Proof of Guilt (22 page)

“Do you remember that when you were a child someone came to the house looking for your grandfather? He caused such an uproar the constable had to be called to restrain him.”

“Is that true? Who told you such a thing? Was it Gooding?”

“I don’t know that Gooding was told. It was something your grandfather wanted to keep in the family.”

“How odd. Lewis had nightmares when he was a child. He said he saw Papa with blood all over his shirt. It was summer, not quite dark, late as it was. Papa was standing below the Nursery window, talking to the doctor and the constable, and Lewis thought they were about to take him away. They kept urging him into the doctor’s carriage, and he refused to go. Michael’s new tutor was here the next morning. Mama brought him up to meet us, not Papa, and Lewis was frightened that something had happened. Lewis began to cry and ask for Papa. Mama told him not to be silly, he’d see Papa at tea. After she’d gone downstairs again, Lewis asked the tutor if he’d come because Papa was dead. The tutor was quite shocked. He told Lewis that he’d spoken to Papa at breakfast. But we didn’t see him until the next afternoon at tea. Lewis refused to go to sleep that night and several nights thereafter, afraid the dream would come back again. I know because he was still in the Nursery and kept me awake as well. But I don’t think it did reoccur. Perhaps because it wasn’t a dream after all. But who came here? Was it someone we knew?”

“It was someone connected to the winemaking business in Funchal.”

“Well then, I expect that was the end of it. Nothing was ever said about trouble with the Funchal part of the business. I’m sure Matthew would know—would have known if there was.” She dismissed the matter, returning to her earlier grievances. “I had a note from Miss Townsend. She wanted to know if I’d had news of Lewis. I had to be the one to inform her that Lewis was very likely dead and that Gooding had been taken up for his murder. If she really cared, she would have come rather than write. It would have saved me the trouble of having to explain such things on paper.”

He said, “Have you spoken to Miss Whitman again?”

“No, nor shall I.”

“If Gooding was Chief Clerk in London, why should he give it all up just because your brother preferred Miss Townsend to Miss Whitman?”

“He dotes on Valerie. Of course he does. Everyone always did. Even my father.”

Rutledge wondered, not for the first time, if Agnes French could have killed her brother and purposely prepared for Gooding and Valerie Whitman to take the blame. After all, it was a woman’s touch, to leave the handkerchief in the motorcar, to cast the blame on Miss Whitman.

That brought him full circle to the fact that her maid would know if she was away for more than a few hours. The cook, the maids—impossible.

He said, “How long has your maid been in your service?”

“Since I was ten. She was eighteen at the time, and my mother thought I would benefit from having someone look after me. I expect she felt that Nan would keep me out of trouble, but we were soon fast friends.”

And fast friends would lie for one another.

Not just childhood peccadilloes but murder as well?

Hamish said, “Did she kill her mother and father? She had the keeping of them, and could ha’ rid herself of them when they were too much trouble.”

She was just selfish enough that it was possible. And her brothers left the care of them to her. Surely the doctor would have caught anything unusual. Besides, they had been long dead, there would have been no way to prove that suspicion one way or another.

Still—it was an interesting argument. He decided to probe.

“You cared for your parents, in their last illnesses. It must have been very difficult for you.”

“It was. My father could have afforded the best nursing care. But he wouldn’t put out the money. He told me that I could take over the sickroom and care for Mama. It was very difficult. She was not always the best of patients. But it was my duty, and I did it.”

“Again, with your father.”

“Oh, yes, Michael and Lewis decided between them that it would be for the best. I was never very close to my father. It was rather nice in some ways for me to see him dependent on me.”

She was very open about her feelings. Would she be, if she had been guilty of their deaths?

He couldn’t be sure. She was so supremely certain that life had given her less than she deserved, that she might not see the pitfalls of being too truthful about all her emotions.

Rutledge left soon after, still no closer to an answer that satisfied him. All that he had was further proof of Afonso Diaz’s presence in the house.

He knew, when he’d chosen to see Miss French first, that he was using it as an excuse to put off calling on Valerie Whitman.

Driving on to her house, he tried to think what he could say that would help Miss Whitman through this dark time, with her grandfather facing murder charges and her own situation more than a little precarious.

But when he reached her door and knocked, he was no closer to an answer to that question.

As she opened the door narrowly, Rutledge could see for himself how stressful the past few days had been. There were circles under her eyes, and their color was less green now, more a dull brown. It wasn’t surprising that she hadn’t been sleeping well.

