Markham linked his fingers, stretched them, then uncoupled them. “The dead man’s not the cousin?”
“I should think Miss French would have recognized him. The wine merchant’s clerk is awaiting news of Traynor’s travel arrangements. He’s returning to England from the firm’s office in Funchal.”
“And what is Funchal when it’s at home?” Markham asked testily.
“The principal city on the Portuguese island of Madeira. It’s where French, French and Traynor have done business for three generations. Apparently before that, they were solely London importers of wines and spirits.”
Markham considered Rutledge with raised eyebrows. “You aren’t telling me you wish to travel there, are you?”
Rutledge smiled inwardly, remembering that Yorkshiremen were notoriously tightfisted. “I’m sure any information I need can come through the police there.”
Markham sat back in his chair, his face clearing. “Off to Essex with you, then. And bring back results, if you please.”
An hour later, Rutledge was on the road again, heading toward Dedham.
What results? he asked himself as he drove through London traffic and turned east, then north.
Hamish, restless in the back of his mind, reflecting Rutledge’s own unsettled mood, said, “Ye ken, ye canna’ return now withoot something.”
H
is first duty was to look for the nearest local police station and speak to the constable there. On his earlier visit, there had been no need to pay a courtesy call, but now there was, and Rutledge was hoping not to have to deal with the larger force in Dedham. Smaller police stations, often with a single constable on duty, generally knew the people in their villages better. Nor was there that tendency toward resentment of the Yard infringing on another man’s turf.
Passing the French house, Rutledge found the village of Stratford St. Hilary less than a mile beyond. There was no sign of the Dominican abbey, although a wide green could well have been the site of the order’s church and outbuildings. If so, then this had been no more than a satellite community rather than a major branch of the order. Clustered around the green were a number of rather handsome houses and shops, and a small, ancient building that was a pub now—The Tun and Turtle, according to the sign—which could have been here in coaching days. Too small for a hotel, it probably offered a room or two to visitors when necessary. He could just see a stream running past the back garden and winding away among a thin stand of trees. On the far side of the stream he glimpsed the chimney pots of another large house. He wondered if wool had built the small church or if it had been a private chapel in the days of the abbey, for without it the village was no more than large hamlet.
Rutledge found the police station sandwiched between a stationer’s shop and a narrow-fronted bakery. The bakery was already closed, but as he passed the door, the faint smell of yeast breads and cinnamon lingered in the warm evening air.
The constable was not in. But he’d left a message on a small board by the door for anyone who needed him. It read:
AT HOME
There was no indication where
HOME
might be.
Rutledge had counted on the constable to give him the name and direction of French’s fiancée. The other source for information was of course the rector.
He left the motorcar where it was and walked toward the church. It sat on a slight knoll, and in the churchyard that sloped down to the street he could see mossy and lichen-etched stones leaning crazily in front of much later ones that marched up the slope to disappear around the apse before reappearing at the far side.
The French family monument was ornate, and in the shadow of the tower. But there were a number of other grand mausoleums and weeping angels in the centers of family plots. As he stepped out of the motorcar, Rutledge could see
TRAYNOR
incised in the base of a stone, the shaft broken and draped with mourning in a very Victorian concept.
The Rectory was a modest house up a lane overlooking the churchyard.
Rutledge walked there as the sun dropped behind the yews that encircled three sides of the low wall.
A man in shirtsleeves was standing on a high ladder, painting the house trim.
Rutledge called to him as he came up the path, “Is the rector in?”
The man looked down at him. “Sadly he is out. Is there something I can do for you?”
“I’m looking for Lewis French. He isn’t at home. Nor is his sister—”
The man spilled a great dollop of paint as he lifted his brush out of the jar without wiping it. “Drat!” he exclaimed. Then to Rutledge he went on: “Miss French isn’t at home?”
“I believe she’s still in London.”
“London? Is something wrong?”
“Should there be?” Rutledge asked.
