With only a few hours’ sleep, Rutledge was back at the Yard before eight the next morning, to find Gibson waiting for him on the street, as arranged. The sergeant had very little to say, getting into Rutledge’s motorcar with a grunt and settling down for the drive.
The silence lengthened, lasting until they reached the Surrey chalk quarry. It was well off the main road, down a muddy lane that was overgrown. At the end of it, the great white face loomed above a bed of rubble. It appeared to have been a hill once, before this side had gradually been cut away.
“According to the local man, the quarry was abandoned because it was increasingly unstable. A workman was killed scaling the face.”
The constable guarding the site recognized Gibson and let them through. And the motorcar bounced and jolted over the rubble to where the other vehicle stood.
It was covered with a light dusting of chalk, like summer snow. Rutledge realized that the intent of whoever had brought the motorcar here was to drive it as close as possible to the high face, so that the next major collapse would cover the vehicle. But there must have been a minor fall as the driver was maneuvering the motorcar into position, for the idea had hastily been abandoned. On the whole, Rutledge couldn’t judge just how long the motorcar had been there. From the start? Only a few days?
They got out and clambered over the hummocky chalk. Much of it was darker, more the color of dingy cream, but there were newer, whiter bits as well. As they got closer, their shoes collected the white dust, and Rutledge noted ruefully that his trouser legs were not far behind.
He could see the long dent in the wing well before he reached it.
Rutledge carefully examined it, but the sergeant had been right, there was nothing linking the motorcar to the victim except for that dent.
He got down on one knee, looking up at the undercarriage, scanning the linkages.“Sergeant, my torch from the motorcar, please.”
Gibson went to fetch it and brought it to him as Rutledge, ignoring the damage to his clothing, was inching his way under the chassis. He went over every projection and rough edge he could see, touching each one with his gloved fingers. Nothing hooked or caught, nothing jammed. Just black metal.
He was about to push himself out again when he spotted it, where the housing of the motor was bolted to the frame. It was on the far side from where he’d been lying, almost invisible. But his torch beam had cast a shadow, just an outline that seemed irregular. He edged in that direction, swearing at the uneven chalk bed beneath his shoulders, and saw that a tiny square of cloth had been caught by and then wedged against the bolt.
Unless the motorcar had been put on an overhead rack, it would have been missed, and even then, dark as the cloth was, dark as the paint was just there, it would have been difficult to pick out.
It didn’t want to give up its hold on the bolt. Almost, Rutledge thought, as if it had been glued in place. A measure of the weight pulling against it as a man was dragged, jamming it there.
He slowly worked it loose, careful not to damage it further. He swore again at a lump of chalk digging into his shoulder, a little deeper with every movement he made.
Gibson, bending over to try to see what Rutledge was doing, said, “Any luck?”
Without warning, the tiny fragment of cloth fell, fluttering across his face. Rutledge almost lost it, barking his wrist against the undercarriage as he reached for it before it could drift into the uneven bed of chalk by his head.
Securing his find, he began to wriggle out from underneath the motorcar. It had been too claustrophobic by far, caught there between the heavy vehicle and the chalk, and he could feel his heart pounding now as he saw release coming.
By this time Gibson was on his hands and knees, his face alight with curiosity. He straightened, offered Rutledge a hand up once he was clear of the chassis, and said, “You found something then.”
Rutledge pulled off his driving glove, and there was the small dark square, the weave stretched and twisted from the stress put on it as it snagged.
Gibson said, “Ah,” and poked it with a finger. “Will it match the dead man’s clothing, do you think? There were several tears, as I remember.”
Rutledge dropped the bit of cloth into his handkerchief for safekeeping, folded it, and put it carefully back into his pocket. Using his gloves to dust his coat and trousers, flecking off the worst but unable to budge most of the finer particles, he said, “Did you search the interior?”
“Cursorily, to see if we could find anything to tell us who it belonged to. I told you. The Acting Chief Superintendent ordered us to wait for you.”
Rutledge gave up, putting his gloves back on. “I’ll do that, and afterward we’ll take it to London. I want Gooding, the wine merchant’s clerk, to give us a positive identification. It might shake his complacency.”
Opening the motorcar’s door, he began to examine the interior, looking anywhere that something could have fallen and escaped the killer’s attention.
