As he drove to Essex, and St. Hilary, Rutledge considered what this meant to Gooding’s case, now that the dead man in Chelsea had been identified.
Hamish said, “The motorcar that killed the man is still the motorcar of Lewis French.”
And so it was, straw with which the K.C. could make bricks to wall up Gooding. The connection to Diaz was too slender a thread.
Where the hell was Lewis French?
If Gooding’s trial was to begin Monday, Rutledge was bound by duty to tell what he knew about the corpse found in Chelsea. He would have to testify, like it or not.
R
utledge drove into Dedham late that evening and went to look in on MacFarland.
Townsend, still unhappy with the pretense that his patient was suffering damage that was irreversible, said, “I hope you’re here to release both of us from this charade. My patient’s well enough to go home. And he’s no happier here than I am to have him here. I have to smuggle in his meals, pretend my daughter is helping me nurse the man around the clock, keep my staff in the dark.” He shook his head. “Surely you’ve brought us some answers.”
“Not yet. Gooding’s trial begins Monday. This is Thursday afternoon. I’m doing all I can.”
“Well, then, you must tell MacFarland that he can’t leave yet.”
Rutledge walked back to the small room where the tutor was being kept and said as he opened the door, “I’m sorry. This is difficult for you. It is difficult for all of us. Give me a few days more.”
MacFarland said, “If someone would bring my books to me, it would help. Staring at the walls, nothing to keep my mind busy—no way to pass the time. It’s difficult. My head aches, and the doctor says I shouldn’t read. But if I read, perhaps it wouldn’t ache at all.”
“Tell me what you need.”
Rutledge handed MacFarland his notebook, and the man made a list for him. “You shouldn’t have any trouble. I’ve only asked for titles you will see straightaway.”
“Give me an hour.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you.”
Rutledge left, drove to St. Hilary, and went into MacFarland’s cottage.
The tutor’s reading glasses were exactly where he’d left them, and the books were relatively easy to find. A satchel under a window provided transportation, and Rutledge had just finished adding the last title when someone flung back the door and said, “Whoever you are, step outside and identify yourself!”
“Constable? Inspector Rutledge. I was just . . . looking for anything that might help us find out who attacked MacFarland.”
Constable Brooks stepped inside and saw the satchel in Rutledge’s hand.
“I’m sorry. We’ve had a rash of petty theft lately. I thought I might have caught the culprit.”
“Petty theft?”
“Small things. Someone went into a neighbor’s henhouse, milk was missing from a porch, another woman put a pie on the windowsill to cool—”
Rutledge interrupted. “Did this begin when MacFarland was attacked?”
“No, later on. I suspect it’s one of the lads I’ve had trouble with before. He’ll be in borstal before the summer is out, if he keeps on the way he’s going.”
“Thank you, Constable. Sorry to have given you trouble.”
“Any news of Miss Whitman?”
“None so far.”
“I don’t like thinking about her in prison.”
“Nor do I.”
“She’s not a killer,” Brooks persisted, taking up the satchel and following Rutledge back to where he’d left the motorcar. “Whatever her grandfather has done. Why didn’t you drive down to the cottage?”
“Because I didn’t want to draw attention to where I was heading. Since the cottage is empty.”
“Mr. MacFarland is better, isn’t he? You’ve got his spectacles there. I went to look in on him yesterday, and the doctor forbade me to see him. If he’d taken a turn for the worse, the doctor would have wished me to add it to my report.”
Rutledge smiled grimly. “Keep that to yourself. I think he could still be in danger.”
“Here, not my petty thief, hanging about for another chance at the tutor?”
“Not very likely. But someone went to a great deal of trouble to kill him, and the next try might succeed where this one failed.”
Brooks nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind, and see that the cottage is watched.”
Rutledge drove away, heading not for Dedham but for the village church, leaving his motorcar out of sight by the Rectory. Walking through the churchyard, he observed Miss Whitman’s cottage for a time, and then crossed the road once the sun had set.
Hamish said, “Ye have no right to search here.”
