside him, squatted with great care, and reached for it, swearing as he almost lost his balance.

Getting to his feet once more, he poked gently on either side of where his feet were planted, then nudged the stick ahead a few inches.

Nothing.

He dared not move.

Was that what Diaz had been busy about? Smoothing the leafy ground so that the trap couldn’t be seen?

He leaned a little forward, poking again. And then a little farther still, barely twelve inches from where he was standing.

Seeming to leap out of nowhere, the mantrap sprang shut. The jagged row of steel teeth closed on his stick, biting it in half with a vicious metallic snap that made Rutledge wince.

One more step—and his foot would have been mangled or his ankle broken. Would anyone have come to his aid, or would his calls have been ignored? In the house, out of hearing, Mrs. Bennett would have gone on with her day, and the men who served her would have said nothing, for fear of becoming involved in something that could have sent all of them back to prison.

Rutledge doubted Diaz would return before morning, leaving his prisoner to suffer.

Let him come then, and find nothing.

Rutledge was about to move on when he thought better of it.

Diaz considered himself to be very clever. And expecting Rutledge to find the first trap, he might well have set another where an unsuspecting foot would step straight into it.

There was nothing for Rutledge to do but retrace his steps, where he knew the ground to be safe, and cut through the trees in a different direction, coming to the motorcar in a roundabout fashion.

He set out, tense, expecting to hear another trap close just as he put his foot down. There had been time for Diaz to set one trap, perhaps two. But no more than that. Still, he couldn’t put his trust in any logic when it came to Diaz.

Rutledge reached the low outer wall of the park, swung himself over it, and walked down the main road until he came to the gates by the drive.

And still he looked over the motorcar, fairly certain that it was all right, but again, putting no trust in the man who had set that diabolical trap.

As he drove toward London, he carried with him the feeling—indeed the certainty—that he had not heard the last of Afonso Diaz.

Rutledge went directly to Chelsea, calling on Belford.

When the man came into the room, he looked his guest over and said, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you went bathing in your clothes.”

Rutledge smiled, glancing down at the wrinkles in his coat and trousers. “I was caught out in that storm last night.”

“Were you indeed? No wonder I never heard from you. We lost a tree just along the street. A small one, but I’d have preferred not to be under it when it came down.”

Belford went over to pour two glasses of whisky, saying, “Once again, I think you need this. Unless you’re concerned about that blow to the head?”

Rutledge laughed as he accepted his drink. “I can’t tell you how I got it. It was just—there—this morning.”

Belford stared at him for a moment, then realized that he was joking.

“I’ve finally got a foot in the door, so to speak. Or a man into that lodgings. The address you gave me. The former occupant of the room hadn’t paid his rent this week, and nor had he appeared. The owner was quite happy to store his belongings in the cellar. Not much there—my man had a look. Clothing, a photograph of two boys, a few books.”

“This was Baxter?” Rutledge asked.

“Yes. There had been another man with him that first night, but he was gone the next morning.”

“You mentioned him before. An accomplice? Or someone who needed a bed for one night?”

“Mrs. Rush, the owner of the house, didn’t know. He had little to say for himself when he arrived, and she was still in bed when he left. She remembered that someone called him Ben.”

“Interesting. But so far not useful. Baxter, by the way, was a foster brother to Rawlings.”