Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

He made his way to the servants’ stairs and chose that route up to the bedrooms. They were narrow, and he was a tall man. It took a little time to reach the first floor quietly, and there he stood in the passage once more, getting his bearings.

If he were Baxter, where would he be?

Not in the ground-floor rooms, surely, where he would be cornered if Rutledge had already dealt with Diaz.

At the top of the main staircase, then.

The passage was carpeted. Still, Rutledge took off his boots and left them in the servants’ stairwell. Walking in his stocking feet, he stayed close to the wall, a few steps at a time. The main stairs were just ahead.

Movement caught his eye. Someone was there, sitting on the top step, watching the main door. Waiting for him to unlock it and walk in.

But where was Frances? In one of the bedrooms? It was likely—she wasn’t the target, he was. And hurt or unhurt, she must wait. His first duty was to deal with Baxter and keep him alive, if it was humanly possible to do so. If the anger racing through every nerve ending would let him stop in time.

Baxter had a split second of warning, no more, wheeling in time to see Rutledge hurling himself forward in a tackle that pinned Baxter just as he was rising.

They rolled, and Rutledge saw the flash of a knife. Silent, deadly.

He was on his feet first, Baxter just that second slower, and they closed, Rutledge keeping the knife hand well away from his face and throat. But Baxter had recovered, was quick now, rearing back for better purchase, and Rutledge felt the blade cut through the cloth of his coat and plunge toward his chest.

The wound wasn’t deep, but it was bleeding, the breastbone hurting. Rutledge threw himself at Baxter before the knife had been fully withdrawn, catching the man’s wrist and turning the blade back, forcing it toward Baxter’s throat.

He had a fleeting thought, that Frances wouldn’t care for blood on her carpet, and the knife slid sideways into Baxter’s shoulder instead. The man yelped, twisted away, and Rutledge went after him, catching the knife wrist once more and pinning it to his side. Baxter, smaller and more agile, twisted away again, just as Rutledge landed a very solid blow. It caught Baxter on the side of the head rather than the jaw, and it sent him reeling backward.

Rutledge had a flashback to Rawlings, turning in the air, just as Baxter lost his balance and went backward down the stairs.

Rutledge went after him. Baxter hit the landing and stayed where he was, lying on his side. The knife was near his free hand, and Rutledge kicked it the rest of the way down the stairs.

“Help me,” Baxter said, his voice a thread. “Something’s wrong.” He frowned, tried to move, and cried out instead. “It hurts.”

Bending over him, Rutledge couldn’t judge how badly the man was injured, but he took no chances, keeping well clear of Baxter’s feet. He said roughly, “Where is she?”

Baxter misunderstood. “He’s in the roses. When the French woman went to London. The staff’s half day. For her to take the blame if the rest went wrong.” He coughed, and blood frothed on his lip. Raising frightened eyes to Rutledge’s face, he whispered, “I can’t breathe.” He tried to clutch at Rutledge. “Don’t let me die. I’ll do anything. Please.”

For putting Frances in danger, dying was what the man deserved, Rutledge thought grimly. But the Yard needed him alive. And so did Gooding.

Judging Baxter’s weight, Rutledge picked him up. Baxter writhed, screaming in agony, and Rutledge almost dropped him. “Be still. I’m trying to help you.” He managed to carry him down the stairs, got the door opened.

Pausing there, he called, “Frances? I’m here—I’ll be back.”

Baxter was in Casualty ten minutes later, under the eye of a constable Rutledge dragooned into guarding him. He waited only long enough for Baxter to be examined.

“He’ll live,” the doctor said. “Broken ribs, possibly a punctured lung—”

“He is in charge and will have to stand trial. Make certain he lives,” Rutledge ordered.

Before the doctor could answer him, Rutledge was racing out of Casualty to his motorcar, driving at speed to the house, pulling up by the door, and dashing back inside, cursing himself for not having taken five minutes to find Frances. If she’d heard the fight and Baxter’s fall down the stairs, she would be frightened alone here.

It took more than five minutes. It took him nearly three quarters of an hour.

He began searching on the first floor. It was where Baxter had been waiting, and he would have been guarding his prisoner as well. But there was no sign of her in any of the bedrooms. In her dressing room, he saw at once that she must have packed several bags. They were missing as well. Spaces in her closets confirmed this.

Where had they taken her?

He went through the bedroom a second time. No signs of a scuffle, no overturned furniture, the bed showing only the indentations of the valises. Who had packed them? Was she still in the house, or had they already taken her away?

Frantic, he went downstairs, calling her name as he opened the door to the small drawing room.

And the first thing he saw was an envelope resting on the mantelpiece. His name, her handwriting.

He crossed the room in three strides, took down the envelope, and tore it open. He could feel the cold fist in the pit of his stomach as he unfolded the notepaper.

Ian, darling,

You’re away again, and Sergeant Gibson wasn’t there to tell me where. I’m off to spend the weekend with Peter and his parents. Wish me well.

Much love,

Frances

She hadn’t been at home.

They hadn’t found her here. But they’d taken the scarf to convince him they had.

Rutledge could feel himself shaking, first with relief, then with helpless laughter.

She need never know how frightened he’d been. She need never know what had taken place in the house she considered her home and her sanctuary.

Hamish said, “Can ye be sae sure she’s no’ under duress?”

The niggling doubt was there. Along with his need to hear her voice.

He told himself that if she’d been forced to write that note, she’d have given him Simon’s name, not Peter’s. A warning. All the same, he would think of an excuse tomorrow to call the Lockwoods.

He was turning away, the note still in his hand, when he saw the blood on his shirt. He had forgot that he’d been stabbed.

Going out to the motorcar, he retrieved his torch and spent the next half hour on his knees, making certain there was no telltale blood for Frances or her maid to find. He marked the few spots and scrubbed them out himself.

Finally satisfied, he left the house.

He spent another hour dealing with Baxter, then reported to the Yard that the man was in custody and asked Billings to see to the paperwork.

“Where is Diaz?” he asked the Inspector.

“He’s under lock and key. Not without a struggle. He told me you were a man tormented by ghosts. What did he mean by that?”

For an instant Rutledge could think only of Hamish. Not a ghost, but a haunting nevertheless of the living by the dead. And then he remembered the ghosts of dead shepherds calling from the edge of the cliff. The piping of seabirds coming in to nest at night. He said, forcing amusement into his voice, “It’s a legend of Madeira. Meant as a taunt. That I was chasing a will-o’-the-wisp.”

“He’s a nasty piece of work, I’ll say that for him,” Billings told Rutledge.

And then Rutledge went home.

The flat felt stuffy, but there was no lingering scent of applewood smoke.

He dressed the thin cut on his chest and went to bed.