“Show me the way, if you please.”
The boy nodded and waited for Rutledge to come up to him at the corner of the house. “I’m Luke,” he said. “I’m recovering from tuberculosis.”
“Are you indeed?” Rutledge replied, not giving his name, although he was fairly certain the boy had expected him to.
“Yes. Fresh air and good food. That’s the ticket,” he responded. “I drink a lot of milk.”
Along the west front of the house, a terrace looked out over a grassy lawn where a fierce game of croquet was in progress. The woman sitting in a chair under a black umbrella looked up. “You were right, Luke. A motorcar. Wonderful. And who is this?”
Rutledge reached the terrace steps and paused. “The name is Rutledge.”
The woman frowned. “I thought they were sending someone named Martin. Well, of course I might have misheard. Now then, Mr. Rutledge, you can see that we occasionally play croquet together. It promotes a sense of cooperation and provides exercise.”
Looking at the croquet game, Rutledge thought it promoted a competitive spirit that bordered on warfare. The players were all men of various ages, from fifteen to sixty, if he was any judge. Sweating in the sun, they must have been thirsty and uncomfortable.
Mrs. Bennett herself was closer to fifty than forty, her hair already streaked with gray, her clothing more classical than cool, despite the umbrella. It was then he noticed the twisted foot under the hem of her skirt.
“I can see that it does,” Rutledge said. “Could I speak with you in private, please?”
“I’m not ready to go inside,” she told him. “And I’m sure you’ll want to interview my staff.”
“Interview?”
“You
are
from the
Times,
are you not?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Drat,” she said in annoyance, and then to the croquet players she called, “Shall we take a break? This was not the gentleman I expected.”
The men broke off their game with alacrity and went to sit in the shade of the nearest tree. All but Luke, who still stood just behind Rutledge.
“Perhaps Luke would be happier in the shade as well,” Rutledge suggested.
“Luke, would you stay by the door, in the event Mr. Martin appears? There’s a dear boy.”
Luke reluctantly walked off, and Mrs. Bennett turned to Rutledge. “There, we are quite alone. What is your business with me, Mr. Rutledge?”
“I’ve come to speak to you about one of your staff. A gardener named Diaz.”
“And what is it you need to know about him?”
“Is he still in your employ?”
“Of course. Sadly he suffers from rheumatism, which makes getting down on his knees even more difficult, but he has a marvelous eye for color, and so he instructs the undergardener, who does the actual work.”
“Where do you find most of your staff, Mrs. Bennett?”
“There’s the problem, you see. We could no longer afford to keep a staff. The war has made life difficult for everyone, and so we decided that perhaps we could help those in need of help and still make life bearable for ourselves. In a small way, we are striving for a brighter world. No one labeled, no one treated with less than courtesy, everyone contributing in the best way he or she can. Call it an experiment in kindness.”
He rather thought that her kindness was self-serving, but the boy Luke appeared to be happy enough, and certainly if he was well fed and cared for, he would regain his health here more quickly than in a crowded tenement.
“Where do you find your staff?” he asked again.
“We contact various institutions, asking if they have inmates who would benefit from a second chance. Luke Simmons suffers from tuberculosis, he grew up in the worst slums in Manchester, and what he needed was country air, which we have in great plenty. We have a man from a mental institution—Afonso Diaz—who as you know is our gardener, with the help of Bob Rawlings, who is also interested in growing things. Sam Henry drives the motorcar for me—as you can see, I’m crippled. Harry Bray is a wonder in the kitchen. He and Davy Evans 252 keep us fed. Evans had been in prison so long he forgot how to live a normal life without bars and locks and warders. He wandered the grounds for days, simply looking at freedom. It was very touching. He was the two hundred and fifty-second prisoner by the name of Evans in the Welsh jail, and he likes his number used even in conversation.”
“Do your staff keep in touch with the world they lived in before they were—er—incarcerated?”
“Most of them have no one other than us. That’s why they’re here. Bob sometimes writes to his brother, but I gather they have little in common. Bob told me once that they had different fathers.” She smoothed her skirts with her fingertips. “Can you tell me why you are curious about our little family?”
