Free Proof of Guilt by Charles Todd Page A

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