“Why have they done this to us?” she asked when she saw who was on her doorstep. “I have had enough of people coming to commiserate. Or so they tell me. Sometimes I think it’s more like gloating. Miss Townsend was one of the first, out of kindness. I felt so terrible for her. She was to marry Lewis. It must have been a shock to hear that my grandfather had killed him. She did say that she had come against her father’s wishes. He was upset, she told me, because he didn’t care to have his patients making comments to him about his daughter’s choice of husband.”

“He seems to be a rather hard man.”

“He’s a good doctor. That’s why people have tolerated his manners. Or lack of them.”

“Do you believe your grandfather murdered Lewis French?”

Her cheeks flushed. He couldn’t be sure it whether it was anger or something else.

“Do you wish to gloat too? I thought— You warned me.”

“The warning still stands. It’s believed he must have had an accomplice.”

She made to close the door. “I don’t need to hear this sort of thing.”

“I’m trying to get to the truth,” he said in self-defense, but she shook her head.

“Or hoping that I’ll blurt out something that will help you prove he’s guilty.” She glanced up the street and saw a neighbor watching her. Angrily she said to Rutledge, “Did it ever occur to you that the real truth is that Lewis wanted the whole business, not just the London half? And that he tried to kill Matthew himself? Or have him killed? And the reason you can’t find Lewis’s body is that he’s in hiding somewhere until my grandfather is hanged?”

And then, apparently wishing that she could take back her own cruel words, she went inside, shutting the door with a firmness that was little short of a slam.

As a defense for her grandfather, her argument was sound enough. It would explain both Traynor’s death and French’s disappearance.

And if that was true, it would mean that the body in Dungeness was Traynor’s. But what had she said?
Or have him killed . . .
It would be more consistent with the man French was to hire someone to see that Traynor never landed in England.

Rutledge nodded to the neighbor who had been watching the exchange with Valerie Whitman and drove back to Dedham. This time he found Miss Townsend alone in her father’s house.

“My father’s at a lying-in,” she said, clearly hesitant about inviting him in. And remembering how her father had behaved when he had called the first time, Rutledge could understand her concern as she added, “And my mother is calling on a friend.”

“Would you prefer to walk with me? This is police business, Miss Townsend. Your father can have no objection to your helping us in our inquiries.”

She smiled tentatively, hiding sudden tears, and invited him into the parlor.

“It’s true then about Lewis. And Mr. Gooding. I thought perhaps Miss French was being cruel. I wanted to go and speak to her, but my father felt it would only point up our connection with the family if I did. I even went to see Miss Whitman, taking my bicycle and hoping no one gossiped about that to my father.”

“We have every reason to think it could be true. But we have no proof that your fiancé is dead,” he said gently.

“I’m sure he must be,” she replied forlornly. “Why wouldn’t he try to reassure me that he was all right, if that were the case?”

Because, Hamish was pointing out, the man seemed to be as selfish as his sister.

Rutledge answered, “He may be frightened. It’s possible that Gooding killed the wrong man, thinking it was Lewis, and he’s now in hiding.”

“But Mr. Gooding is in custody. Lewis should feel safe now.”

“Have you met Matthew Traynor? How did he and Mr. French get on?”

“I was to meet him when he came to England. There was to be a party. But of course that’s not going to happen, either. The only comment I remember Lewis making about him was that he was Michael’s man and saw things Michael’s way still. They were of an age, you see. Matthew and Michael. As Lewis was in charge of the London office, the son of the founder, he felt he should be shown more—I don’t know—deference? Mr. Traynor was more isolated on Madeira and should have to change with the times. With Prohibition in the United States, new markets were essential.”

It was true, the Act had gone into effect in January of the current year. And exporters must be feeling the loss of revenue rather strongly, with much of Europe still in shambles. Rutledge could see that Lewis French had been discussing this situation with either Miss Townsend or her father. Was that what had been on his mind—the troubling problem he and Traynor would have to address?

Rutledge said, “I’m sorry that I have no information for you now, but I’ll send word as soon as I know what has become of Mr. French.”

“You’re very kind,” she said, tears spilling from under her lashes. “I’d even asked my father to speak to Scotland Yard, but he refused.” She bit her lip. “He has had one brush with scandal. He doesn’t wish to be connected with another one.”

“Will you tell me what that first one was about?”

The color rising quickly in her fair skin, she said, “He drank more, during an illness of my mother’s. And a patient nearly died. He claimed that he was overcome by worry, but I knew that it had been happening for some time, even before Mama became ill. It was so embarrassing for both of us. Friends turned away, I was taunted by other children. I had even seen my own father too drunk to stand, and that was horrifying. But I lied and told everyone that he had never been overcome by drink. When Mama recovered, he stopped. I was so grateful I’d have done anything for him.”