“I don’t intend to search. I can’t shake the feeling that she was hiding something before she left. She wouldn’t let me in—she was willing to go to prison in what she stood up in, no toothbrush, no comb, no change of clothes. It’s been worrying me, but now I think I may know why. If Standish was killed by French’s motorcar, French may have got away and eventually come to Valerie Whitman for help.”
“It’s no’ likely. They parted on bad terms.”
“Still, he couldn’t go to his fiancée, could he? She lives with her father, in the center of Dedham. And perhaps he isn’t up to dealing with his sister’s uncertain temper.”
“Then why did she no’ tell everyone that he isna’ dead? It would save her fra’ prison.”
“I don’t know. But I’m going to have a look.” Rutledge let himself in through the gate carefully, so it would not squeak, then walked up to the door. She had not locked it then—and it was still unlocked. He opened it quietly, stepped inside, and then pulled it closed.
Using his shielded torch, he walked from room to room, and he could smell her scent, he thought, in each of them. Lilacs? It was as if she had only just left. She had good taste in furnishings, fine pieces, with a few paintings that her father must have bought. China dishes in the cupboard, a pretty porcelain shepherdess on the shelf above the hearth, next to her an ormolu clock. All in their places, waiting silently for their owner to return.
The torch picked out a square of white linen lying on the table, flashing for an instant across the rich colors of embroidered pansies. How easy it would have been for someone to walk in here and take one of Miss Whitman’s handkerchiefs for later use. A handkerchief was very personal, dropped in a moment of intense anxiety or anger at the scene of a crime, or left under the seat of a motorcar after wiping one’s fingers. And this was known to be her favorite pattern. A simple thing, and so all the more readily damning.
He reached the stairs to the upper floor and hesitated. He didn’t feel comfortable going through her bedroom. And the house was silent. No one was here after all. He had misunderstood her reluctance—that strong sense of privacy that seemed to come so naturally to her—to open her door even to Scotland Yard, and he wanted to make amends by leaving as quickly as he could.
And then he heard a foot brush against something over his head.
Someone
was
there.
He waited, holding his breath so that he could hear better.
He’d been right.
There was another sound, as if whoever it was had heard him as well, and was trying to stay still. And the harder he tried, the harder it became.
Rutledge called, “Scotland Yard. I know you’re there. You might as well come down.”
Nothing, not even the sound of breathing.
Mice? Scenting him and looking for cover?
He said again, “I’m here to help. If you won’t come down, I shall have to come up.”
He waited for a whole minute, counting off the seconds in his head.
And then he turned for the stairs, starting warily up them, prepared for anything.
A window went up, and he could hear someone struggling to get out.
Rutledge went back down the stairs, raced through the front room, and reached the door as a foot came into view.
He caught the foot and pulled, and with an oath, someone came down almost on top of him and lay there for an instant, winded.
Rutledge turned the torch on the man’s face—and didn’t recognize him at all.
“Constable Brooks’s petty thief. Come on then.” He reached for the man’s collar and prepared to bring him to his feet.
“Get your damned hands off me. If you’re a policeman, I want to see proof.”
Rutledge reached into his pocket for his identification, and as he did, the man came to his feet, hit Rutledge with all his strength, and turned to run.
Rutledge still held the torch, and he swung it, intent on stopping the intruder any way he could. And then he remembered using the torch on Bob Rawlings just before he went over the railing, and he tempered the strength of the blow.
The intruder fell, gasping for breath, then struggled to rise.
“Now listen to me. I’m from Scotland Yard, and you’re coming with me to the police station—”
Breaking off, Rutledge stared.
The torch couldn’t have done the damage he saw in the man’s throat. He had aimed higher. But the ugly gash had broken open and was bleeding heavily.
“My God,” Rutledge said, jerking out his handkerchief and trying to stem the flow. “Hold on to that.” He pressed the man’s hand to the handkerchief, turning quickly back to the house. “Stay where you are, or you’re likely to bleed to death.”
A voice in the darkness said, “Rutledge? Is that you? What’s happened? I saw your motorcar.”
And the curate stepped through the gate into the pool of brightness that was Rutledge’s torch. Just then he saw the man on the path, and the handkerchief already dark with blood. “This man has been injured—Rutledge, did you do this?”