He thought at first his search was a waste of time. There were no bloodstains or scuff marks to show that a body had been transported any distance in the rear seat. But then a clever killer would have come prepared with a blanket or tarp. Still proceeding methodically from back to front, he asked Gibson look in the boot.
The sergeant had just called to say that it was empty but for the tools usually kept there when Rutledge put his hand beneath the driver’s seat. He pulled out the chamois used to keep the motorcar clean, and something else came with it.
He saw that it was a woman’s handkerchief, lace edged and embroidered with a pretty design of pansies in one corner. It was smudged, as if someone had cleaned his or her fingers on it, then shoved it under the seat out of sight while he or she drove.
He held it up for Gibson to see.
“Do you think a woman could be our killer?” the sergeant asked.
Rutledge had been thinking just that. He said, “How would she lift the dead weight of a man’s body into the motorcar?”
“She has an accomplice,” Gibson answered promptly.
Standish?
Rutledge went on searching, brushing his gloved fingers over the carpets in the hope of bringing to light any small clue that the killer had missed.
The motorcar was clean.
The French household, like Belford’s, would have a chauffeur or a footman in charge of seeing that the motorcar was kept running and ready whenever the owner called for it. If that handkerchief had been there before French’s disappearance, it would have been removed, laundered, carefully pressed by one of the maids, and presented to French to return to its owner—or not, as he saw fit.
The thought was depressing.
“We’ve done what we can,” Rutledge said finally, looking up at the sky as he got out of the motorcar. The sun was disappearing behind clouds, and he thought it best to start for London as soon as possible. “Can you drive this one back to London? It will save some time.”
“I think the Surrey police would be just as glad to be shut of it.” Gibson went to speak to the constable at the entrance.
Watching him go, Rutledge pulled out the handkerchief and looked at it again. It was too clean and fresh to have been under that seat for any length of time. And there were three women in Lewis French’s life who could have left it there. Or a fourth, if Agnes French was right, that her brother had found someone else. He still couldn’t picture Miss Townsend as a murderess, and she would surely have been in the motorcar as a passenger. Agnes French could argue the same, that she’d driven out with her brother during his stay in Essex.
Which left him with Miss Whitman, who claimed she hadn’t seen French since the engagement had been broken off.
And Markham was prepared to put his money on Miss Whitman.
Rutledge glanced up to see that another man had joined Gibson and the local constable. Dressed in street clothes, he looked like an inspector. Gibson had reached the constable on duty, and the other man stepped forward to join the conversation. Then Gibson was thanking them, shaking hands, answering a final question put to him by the newcomer. He appeared to be satisfied when the sergeant had finished speaking, giving him a nod. Without turning even to glance Rutledge’s way, the newcomer walked off, taking his constable with him.
Gibson came back to say, “They’ve no complaint. But they’d appreciate a copy of the final report on the motorcar and the inquiry regarding it.”
A standard courtesy.
Rutledge took the crank in hand and reached down to insert it and turn it. He said, “I’ll follow you. If you have any trouble, signal me, and I’ll pull over.”
He made certain that Gibson could manage the extraction from the quarry, told him what he wished to do, then led the way out of the gates to the nearest road as thunder rolled in the distance, like the guns in France. Rutledge was grateful that he had his own motorcar to himself.
G
ibson pulled up as close to the wine merchant’s door as he could, and Rutledge stopped just beyond him. The rain had held off, but only just.
He went inside, leaving Gibson with the two motorcars, and asked for Gooding.
When the senior clerk came into the room, Rutledge said, “Will you step outside for a moment?”
Gooding frowned. “Do you have more information, Mr. Rutledge? You can speak freely here.”
“That will depend on what you can tell me first.” He turned and held the door. Gooding had no choice but to precede him outside.
The wind had picked up. Gooding looked first to his right, as if expecting to see someone standing by the door, and only then to his left. His frown deepened as he recognized the vehicle, his gaze moving on to Sergeant Gibson behind the wheel.
“That’s Mr. French’s motorcar.” He hesitated, then asked, “Will you please tell me what it is you know?” His voice was strained. “Why is a policeman driving, and not Mr. French?”
“The motorcar was reported abandoned. By the Surrey police.”
“
Surrey?
Has there been an accident? Is Mr. French all right?” Gooding began to walk toward the motorcar, his eyes going directly to the deep indentation in the wing.
“It was found just as it is in an unused quarry. Was it damaged that way when last you saw Mr. French driving it? There, on the wing?”