Her father had put her in a very untenable situation. And now, to avoid new scandal, he’d given his daughter none of the support she needed to help her cope with Lewis’s loss.

“It was rather awful.” She glanced uneasily at the clock, and he knew she was eager for him to be gone before her father came home unexpectedly and recognized the motorcar in front of his door, or her mother returned to find Rutledge in the drawing room. “And then to wonder if Lewis had deserted me as well.”

“It isn’t desertion, if it’s beyond his control.”

Thanking her, he left. She had none of the defenses of Valerie Whitman and wasn’t self-centered enough to stand up to what was happening, the way Agnes French would survive.

He could feel pity for her.

But
desertion
brought with it a memory of the night before. Of Frances’s confession that she was afraid to leave him to his own devices. Of the sweeping loneliness their conversation had evoked.

He wanted his sister to be happy, to have children and a marriage that was all she could wish for. It was important to him—they had always been close, and he loved her very much.

Using her as a shield against the darkness—someone who was always there when he needed her, someone who didn’t know the truth, who could cheer him up with a word or sweep him off to join her friends for dinner when he was in despair, who shared a childhood with him, safe ground they could revisit without shadows—perhaps he had lost sight of the woman his sister was.

It would be hard. But he would give her away when the time came and say nothing.

He had seen enough of jealousy in the last few weeks. It was not something he would ever let himself be guilty of.

Chapter Twenty

R
utledge was about to leave Dedham for London when he saw the curate pedaling toward him, the market basket on his bicycle filled with purchases, including a bunch of carrots whose frothy tops swung back and forth in front of him like the bar of a metronome. Williams didn’t notice Rutledge at first, his mind clearly elsewhere. When he did, he nearly fell over trying to slow to a stop.

“You aren’t here to take Miss Whitman into custody? Are you?” he demanded.

“No. If it happens, the local police will see to it.”

“Dear God. I can’t take it in. Her grandfather—murder. I tried to talk to her, but she won’t open the door. I wanted to ask if I could do her marketing so that she wouldn’t have to face the whispers and the backs turning.” He gestured to his basket. “It’s the least I could do. And I’ve kept her in my prayers. Her grandfather as well. I don’t want to believe that Mr. French is dead. Murdered. It’s inconceivable.”

Rutledge said, “He hasn’t reappeared. There’s no other conclusion we can draw.”

“He could be in hiding. Frightened, not sure where he can put his trust.”

“Then why hasn’t he come forward now that Gooding is in custody?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps the police believe it was Gooding who tried to kill French, but it wasn’t. And that person is still at large.”

“How did Traynor and French get on?”

“I have no idea. Mr. Traynor was in Madeira when war broke out in 1914. I was looking forward to meeting him. But I should think, being cousins, that they worked together well. The firm appears to be successful enough. There was even talk of enlarging the house, after Mr. French’s marriage.” He grimaced. “Miss French was certain he’d expand across her beloved rose garden.”

And that would drive Agnes French to murder, if nothing else, Rutledge thought wryly. Everyone had a breaking point.

No matter where he turned, Rutledge could see arguments for and against each possible motive for Lewis French’s death.

Where was the proof that he so badly needed to find?

Thanking the curate, he made a decision, turned about, and went back to call on the French family’s tutor, Mr. MacFarland.

He knocked at the cottage door, but there was no answer.

Glancing back at the Green, he could see from where he stood that no one was walking there. Marketing?

On the off chance that the tutor was enjoying the fine weather in his garden, Rutledge walked around to the back of the cottage.

There was a small arbor fashioned out of trimmings from the trees that marked the far boundary of the property, and it was set between a pair of apple trees. From where he stood, Rutledge could see sheet music scattered in front of the bench, but MacFarland wasn’t there.

Calling, he waited for an answer, but there was none.

Hamish, just behind him, was warning him to take care.

It was all Rutledge needed to go forward, toward the bench. Hamish had always had a feeling for trouble. Some of the men had claimed he had The Sight, but Rutledge believed it was only that finely attuned sense that some men had, honed even more sharply by war.

He reached the bench and saw that the music had not been put down but had been scattered and trampled. As he lifted the sheets, collecting them, he saw a stain in one corner.

Blood. And quite fresh.

He cast about under the trees, but there was no one there. He felt the urgent need to go through the house, but while he was here, he walked on to the high grass just beyond the apple trees. And there he found MacFarland.

The man’s white hair was dyed red with his own blood.