“I found him in the house. When he ran, I stopped him.”
The curate looked quickly to the houses on either side. No one had come to the door. “Let’s get him to the Rectory. We’ve got to stop that bleeding. Take his other arm.”
“Wait here.” Rutledge disappeared into the house, back in a matter of seconds with a small pillow, which he added to the handkerchief. “Keep it there,” he ordered and then took the man’s other side, all but dragging him down the path and toward the gate.
The curate had it open, and Rutledge got the man through. “There’s no time to bring up the motorcar. We’ve got to hurry.”
His senses returning, the man managed to stumble along between them. It seemed to take ages to reach the Rectory, tombstones and plantings catching at their unwary feet as they made their way around the church to the Rectory gate. The steps were hardest, and then Rutledge had the door open and pulled the man into the lamplight of the Rectory parlor.
He nearly stumbled over a chair, hooked it with his foot, and brought it around to push the man into it.
The curate went into another part of the house and came back with a wooden box.
“Bandages and the like,” he said. “Altar boys always have skinned knees and stubbed toes.”
Rutledge had removed the pillow and the handkerchief. The bleeding had slowed, clotting over. He could see that the gash was an old one. Very likely, in the man’s attempt to climb through the window, he’d reopened it because it had never healed properly.
“Who are you?” the curate asked gently. “Are you hungry? In need of work? I can help you.”
The man’s temper flared. “I’m—” He stopped short, eyes on Williams’s clerical collar. “Is this man really from Scotland Yard?”
“Yes, of course he is. He’s been in St. Hilary conducting an inquiry.”
The man turned to Rutledge. “You’re the bastard who took Valerie away. Where is she?”
“In prison,” Rutledge said shortly. “Charged along with her grandfather in the murder of Lewis French. Are you French? If you are, why didn’t you show yourself and keep that young woman out of Holloway?”
“Damn you, she said she was going to bring home her grandfather. She told me it was finished, and I let her go.”
“But he’s not French,” the curate was saying. “I tell you, he’s
not
Lewis French.”
“Then who is he?”
“My name is Traynor. Matthew Traynor. French tried to kill me—he sent someone to make sure I never reached England. I got away from him, just, and I’ve been in hiding ever since, not knowing where to turn, who was against me. I’m in no condition to survive another attempt.”
“Where have you been since your ship docked?”
“My parents’ house. It’s been closed since before the war. The problem was food. I’d walk to another town and buy what I needed, until the money I had in my pocket ran out.” He grimaced. “I’m a wealthy man, and I couldn’t pay for my dinner. I’ve had to forage—steal—dig in gardens at night. I was chased by a dog one night, and had to sleep in a barn. Miss Whitman found me when I’d fainted from hunger. I was out of my head for two days, and she had to keep me in the cottage. She wanted to call in Dr. Townsend, but he’s the father of Lewis’s fiancée. She left food for me when you took her away, but that’s gone and I’ve been forced to steal again.”
“You never went to the police? Or to the authorities at the port?”
“I never even showed my passport. I got off the ship by carrying an elderly woman’s luggage for her. Her son come to fetch her, as far as anyone could tell. I knew perhaps twenty people in England, most of whom hadn’t seen me since before the war. My neck was inflamed, I was so feverish the driver of the first omnibus accused me of being drunk. I walked for miles before taking the next omnibus, for fear of being followed. And there was someone in the grounds of my parents’ house when I got there. I thought he was waiting for me. I watched as he tested windows, doors, looked in all the outbuildings, then waited, sitting on his motorcycle in the drive until well after midnight. He left finally, and I got in the way I sometimes got out as a boy. What was I to tell the police—this scruffy stranger, a knife wound in his neck, no money, in England without the proper papers—if they brought Lewis or Agnes in to identify me and were told that I wasn’t Matthew Traynor, what then?”
“You’d have had to come to the police in the long run.”
“Yes, I know. But on my terms, when I could stand on my own two feet and not faint from hunger or pain. And then Valerie—Miss Whitman—told me that someone had tried to kill Lewis, and that Lewis had disappeared. I didn’t know what to think then. Now
you
tell me she’s in Holloway Prison. For what?”