“Has anyone on your staff left the house recently? For an extended period of time?”
“Harry does our marketing, of course, since I can’t. Sam takes the motorcar for petrol. I don’t see that that’s a problem. They are never away for more than half an hour.”
“And Afonso Diaz?”
“I don’t believe he’s set foot outside the gates since he arrived. There’s a language barrier, you know.” She smiled. “The flowers and vegetables don’t seem to care.”
But just how strong a barrier was it?
“I’d like to speak to him, if that’s possible.”
She turned to one of the men beneath the tree. “Would you fetch Afonso, please? Mr. Rutledge would like to speak to him.”
“I’d prefer it if Luke took me to find him,” Rutledge interjected.
“Yes, of course. It will save Afonso walking back to us. How kind of you.”
Rutledge went to the front of the house and gave Luke the message regarding Diaz.
The boy set off at a trot, and Rutledge followed. They walked away from the house and toward a shrubbery that he could see in the distance. Beyond was an orchard that was heavy with fruit. So heavy, he discovered when he’d gone through the gate, that several branches had been broken by a storm, their leaves already drying.
A man stood on the ground shading his eyes, looking up at a younger man, who was doing the pruning. The saw bit through the limb, and it came crashing down.
The younger man said, “A pity. They’re nearly ripe, those apples. I’ll have one when I’m off this ladder—” He broke off as he saw Luke coming down the break between lines of trees, leading Rutledge toward them. “Who the hell’s that?” he demanded, starting down the ladder.
The other man turned to see and said something under his breath.
Rutledge reached them, nodded to the younger man, then said to the elder, “Mr. Diaz?”
There was a pause, then the man said, “I am,” in a deep voice that was heavily accented. But Rutledge had a feeling his English was better than he was willing to admit. He’d had twenty years to learn in an environment where Portuguese was never spoken, and at times he’d communicated with his doctor. What’s more, he’d been to university; he wasn’t an untaught farmer’s son who could hardly read or write in any language.
“Will you walk with me a little way? I’d like to speak to you privately.”
“Does Mrs. Bennett know you’re here?” his companion demanded, his eyes narrowed. “She doesn’t care for strangers coming into her property.”
Luke said helpfully, “That’s Bob.”
“It was Mrs. Bennett who asked Luke to take me to you.” He considered Bob, a short man with strong, broad shoulders and the belligerent nature of an undersize bulldog. “How long have you been working for her?”
“Four years, if it’s any of your business.”
“Actually, it is my business.” Reaching into his pocket, Rutledge took out his identification, holding it so that both men could see it clearly.
Luke whistled. “Cor! Scotland Yard.”
“I think Mrs. Bennett is expecting you,” Rutledge said to the boy. “The photographer? I’ll have no trouble finding my way back to the house.”
“Oh. Yes.” Luke, obviously torn between duty and curiosity, hesitated for a few seconds, then turned away. He walked slowly, scuffing in the thick grass under the trees.
Rutledge waited until he was out of earshot, then repeated, “Mr. Diaz? If you will walk with me?”
Diaz glanced at Rawlings, then without a word followed Rutledge back toward the gate.
Diaz was not what Rutledge had expected. The image he’d had of a man bursting into the French house, threatening the French family with a knife, and then being wrestled to the ground and disarmed was far from the reality.
A small, wiry man with a naturally dark complexion and nearly white hair, he had deep-set, black-lashed, dark eyes that struck Rutledge as still young in spite of the hands and elbows knotted with rheumatism. His back was straight, and his clothes smelled of applewood smoke.
When they reached the gate, he regarded Rutledge, then said with resignation, “Am I being returned to the clinic?”
“Mrs. Bennett appears to be very happy with your work. I’ve come to ask you how you feel today about the firm of French, French and Traynor.”
“That was long ago. Today I am old, tired. They will not let me return to Madeira to die. I would like that very much. It is all that matters to me now.”