“No—no, it wasn’t. He stopped by here to sign some papers regarding a shipment, and I walked out with him afterward. But what was he doing in
Surrey
?” He might as well have said “the antipodes.”
“And you would be willing to swear that this is indeed Mr. French’s motor?”
“Yes, I assure you,” Gooding replied testily. He looked at Rutledge. “What is it you aren’t telling me? Do you know where Mr. French is?”
“I wish I did,” Rutledge told him somberly. “I have another call on my time this afternoon. But if you will accompany Sergeant Gibson, there’s a body I want you to see. And this time, like it or not, you’ll view it for Scotland Yard.”
“Dear God. But surely— Are you telling me Mr. French is dead?”
“We don’t know,” Rutledge said. And he stayed with Gooding while he told the junior clerks that he would be away for an hour, helping the police with their inquiries, then saw him off with Gibson.
When they were out of sight, Rutledge got into his own motorcar and drove to the house where Lewis French lived in London.
R
utledge had not questioned the London household until now. He was fairly certain that Agnes French had told them very little—and learned even less. French had last been seen in Essex, after all, and when Miss French arrived in London, the staff not only had been surprised to see her there but were totally unprepared to receive her. Now, with the motorcar surfacing in Surrey, so close to London, the complexion of the case had changed.
It was still a fashionable address, although Mulholland Square had been built years before the turn of the century. Rutledge, looking up at the mansard roof and the stone facings at the windows, decided that if Howard French had bought the property as an investment, it had been very sound. And it spoke of old money, settled and respectable.
He lifted the knocker and let it fall.
The middle-aged woman who answered the door opened it wide for him to enter when he told her he was from Scotland Yard.
Miss French had stayed here, but she hadn’t felt at home here. The staff was her brother’s, not her own, and it was now his principal residence. She had taken the train back to Essex rather than wait for news of him here. That, then, was Rutledge’s starting point.
The woman said. “I’m Mrs. Rule, housekeeper to Mr. French. Is there a problem, Inspector?”
“It would be best if we spoke in private,” he replied with a glance toward the staircase. He could just hear someone using a carpet sweeper on the first floor.
She too glanced over her shoulder toward the stairs, then took him to a small parlor, where he was offered a seat. Still standing, she waited for him to begin, her hands clasped lightly in front of her as if to calm her rising concern. He could see the tension around her eyes.
“When was the last time you saw Mr. French?” he began.
She looked at the painting on the wall behind him as if it could give her the date. “It’s three weeks now, almost. He drove to Essex to visit his fiancée and to prepare the house in Dedham for his cousin’s visit.”
“When do you expect Mr. Traynor to arrive in England?”
“Any day now, I should think. Mr. French was expecting him last week, but apparently it has been difficult to arrange passage. Quite frustrating, he said, but then Mr. Traynor did speak the language.”
“Why was it difficult?”
“Mr. French didn’t say, only that Mr. Traynor had had to travel to Lisbon first, then take passage from there, rather than come directly from Madeira. I believe there are packets that bring wine and messages to the City on a regular schedule. Mr. Gooding—he’s the senior clerk in the firm—is to notify me as soon as he learns a date. Word will come to him, as he must know where and when to meet the ship.”
“And Mr. Gooding hasn’t contacted you?”
“No, sir, not yet. I did ask Miss French when she came to the house if she had heard any news, but she said she hadn’t, that she wasn’t privy to her brother’s arrangements. I’d thought at first that she had come down to greet Mr. Traynor. She was always fond of him.”
“She didn’t tell you why she visited London so unexpectedly?”
“No, sir, she was in a fractious mood when she came, meaning no disrespect to her, and she spent most of her time in her room, even taking her meals there.”
“Does Mr. French usually drive himself?”
“Yes, sir, he prefers it.”
“Who maintains the motorcar for him?”
“He sees no reason to keep a chauffeur. We have a footman who sees to it. He’s quite good with mechanical things.”
“Has there been any recent damage to the motorcar?”
“I haven’t been told if there was. George would have said something. He’s very particular about it, you see.”
“I’d like to speak to him later.”
“Yes, sir. Has something happened to Mr. French, sir? Seeing that you’re from Scotland Yard . . .” She let her voice trail off as if afraid to put what she was thinking into words.
“We don’t know. He left Essex some days ago, and we haven’t been able to locate him.”