Rutledge, swearing under his breath, ran forward, pushing aside the heavy clumps of grass to kneel beside the tutor.

He was breathing. Just. Someone had struck him hard on the back of the head, and the ground beneath him as well as his shirt was wet with blood.

Rutledge lifted him a little, speaking his name.

“MacFarland? Can you hear me? It’s Rutledge.”

There was no reaction at first, and then the man’s eyelids fluttered. He uttered something that sounded like a muffled cry of fear and struggled to free himself.

“You’re safe, MacFarland. It’s over. I’m from Scotland Yard. Remember?”

The tutor’s eyes cleared, focused, and then he said, “Rutledge?” as if the man from London had appeared out of nowhere. “Beware! I think he’s still here.”

And with that he lost consciousness again.

The attack had only just happened, Rutledge thought. Had his arrival frightened off whoever it was? Looking back toward the house, he could see where the grass had been flattened by dragging MacFarland into cover, to hide his body from whoever had arrived without warning. A hasty attempt, in the hope that the caller would go away again?

Would the attacker come back? Or had he fled when he had the chance?

There was no way of knowing.

Rutledge reached down, collected MacFarland’s unconscious form, and with some difficulty, lifted him into his arms.

Despite the need to hurry, Rutledge took his time getting out of the heavy grass with his burden, for fear of tripping. But once out into the open, he moved quickly, through the kitchen garden, around the house, and to his motorcar.

Depositing MacFarland there, he cranked the motor, got in, and started toward Dedham. Looking behind him, he saw that no one had tried to follow him from the back garden, and he felt a surge of relief that he’d got the tutor clear. He had just reached the wooded parkland that surrounded the French family’s property when something whizzed past his ear, followed almost at once by the sound of a shot. Hitting the accelerator, he felt the big touring car leap forward, putting distance between him and danger before anyone could aim and fire a second time.

Hamish was urging him to stop and find the shooter, but Rutledge was intent on getting MacFarland to Dr. Townsend. His mind was already processing what little he knew, that the shot must have come from the trees very near the wall that surrounded the French family’s park. He couldn’t afford to lose MacFarland, his only witness to Afonso Diaz’s attack on Howard French. The shooter could wait.

The pieces fit together. It would be very easy to reach the rear of the MacFarland cottage from the place where the shot had been fired. Into the French park, over the wall, through the scatter of trees and high grass, protected from view from most of the village, protected even from the MacFarland house. A killer had only to wait for the tutor to walk into his own back garden on a fine day. It must have been a habit of MacFarland’s to sit in that arbor for a time, one the killer must have noted. But why attack him in the first place?

When he got to the doctor’s surgery, Rutledge left the motorcar in front of the door and raced inside, praying that Townsend had returned from his lying-in.

He had, coming out to see what the commotion was about as Rutledge demanded to see the doctor at once.

Cutting short Townsend’s angry “What do you think you’re—” Rutledge turned to him and said, “I’ve got a dying man in my motorcar. Come at once and help me bring him inside. He’s already lost a good deal of blood.”

Townsend said, “Who is it?”

But Rutledge was already out the door, and after a brief hesitation, the doctor followed.

“He’s one of my patients!” Townsend exclaimed, bending over the man slumped in the seat next to the driver. “Here, take his legs, turn him a little.”

It was not easy, getting MacFarland out of the motorcar, but between them they managed, carrying him into the surgery.

“That way,” Townsend grunted, jerking his head toward a door down the passage from the entrance. “Examining room.”

Rutledge found it, managed to open the door, and helped Townsend stretch MacFarland out on the table.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there,” Rutledge said. “I could tell that the blow was recent, and got him to you as quickly as I could.”

“Yes, I’m glad you did.” Townsend was already running deft fingers over MacFarland’s scalp, saying after a moment, “My God, someone struck him. That’s not where you usually find injuries from a fall. That’s more often here, on the ridge along the back of the skull. This blow is lower. It should have killed him. I’m astonished he’s still breathing.”

The doctor continued to work, and after some time straightened up. “That’s all I can do. That and cold compresses The rest is up to his constitution. Have you reported this to the St. Hilary constable?”

“There was no time.”

“Yes, well, you were there, that’s what mattered most. I’ll keep him in the surgery. He should go to hospital, but I’m not happy with the thought of moving him again. There’s a woman in the village who is very good at nursing. I’ll send for her.”

“Ask her to write down anything he might say as he comes to his senses. It could help us find whoever did this.”

“I’ll see to it. No idea why this happened? You were calling on him, there must have been some reason for it.”