Hamish said, “But he didna’ live there verra’ long.”
It was a good point. The boy Afonso had gone to the Portuguese mainland to school, had got himself into trouble there and served out his prison sentence there.
And for a man who purportedly knew very little English, he had circumvented Rutledge’s question very neatly.
There was, Rutledge thought, more to Afonso Diaz than met the eye.
But suspicion was not proof of any wrongdoing. The question remained—had his years in an asylum changed him for the better? Or the worse? He had not been mad, not in the accepted sense. But he had been shut up with the mad.
“Have you had any contact—directly or indirectly—with the French family since your release?”
“I don’t understand ‘directly or indirectly.’ ”
Rutledge waited for a beat before rephrasing the question. He would have wagered that Diaz knew perfectly well what the words meant. “Have you written, spoken to—even on the telephone—or seen a male member of the French family since your release?”
“I can think of no reason to do this.”
“Have you asked anyone else to write, speak to, or call on any member of the family for you?”
“I know no one in England, except for the Senhora and the people at the asylum. Who would I ask to do such things?”
Rutledge changed tactics. “Do you hold Lewis French to blame for his grandfather’s decision to purchase your father’s land?”
“I do not know this Lewis French.”
Which was true, in the literal sense. Diaz had never seen the French children when he came uninvited to the house. But he could have made it his business, since his release, to find out what had become of the senior members of the family. The Bennetts must read the London papers. And at some point, French’s name would have been mentioned in connection with a charity event or business meetings on exports and imports, or even a social gathering.
“If it could be arranged for you to return to Madeira, would you be willing to leave England straightaway?”
Something stirred in the back of the man’s eyes. Rutledge could have sworn it was a smile.
“Yes.”
Because his work was done? French was dead?
There had been a Portuguese contingent in the last two years of the war, but Rutledge had had no personal contact with them. He had been told that they were good men but that their music had been dark and fatalistic.
It offered him no key to this man standing patiently waiting for his next question.
Diaz had come to England alone, knowing very little of the language, and yet he’d found his way to Dedham to demand what he believed was his right.
“When your father died, did he leave you any of the money he’d been given for the farm in Madeira?”
“When I went to prison, he told me he owed me nothing.”
Now that, Rutledge thought, was interesting. If Diaz had lost his inheritance because of his fall from grace, it was well before the family vineyards had been sold to the English firm. It was possible that he had come to England for a very different reason from the one everyone had believed. Of course there was the language barrier at that time, but Rutledge was fairly sure the French family must speak Portuguese fluently in order to do business in Madeira and on the mainland. Whatever the doctor and the police were told, Howard and Laurence French would have understood what was driving this man. The land had been taken away before he’d had a chance to redeem himself in his father’s eyes. And his father, after the sale, had remained adamant about an inheritance.
Why hadn’t Howard French or his son told the authorities the whole truth?
Attempted murder—attempted revenge—would have brought Diaz into the courtroom to face trial. But they had chosen to send him to the asylum.
Rutledge realized that they must have been very afraid of him—and afraid to trust the courts to keep him away from them. The only safety lay in putting him somewhere they could rely on his being locked up for good.
And as far as Rutledge was concerned, studying the closed face in front of him, this man had a better motive for killing Lewis French than anyone he’d interviewed in St. Hilary.
The problem was going to be proving it.
How had Diaz managed to leave this estate without his absence being noted and reported to the clinic by the Bennetts?
Or would they have done so? Their experiment was succeeding against the odds. If one of their staff was involved in any crime, it would mean the end of their comfort.
Diaz was still waiting for the next question, clearly in no haste to end their conversation.
Rutledge nodded. “Thank you. I’ll come back if there are any more questions.”
“I have nothing to hide,” Diaz said, then as an afterthought, he added “Sir.”
T
he game was over when Rutledge reached the lawn again. Mrs. Bennett was closeted with the photographer and was not to be disturbed.
Rutledge turned to Luke. “Do the members of the staff leave the estate for any reason?”
“No, sir. Even the doctor comes here when he’s needed.”