“That’s unlike him, sir. Mr. French generally keeps Mr. Gooding informed of his whereabouts. Have you spoken to
him
?”
“He hasn’t been contacted by Mr. French. Have you met Miss Townsend?”
“She and her parents came to dinner here on their last visit to London, just before the engagement was to be announced.”
“Tell me about her parents.”
She said, “I don’t wish to speak out of turn, sir.”
“You won’t be. Not to a policeman.”
“Well, there’s little to tell. Her father is a doctor and rather—” She searched for the right word. “He’s a man who knows his own mind,” she ended.
Rutledge interpreted that to mean he was hard to please.
“Her mother is such a kind lady, very quiet but with a surprising sense of humor. It was a pleasure to serve her.”
“Dr. Townsend is very strict where his daughter is concerned,” Rutledge commented and watched her brows go up in surprise.
He wondered if she would have used another word. But she said only, “She’s such a lovely young lady. I’m sure he means well.”
“Did you meet the young woman Mr. French was engaged to before he met Miss Townsend?”
“Miss Whitman,” she replied warily. “She came to dinner a few times. The staff liked her very much. I was sorry to hear that she had broken off their engagement.”
“How did Mr. French take it?”
“He was not as upset as I’d expected. More philosophical, you might say.”
Rutledge could just imagine that he was.
“He left for Newmarket the very same day, expecting to meet friends there. Dr. Townsend was also invited. I happened to hear Mr. French tell another of his friends that the doctor would arrive for the weekend. I expect that’s how he came to know Miss Townsend.”
Or he was already intending to court her father, and then her.
As if she’d heard his thoughts, Mrs. Rule said, “It did seem that his broken heart mended very quickly. But young men will be young men.”
Rutledge took out the handkerchief that he’d retrieved from under the seat in the motorcar. “We found this in Mr. French’s motorcar, in Surrey. A lady’s handkerchief, I should think. Do you by any chance know the owner?”
“I would have no way of knowing, sir. Except that Miss French favors handkerchiefs with her initials in the corner. Did you say you’d found the motorcar—but not Mr. French?”
“I’m afraid so.”
She was shaken. “When I saw a policeman at the door, I knew something was wrong. Is—is there bad news? Was there . . . a crash on the road?”
He said, “We have very little information at all. That’s why I’m here. Did Mr. French often visit friends in Surrey?”
But Mrs. Rule knew very little about her employer’s personal life and could say only “I don’t know that I’ve heard him mention visiting anyone in Surrey. Certainly we’ve not entertained guests from there in return.” Her eyes began to fill with unshed tears. “I do hope there’s nothing wrong.”
When she had recovered a little from her shock, Rutledge asked to speak to George.
He was directed to the mews, where the motorcar was kept.
George as it happened had been an aircraft mechanic during the war, and he had taken the position of footman because he would also be in charge of the motorcar. When Rutledge asked him if there had been any dents or scratches on the chassis of French’s motorcar, he was indignant.
“It’s in perfect condition,” he said. “And no one can say any different.”
“You’d swear to that?”
“I would, sir, yes. That’s to say, when it left here it was. But Mr. French is a careful driver, and he wouldn’t bring it back to me in any shape but the one he’d found it in.”
Rutledge said, “Where do you keep the chamois you use when cleaning the vehicle?”
“Under the front seat, sir. Mr. French likes to see the headlamps and other chrome bright. I leave one there for him.”
“Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“A lady’s handkerchief?”
“No, sir, never. Why should I have done that? Has Mr. French made a complaint, sir?”
“He hasn’t. But we found the motorcar in Surrey, and we haven’t been able to speak to Mr. French so far.”
“He can’t be far away. Here, you haven’t left him without it?”
It was all Rutledge could do to prevent George from claiming the motorcar in the name of Lewis French and driving it to Surrey to search for him, even though he couldn’t think where to start. “It could have been a malicious prank, sir, and he’ll be quite angry.”
Rutledge had to tell the footman that no prank was involved.
When he left, George was standing in the door of the mews, looking like a man who had lost a friend.
And Hamish was hammering away at the back of Rutledge’s mind, reminding him that the dent in the wing wasn’t evidence until the dead man’s clothing had been shown to match the bit of cloth found on the frame.
G
ibson had returned to the Yard by the time Rutledge got there. He encountered the sergeant in the passage beyond the stairs.