“I intended to ask him whether he knew anyone else we might contact to track down Lewis French, where he went when he left St. Hilary. Boyhood friends, a particular place he was drawn to. A fresh look at his habits.”

Townsend’s brows flicked together at the mention of Lewis French. “I can’t see why you haven’t found a body yet. He must be dead, my wife and I have had to face that. My daughter continues to hope against all hope. Gossip has been unkind to her. The fiancée of a murder victim? The French family in disarray? People seem to talk about nothing else, even my patients. They break off guiltily when I come into the room, then stare. And I know what the topic of conversation must have been.”

“I’m sorry. Your daughter deserves better. If you’re sure MacFarland is stable, I’ll leave him in your hands. There’s the constable to find.” Rutledge turned to go, then added, “Have you ever heard French say anything about his counterpart in Madeira? How he felt about Traynor’s handling of the firm there, whether there were conflicts over decisions or clashes of temperament? Resentment of any sort?”

“I don’t see how that can matter now. If they’re both dead.”

“It could be important. For all we know, French left St. Hilary to meet the ship that Traynor was traveling on.”

“I thought it was Gooding who met the ship,” Townsend replied, alarmed. “He’s been taken up for murdering Traynor, hasn’t he, and French as well? Do you think he found the two men together? Or he’ll try to persuade the jury that he had?”

“We have to look at every possibility. Otherwise Gooding’s lawyers will cast doubt on the evidence being presented.”

“We can’t have that. The only thing I know about relations between the men was something I read in my predecessor’s file. The seizures that Lewis French had—they probably weren’t epilepsy. He was injured as a child. He was riding a pony too large for him, and later he told his parents that young Traynor had taunted him into riding it. As a result he was thrown. The seizures began after that, according to his mother. But they blamed both boys equally. Traynor for his taunts and Lewis for heeding them.”

“Did Lewis know that they could have been Traynor’s fault?”

“I expect he did. He was the one who told his parents why he was riding the wrong horse.”

And if Lewis was anything at all like his sister, Agnes, he had blamed Traynor for the fall, whatever he’d told his parents.

Was it a strong enough motive for murder some twenty years later?

They went out of MacFarland’s room and were walking toward the door when it opened and Constable Brooks came striding in.

“I was told there was some problem. A neighbor saw a strange man putting Mr. MacFarland into a motorcar and summoned me. I found blood in the back garden and along the road where the motorcar had been standing.”

Rutledge said, “He’s here, in the surgery. I brought him. I’ll drive you back to St. Hilary and tell you what I know.”

“It was you, then, Inspector? Mrs. Foster doesn’t know much about motorcars. She was worried about Mr. MacFarland.”

“As she should have been.” Rutledge thanked Dr. Townsend, but Constable Brooks wanted to see the victim for himself. Rutledge left them to it and went out to secure the constable’s bicycle to his boot. By that time Brooks had been satisfied that MacFarland would live, and he came directly out to join Rutledge, eager to learn more.

“He said—the doctor—that MacFarland had been struck. If you found him, did you see anyone, notice anything?”

“Only that his assailant could have come from the French property without being seen. And disappeared the same way.”

“Why would anyone at the house want to harm Mr. MacFarland?”

Because, Rutledge answered him silently, MacFarland had been at the house when Afonso Diaz had arrived and created a scene. He might remember more than he should about that visit. And if Miss French had killed her brother and left Gooding to take the blame, she wouldn’t want anything to interfere with her victory over Valerie Whitman, in whose shadow Agnes French had lived all her childhood. But she knew nothing about Diaz’s visit. And why kill Traynor?

He had to come back to a single question. How would Diaz have known MacFarland’s name or even where to find him after all this time? He stood most to gain from the death of the tutor, it was true. The last witness . . .

Rutledge turned to Brooks, sitting stiffly beside him, eager to return to St. Hilary and look for MacFarland’s assailant.

“Have there been strangers in St. Hilary in recent months asking questions about the tutor? A man you didn’t know, who didn’t appear to be one of his former pupils?”

“About six months ago,” Brooks said slowly. “He told me he was an ex-soldier, looking for a MacFarland who had served with him in Egypt during the war. He thought he might have come home to live with his father. But our Mr. MacFarland had never married, he had no son, and so I told the man. He thanked me and went on his way. I did ask him how he knew we had anyone by that name living here, and he said he’d inquired in Bury, where he’d expected to find his friend, and someone had told him to try St. Hilary, that he might have got the direction wrong. He showed it to me, John MacFarlin, Bury St. Edmunds. I pointed out the difference in spelling.”