Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

“Where is Bennett now?”

“Our last report had him at that house in Surrey. Inherited property, old family. A younger son even went to the New World on one of the earlier colonization attempts. Virginia, I believe it was. We were satisfied that Mr. Bennett was no threat to anyone.”

“Was it his own incarceration that led him to take on these ex-convicts with nowhere else to go?”

“Possibly. Who knows? It didn’t concern us, and so we left him alone.”

“I think it’s time to inform Mr. and Mrs. Bennett that one of their lambs has strayed from the fold. It will be interesting to see what they have to say.”

Rutledge thanked Belford and drove directly to Surrey.

This time he knocked at the main door and waited to be received by Mrs. Bennett.

“Good morning, Inspector. Or is it afternoon?”

“Only a little after twelve,” he told her.

“Then I haven’t missed my luncheon. You must stay and join me.”

“Thank you. But I’ve come on a sad errand.”

“Indeed?” There was alarm in her eyes.

“Bob Rawlings has drowned in the River Medway.”

“Bob? But he’s in the gardens as we speak, helping Afonso Diaz. You must be mistaken.”

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “I saw the body for myself. And I’d met Rawlings here. I recognized him.”

“I don’t understand. He’s been worried about his brother. I know he slipped away once to look for him. I didn’t say anything. I felt that his love for his brother did him credit. But his brother lives in London. Not Kent.”

“Nevertheless. Has anyone else gone missing? That’s to say, has anyone else been given permission to leave because of a family matter? An ill mother in Essex, a sister with a sick child in London?”

She smiled. “Inspector, I trust my staff, and they come to me with their worries. But Bob has been very steady, very conscientious. He’s even confessed to me that he was very much aware of how he’d ruined his life and how grateful he has been for this second chance. If he broke his parole to me, it was done out of love for his brother. I will not hold that against him.”

Her description of Rawlings was very different from Rutledge’s encounters with the man.

“She’s blinded by her good deed,” Hamish said. “She willna’ see that she’s been betrayed.”

“There’s another matter of some importance, while I’m here,” Rutledge said. “I’d like to speak to your husband, if he’s at home.”

“Alas, he’s in Glasgow. Something to do with a prize bull he was interested in buying. Could I help you?”

“Does he own a motorcycle?”

“A motorcycle? Yes, of course, he used to race before the war. A very dangerous sport. I was happy when he gave it up. But he kept the beast, I think to pretend he might someday take up the sport again.” There was a sadness in her eyes. “Men seldom like to grow old, Inspector. Or infirm. That was his youth, that motorcycle. And so I said nothing.”

“I understand he was interned during the war. In Berlin.”

“Yes indeed. It kept him out of the war. He’s some years older than I, but he would have been one of the first to enlist. They took men of forty, you know. If they had a useful skill. And he spoke German, because he was sometimes there on business. Perhaps it was wrong of me, but I knew my husband was safe where he was, for the duration. The Germans didn’t mistreat their prisoners. Still, he never wanted to go back to Germany when the war ended and he was sent home. He said it had changed too much and he was afraid the changes boded ill for the future.”

“Do you have cows, Mrs. Bennett? I’ve never seen them.”

“Of course we don’t. That’s why he’s in Glasgow, to look into starting a herd.”

Rutledge was listening to Hamish, who for once was agreeing with him.

“Thank you, Mrs. Bennett. Could you call your staff together? I’d like very much to speak to them.”

“Whatever for? I can answer any questions you might have. They don’t care for policemen, which isn’t surprising.”

“Nevertheless.”

In the end she had him ring the bell, and one by one her staff appeared.

Rutledge waited until they were all present, even Diaz, before saying quietly, “It’s my sad duty to inform you that Bob Rawlings has died. I know this will come as a shock to you, and I’m sorry. But I know you would want to be told.”

Mrs. Bennett gasped, as if finally taking in the news. Then she said, “We must bring him here. To his home. He would want that.”

“How did he die?” one man asked, frowning. “He didn’t—he wasn’t here last night, but we didn’t know he was ill.”

The accent was Cornish.

Rutledge said, “He had gone to Kent on a private matter. Perhaps Mr. Diaz can tell you more about that. He was caught in the storm and drowned.”

Another man, this one very much a Londoner, said, “I didn’t know he knew anyone in Kent.”

Rutledge turned to the man, who had been pointed out as Mrs. Bennett’s cook when he had come here the first time. “Was he worried about anything? Not eating well?”

The man coughed and said hoarsely, “He ate well. Always.”

Rutledge thanked them and let them go.

As the door closed behind them, he said, “I don’t remember—what was your cook’s crime?”

“Harry? He was a junior clerk in a law firm. He told me he’d embezzled a sum of money to help pay for his mother’s care. Wrong of him, I know, but a man who has nowhere to turn can be tempted. He served his sentence in full.”

He had also most certainly been the voice of Inspector Chambliss on the telephone call to the Yard. Well spoken and convincing, however hard he’d tried to conceal that just now.

“Do you have a telephone?” Rutledge asked.

“Yes, we do. My husband had it installed after the war.”

“Perhaps Mr. Bennett could call me at the Yard and clear up the small matter I’d come to ask him about.”

“You must wait until he returns from Glasgow. And there’s poor Bob to see to. We have a responsibility, you see.” She reached for a handkerchief. Rutledge tried to see what was embroidered on it. Lilacs? “I can’t quite believe . . .”

“I understand.”

With that he took his leave.

Harry the cook might have made that telephone call, but he was not the third man in the plot. The household could do without a gardener, but the cook? Never.

The net was closing on Diaz. But not fast enough.

When Rutledge returned to the Yard, Gibson met him in the first-floor passage and said, “You should know. Gooding’s trial begins Monday morning.”

“So soon?” It was a shock.

“Mr. French was a prominent man in some circles. And the case against Gooding is strong. There appeared to be no reason for further delay.”

“The bodies of the victims haven’t been found.”

“The hope is, once he’s tried and convicted, he’ll tell us where they are. To keep his granddaughter from being tried as his accomplice. If he’s condemned, he has nothing to lose. He’ll do anything then to save her from the gallows.”

But if he hadn’t killed French or Traynor, then Gooding had nothing to bargain with for Valerie Whitman’s life.

Chapter Twenty-five

Rutledge cursed Diaz all the way back to his office.

And he knew, without the insistent voice of Hamish in the back of his mind, that the fault was his.

Rawlings was dead. There had been no way around killing him, but Rutledge had wanted him alive. Still, someone had gone to Kent and brought back the telltale motorcycle. Diaz still had a henchman he could rely on.

Turn it around, Rutledge told himself. Upside down.