The man came down the ladder. “She never leaves St. Hilary. Well. Only to visit the shops in Dedham.” He looked ruefully at his paint-stained fingers. “I can’t offer to shake hands. But we don’t run to rectors here. I’m the curate. Williams is my name.”
He was fairly young, thirty perhaps, and he walked with a limp. When he saw Rutledge had noticed it, he grimaced. “The war. I was a soldier and then a chaplain after I was invalided out. But what’s this about Agnes French going to London?”
“She was looking for her brother. She didn’t find him. I thought perhaps his fiancée might know where he went after he left the house nearly a fortnight ago. Apparently he hadn’t confided in his sister.”
“He seldom does,” Williams replied with a shake of the head.
“They don’t get on?” Rutledge asked with interest.
“I wouldn’t put it that strongly. Both of the brothers—that’s Michael, who died in the war, and Lewis—were often in London with their father, being introduced to the firm. Agnes was a homebody. She never went anywhere.”
“By choice or by lack of invitation?”
“I don’t really know,” Williams said, considering the question, his head to one side. “I wasn’t here then, of course. I’ve been told that she looked after her mother throughout her last illness and then took care of her father after his stroke. It’s what daughters do. Unmarried ones, most particularly.”
“Had the sons—Lewis and Michael—visited Madeira?” Rutledge asked.
“Yes, from a very early age—twelve, I’ve been told. But Agnes never showed an interest in travel.”
“Or pretended she had none,” Rutledge said, “after being excluded.”
“She never gave the impression she felt excluded.”
But then, Rutledge thought, she wouldn’t have shown how she felt, if it had hurt her. Her general disposition spoke volumes.
“Lewis is responsible for the management of the London office, I understand.” When Williams nodded as he cleaned paint from his fingers with a cloth that was already saturated, Rutledge went on. “Would Miss French take a position in the firm if anything happened to her brother?”
“Oh, I’m sure she wouldn’t. She’s had no training, you see. There’s the cousin, Traynor, of course. It’s not as if there’s no one at the helm.” He gestured over their heads. “The last time Traynor was in England he paid for the Rectory chimneys to be repaired. Before that the house was nearly uninhabitable for weeks, with smoke filling the rooms. I wasn’t here then, it was before the war, but my predecessor told me what we owed to his generosity. Sorry. I’ve wandered off the subject. Why should Miss French be looking for her brother?”
“You must ask her when she returns. Meanwhile, I’d like to find Lewis French’s fiancée.”
“Yes, of course. Mary Ellen Townsend lives in Dedham. There’s a house not far from the church. You can’t miss it, there’s a plate on the door just before it—her father’s the local doctor and that’s his surgery.” He glanced up at his own house. “I’ve lost the light, haven’t I? Well, I can’t say that I’m sorry. I really can’t abide painting, but there’s no one else, is there? I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name?”
He hadn’t given it. “Rutledge.”
“I’ll bid you a good day, Mr. Rutledge. I hope you enjoy your stay in St. Hilary.”
Rutledge walked back to the motorcar, listening to Hamish in the back of his mind.
“Ye didna’ tell him the whole truth. Or who you are,” the soft Scottish voice said from behind Rutledge’s left shoulder, where he’d so often been standing in the trenches. He wasn’t there, of course. But Rutledge had never had the courage to look and see if he was when Hamish MacLeod was speaking.
“Sometimes the whole truth is not the best choice,” Rutledge answered aloud and earned himself a stare from the man walking a small dog. He hadn’t seen them in the gathering dusk.
He drove back to Dedham and quickly found his way to the surgery, avoiding construction in the square.
It was located in a smaller brick building adjacent to the three-story house where Townsend and his family lived. Leaving his motorcar just down the High Street, Rutledge walked back to knock at the house door.
A maid answered, and he asked for Miss Townsend.
“Your name, sir?”
“Rutledge,” he said. “I’m looking for Lewis—Lewis French. He isn’t at his house, and it was suggested that he might be here or that Miss Townsend knew where he was going. It’s urgent that I find him. A matter of business.”
“One moment, sir.”
Two minutes later, a young woman came to the door. She was fair, with blue eyes—and quite pretty.
