Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

He said after a moment, “I took too many trains then. Packed with frightened men on their way to be slaughtered. Hours of watching them struggle to be brave. Watching them write last letters, pray to whatever God they believed in, or simply sit, staring at their own fate. I swore I’d never take another one again if I could help it.”

It was as close to the truth as he could come. He waited for the Acting Chief Superintendent to react.

Markham studied him closely for a moment, then nodded. “I appreciate your candor. All right, drive if it suits you. What I want is results. I don’t care, within reason, how you go about getting them.”

Rutledge managed to thank him and get himself out of the office. It had begun to close in on him, making him want to stand up and fight his way out, away from those all-seeing green eyes and the feeling that he couldn’t breathe. The panic of being cornered with no possible escape and disgracing himself into the bargain.

Once in the passage, he took as deep a breath as he could manage and tried to steady himself. He could feel the perspiration breaking out on his forehead, his mouth dry as a desert.

And then as swiftly as it had come, his anxiety dissipated as he walked on to his office, grateful not to encounter anyone along the way. But he could feel his heart still hammering in his chest for several minutes afterward.

Essex. He forced himself to think about the journey ahead. He began to collect what he would need to take with him, and that steadied him. Markham had come too close to the truth. For an instant, Rutledge had wondered if Bowles had said something to Markham. Or if the Acting Chief Superintendent had found something in his file. Rutledge had always suspected there must be something there.

He shook himself. His own imagination had made more of the situation that it had warranted.

Walking out the door, Rutledge located Gibson and told him where he was going and why. The sergeant listened and then asked, “Should I advise the Inspector in Norfolk that you’ll be looking into his missing man while you’re in Essex?”

“It will depend on what I discover about French. So far no one seems to be alarmed about him. If he’s as busy a man as he appears to be, it’s odd that a week has passed without someone needing to contact him. But then his senior clerk is perfectly competent.”

Gibson nodded. “Then I’ll hold off.”

Rutledge started down the stairs. And stopped to add, “I’d like you to look into Frederick Gooding, the clerk at French, French, and Traynor.”

“Any particular reason?” Gibson asked.

Rutledge considered the question. There was nothing he could put his finger on except for that one change in the man’s demeanor. “Thoroughness,” he said finally and continued on his way down the stairs.

He went home, packed his valise, wrote a note to his sister, Frances, to drop into a postbox on his way, and set out for Essex.

He had friends on the Thetford Road outside Bury St. Edmunds, so he knew a good bit about the general area. Dedham had been listed in the Domesday Book as a Saxon town, its history even older than that by several centuries. Situated on the River Stour with a year-round ford, it had prospered as an agricultural community and from an influx of Flemish weavers. Wool had made it rich, like so many towns, and when wool was no longer king, it had settled into genteel obscurity. But the town had produced one famous son, the artist John Constable.

Traffic was light, and Rutledge crossed the Thames before stopping for a cup of tea and a sandwich. He’d had nothing since breakfast, and the pub was pleasant, with a terrace in back that ran down to a little stream. The sun was warm, the air benevolent, and he was tempted to stay longer. But it was important to reach Dedham before news of his visit to the clerk in London came to their ears. The firm had a telephone, and it was not unlikely for the family to have a way of contacting London when French was in Essex.

The shortening of the summer days caught up with Rutledge, and it was dusk before he drove through Dedham and found the French property well outside the town. At the turning, he looked to see if there was another village beyond the house where he could stop for the night. But if there was, he couldn’t pick out lights through the wood that extended in that direction.

A large scrolled F adorned the graceful wrought-iron gates, and griffins stood watch on the tall stone posts, their wings folded.

The gates stood open, and he drove up the long, looping drive until he came to the house. It was not as large as he’d expected, but the size was perfect for the proportions. The dark red brick, faced with white stone, was illuminated by his headlamps as he swung into the loop of the drive. Lamps were lit on either side of the door, and the knocker he saw, as he got out and walked up the two shallow steps, was in the shape of a tropical flower. Hibiscus?

He lifted it and let it fall. After a time, an older woman dressed in black opened the door to him and asked his business.

Rutledge said, “I’ve come to speak to Mr. French. Mr. Rutledge.”

“I’m afraid you’ve missed him. He returned to London ten days ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anyone else in the family in residence at the moment?”

“Miss French is here. Shall I ask if she’s receiving visitors?”

“Yes, thank you.” He smiled.

She was not taken in and left him standing there, the door ajar.

From where he stood, Rutledge could see part of a polished wood floor that ran down the left side of a staircase—the carved mahogany newel post was just visible. A painting graced the wall between two closed doors, and the table beneath it was Queen Anne, he thought. The painting itself appeared to be modern rather than the usual Italianate landscape. As in the style of the French Impressionists, the subject was not the French countryside but a vast grassy slope, grazing sheep in the distance, and in the foreground, an old man dressed in what appeared to be a hooded cape, leaning on a shepherd’s crook. There was something about the figure that spoke of such utter loneliness that Rutledge turned away.

It seemed that Howard French and his descendants had not flaunted their newfound wealth by renovating and enlarging their country house. No grand lobby with marble floors and statuary, to awe the visitor. He wondered if that indicated how little they used this house, or if they preferred to be comfortable here and entertained in London. An interesting insight into the man who had given his heirs a timepiece to be passed down to posterity. Solid, dependable, useful.

The maid returned to tell him that Miss French would receive him in the sitting room.

He followed her to a door down the passage. She tapped lightly and then opened it to announce him.

And the sitting room showed that he’d been right about the house. It was comfortable and well used, although the carpet and furnishings were of the best quality.

The woman standing by the hearth didn’t resemble the portraits he’d seen in London in any way except for her coloring. Her features were—he couldn’t be kinder than that—plain. And the dress she wore, a dark blue that made her skin appear sallow, did nothing for her appearance.

She said, in a pleasant but cool voice, “Mr. Rutledge.” And waited for him to speak.

“I apologize for coming to call at such a late hour,” he said. “I need to speak to your brother, Mr. French.”

“As I think you were told, he left for London last week.”

“Yes, which surprises me, as he wasn’t at the firm’s offices on Leadenhall Street.”

“It was a private matter that took him to the city.” She waited again, but when he didn’t fill the silence, she added, “I was not best pleased, I can tell you. He left me with the final preparations for our cousin’s arrival.”