“What did Gooding have to say when he saw the body?”
“He didn’t know who it was. Certainly not Mr. French. He worried me, did Mr. Gooding. His hands were shaking so he could hardly get out of the motorcar when I took him back to the wine merchant’s.”
“He thought it was going to be Mr. French?”
“I expect he did, the Yard finding the motorcar and then calling on him for news of his employer.”
“Was the body Mr. Traynor, by any chance?” It was only a wild guess.
“I didn’t ask. But he knows Mr. Traynor, and he’d have said as much when I asked him if he could identify the body.”
That was true.
“Did you feel he was telling the truth?”
“He appeared to be. What’s to be done with the motorcar now, sir?”
Rutledge gave him instructions to return it to the Mulholland Square mews, and Gibson nodded.
“I’ll see to it, sir. Meanwhile, while I was at the morgue, I took the liberty to bring back the packet with the dead man’s effects in it, including his clothing.”
“Let’s have a look.” As they walked back toward Rutledge’s office, he told Sergeant Gibson what he’d learned at the French family’s London house.
It was Gibson’s turn to ask, “Did you believe the housekeeper and the footman?”
“On the whole, I think I did. There’s no reason for them to lie. They have good positions, and Mr. French doesn’t appear to be a difficult employer.” He opened the door to his office.
A large brown parcel bound in string covered his desk.
He cut the string and opened the paper. It yielded shoes, stockings, undergarments, trousers, suspenders, a shirt and tie, and a coat.
Rutledge set most of the smaller items aside and looked at the shoes first.
The toe of one and the side of the other were scuffed, adding further proof, if it was needed, that the dead man had been dragged.
Then he spread the trousers out across his desk, where he could examine them carefully. There were rents in one cuff, snags here and there, but as far as he could see, there were no places where a piece of the cloth was missing.
He turned from that to the coat. At first he couldn’t find what he was looking for. The front and one arm had suffered from being dragged—threads pulled here and there, bits of gravel and dirt lodged in the fabric, and the back seam had opened up near the collar. It wasn’t until he had lifted the collar that he saw the hole.
He took out his handkerchief, unfolded it, and held the contents up next to the coat.
The pattern matched perfectly, although the bit of cloth from the motorcar was stretched and distorted from having been ripped forcibly from the coat.
Rutledge put his finger gently into the tear. It went through the lining, although the shirt, when he checked that, had no matching rip.
Had the man’s neck snapped as the coat snagged, ripped, and then with the weight of the body, pulled free, leaving behind only a tiny telltale bit?
“It’s murder, isn’t it, sir?” Gibson asked, looking over his shoulder.
“Or the driver panicked and tried to cover up what had happened.”
“Then who was driving, sir? It couldn’t have been this man. It must have been Mr. French. And that’s why the motorcar had to be disposed of. With that dented wing, the evidence was too strong, once we’d connected the dead man to Essex.”
“If it was French, why didn’t he simply report an accident?” He could have told any tale that suited the circumstances, and Lewis French, of Dedham, would have been believed.
Rutledge’s mind made the leap before Gibson could answer his question.
The tutor had told him about a man bursting into the house and threatening the family. That was decades ago. What had become of the intruder?
If he’d been in prison until now, if he’d been released, finally, having served his sentence for attacking Howard French and his son with a knife, he could have come back to Essex with murder—or blackmail—in his heart.
Was this the troublesome thing that French needed to discuss with Matthew Traynor? Had an approach been made?
What if the killer, thwarted in his intentions, had resorted to murder and had got the wrong man? It would explain why French—without his motorcar and uncertain where to turn—had gone to ground. Was he waiting for his cousin to reach England before coming out of hiding and demanding that the police do something? If he’d been injured in the struggle, he might very well have found sanctuary until he had healed sufficiently to deal with the situation.
That would also explain how French came to lose his watch.
Hamish spoke, his deep voice with its soft Scots accent echoing in the room so loudly that Rutledge expected Sergeant Gibson to stare about looking for the source.
“The man was killed with French’s ain motorcar. Wha’ else but French couldha’ been driving?”
And the only answer that Rutledge could think of was
Someone he trusted
.
Which brought him back to the lady’s handkerchief with the little embroidered pansies in the corner.
Pansies. For remembrance.
E
ager as he was to drive straight through to Dedham, while in London, Rutledge made a detour to the shop of the jeweler.