“I’m told you’re looking for Lewis. I thought he’d left for London. Is something wrong?”
He looked up the street where an elderly couple was strolling in their direction, enjoying the warm evening. “May I come in?” he asked.
“Yes, of course.”
She ushered him into a formal room where she offered him a seat, and then she hesitated before taking one herself, as if doing so would encourage him to stay longer than he should.
“I was told at the firm in London that I could find Lewis French here in Essex. But apparently he’d already left some days ago. His sister couldn’t help me, but she thought you might know his plans.”
That seemed to surprise her. “Did she? Well, I’m afraid I don’t know anything myself. He was here on the Thursday before he left, for lunch, and he told me that he expected to get an early start for London the next day. He needed to reach his cousin in Madeira. He said something had come up that he wanted to discuss with Mr. Traynor.”
“I’d heard that Mr. Traynor was on his way to England.”
“Yes, but his travel plans were indefinite, and Lewis didn’t want to wait for his arrival.”
“Did he seem upset about whatever it was he needed to discuss with his cousin?”
“Not—upset. I had the feeling he was more annoyed, out of patience. He said he’d always wondered how he was going to solve the problem if it ever came up, and now that it was actually here, he could see he needed help. The clerk Gooding seemed to be the person Lewis always went to when he wanted advice, and I suggested that he telephone London rather than make the trip. But he shook his head and said that even Gooding couldn’t work any magic here. Then he changed the subject, and we talked about other things.”
. . .
he’d always wondered how he was going to solve the problem if it ever came up, and now that it was actually here, he could see he needed help . . .
It would be easy to jump to the conclusion that what had disturbed Lewis was the sudden appearance of a member of the illegitimate line of the family. And if his mother had indeed been fearful that her husband was a philanderer, then he would have been primed to believe whatever he was told.
Had he met this man? What had happened? If the other man was dead, had Lewis French killed him and then disappeared?
Except for the watch, there would have been nothing to connect the French family with the dead man.
On the other hand, Lewis’s problem could be a question of dealing with a shipping firm that was no longer satisfactory or changing bank managers. A matter in which the partners themselves would have to make a decision.
Hamish said, “Or how to deal wi’ his sister, and her increasing outrage.”
An interesting point. She herself had told Rutledge that she had quarreled with her brother before he set out for London.
Miss Townsend was still speaking. “Are you a friend of Lewis’s? I don’t believe I’ve heard him mention your name.”
“I’m not surprised,” Rutledge said. “I’ve only known him . . . officially.”
Her face was lit by a smile. “I know very little about the business side,” she admitted. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted Port or Madeira. My father doesn’t care for wine or spirits.”
“Yet you are marrying a man whose livelihood is wine.”
“My father understands that. Of course he does. His feelings are personal.”
Rutledge had run into this sort of thing before. He’d have been willing to bet that someone in the elder Townsend’s family had been a drunkard.
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t help you,” Miss Townsend was saying.
It was dismissal, but he’d learned more than he’d counted on.
“Do you know if Mr. French was wearing his watch when you had lunch with him?”
“His watch?” She was completely lost. “Should I have had a reason to notice it?”
“No, not at all. I was thinking that perhaps he’d mislaid it—it could explain why he’d missed our appointment.”
She smiled, her face clearing. “Lewis is always on time. No, there must have been some other reason.”
He was just preparing to thank her and take his leave when the door opened and a portly man with fair hair and a mustache came into the room.
“Mary, I was told someone called.”
“Papa, this is Mr. Rutledge. He’s looking for Lewis. Something to do with the firm.”
“Indeed.”
“Thank you for your help, Miss Townsend. It’s possible I just missed him in London. I’ll try again. Good evening, sir.”
Rutledge made his escape before Townsend could ask more questions than he was prepared to answer. And as he was opening the outer door, he heard the man’s voice saying, “You have no business entertaining a stranger without a member of the family present. Furthermore, I shall tell French that he’s not to send his business acquaintances—” The rest was cut off as Rutledge stepped outside.