Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

“Give me an hour.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you.”

Rutledge left, drove to St. Hilary, and went into MacFarland’s cottage.

The tutor’s reading glasses were exactly where he’d left them, and the books were relatively easy to find. A satchel under a window provided transportation, and Rutledge had just finished adding the last title when someone flung back the door and said, “Whoever you are, step outside and identify yourself!”

“Constable? Inspector Rutledge. I was just . . . looking for anything that might help us find out who attacked MacFarland.”

Constable Brooks stepped inside and saw the satchel in Rutledge’s hand.

“I’m sorry. We’ve had a rash of petty theft lately. I thought I might have caught the culprit.”

“Petty theft?”

“Small things. Someone went into a neighbor’s henhouse, milk was missing from a porch, another woman put a pie on the windowsill to cool—”

Rutledge interrupted. “Did this begin when MacFarland was attacked?”

“No, later on. I suspect it’s one of the lads I’ve had trouble with before. He’ll be in borstal before the summer is out, if he keeps on the way he’s going.”

“Thank you, Constable. Sorry to have given you trouble.”

“Any news of Miss Whitman?”

“None so far.”

“I don’t like thinking about her in prison.”

“Nor do I.”

“She’s not a killer,” Brooks persisted, taking up the satchel and following Rutledge back to where he’d left the motorcar. “Whatever her grandfather has done. Why didn’t you drive down to the cottage?”

“Because I didn’t want to draw attention to where I was heading. Since the cottage is empty.”

“Mr. MacFarland is better, isn’t he? You’ve got his spectacles there. I went to look in on him yesterday, and the doctor forbade me to see him. If he’d taken a turn for the worse, the doctor would have wished me to add it to my report.”

Rutledge smiled grimly. “Keep that to yourself. I think he could still be in danger.”

“Here, not my petty thief, hanging about for another chance at the tutor?”

“Not very likely. But someone went to a great deal of trouble to kill him, and the next try might succeed where this one failed.”

Brooks nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind, and see that the cottage is watched.”

Rutledge drove away, heading not for Dedham but for the village church, leaving his motorcar out of sight by the Rectory. Walking through the churchyard, he observed Miss Whitman’s cottage for a time, and then crossed the road once the sun had set.

Hamish said, “Ye have no right to search here.”

“I don’t intend to search. I can’t shake the feeling that she was hiding something before she left. She wouldn’t let me in—she was willing to go to prison in what she stood up in, no toothbrush, no comb, no change of clothes. It’s been worrying me, but now I think I may know why. If Standish was killed by French’s motorcar, French may have got away and eventually come to Valerie Whitman for help.”

“It’s no’ likely. They parted on bad terms.”

“Still, he couldn’t go to his fiancée, could he? She lives with her father, in the center of Dedham. And perhaps he isn’t up to dealing with his sister’s uncertain temper.”

“Then why did she no’ tell everyone that he isna’ dead? It would save her fra’ prison.”

“I don’t know. But I’m going to have a look.” Rutledge let himself in through the gate carefully, so it would not squeak, then walked up to the door. She had not locked it then—and it was still unlocked. He opened it quietly, stepped inside, and then pulled it closed.

Using his shielded torch, he walked from room to room, and he could smell her scent, he thought, in each of them. Lilacs? It was as if she had only just left. She had good taste in furnishings, fine pieces, with a few paintings that her father must have bought. China dishes in the cupboard, a pretty porcelain shepherdess on the shelf above the hearth, next to her an ormolu clock. All in their places, waiting silently for their owner to return.

The torch picked out a square of white linen lying on the table, flashing for an instant across the rich colors of embroidered pansies. How easy it would have been for someone to walk in here and take one of Miss Whitman’s handkerchiefs for later use. A handkerchief was very personal, dropped in a moment of intense anxiety or anger at the scene of a crime, or left under the seat of a motorcar after wiping one’s fingers. And this was known to be her favorite pattern. A simple thing, and so all the more readily damning.

He reached the stairs to the upper floor and hesitated. He didn’t feel comfortable going through her bedroom. And the house was silent. No one was here after all. He had misunderstood her reluctance—that strong sense of privacy that seemed to come so naturally to her—to open her door even to Scotland Yard, and he wanted to make amends by leaving as quickly as he could.

And then he heard a foot brush against something over his head.

Someone was there.

He waited, holding his breath so that he could hear better.

He’d been right.

There was another sound, as if whoever it was had heard him as well, and was trying to stay still. And the harder he tried, the harder it became.

Rutledge called, “Scotland Yard. I know you’re there. You might as well come down.”

Nothing, not even the sound of breathing.

Mice? Scenting him and looking for cover?

He said again, “I’m here to help. If you won’t come down, I shall have to come up.”

He waited for a whole minute, counting off the seconds in his head.

And then he turned for the stairs, starting warily up them, prepared for anything.

A window went up, and he could hear someone struggling to get out.

Rutledge went back down the stairs, raced through the front room, and reached the door as a foot came into view.

He caught the foot and pulled, and with an oath, someone came down almost on top of him and lay there for an instant, winded.

Rutledge turned the torch on the man’s face—and didn’t recognize him at all.

“Constable Brooks’s petty thief. Come on then.” He reached for the man’s collar and prepared to bring him to his feet.

“Get your damned hands off me. If you’re a policeman, I want to see proof.”

Rutledge reached into his pocket for his identification, and as he did, the man came to his feet, hit Rutledge with all his strength, and turned to run.

Rutledge still held the torch, and he swung it, intent on stopping the intruder any way he could. And then he remembered using the torch on Bob Rawlings just before he went over the railing, and he tempered the strength of the blow.

The intruder fell, gasping for breath, then struggled to rise.

“Now listen to me. I’m from Scotland Yard, and you’re coming with me to the police station—”

Breaking off, Rutledge stared.

The torch couldn’t have done the damage he saw in the man’s throat. He had aimed higher. But the ugly gash had broken open and was bleeding heavily.

“My God,” Rutledge said, jerking out his handkerchief and trying to stem the flow. “Hold on to that.” He pressed the man’s hand to the handkerchief, turning quickly back to the house. “Stay where you are, or you’re likely to bleed to death.”

A voice in the darkness said, “Rutledge? Is that you? What’s happened? I saw your motorcar.”

And the curate stepped through the gate into the pool of brightness that was Rutledge’s torch. Just then he saw the man on the path, and the handkerchief already dark with blood. “This man has been injured—Rutledge, did you do this?”