Proof of Guilt by Charles Todd Page A

firm to see a friend there. According to this friend, the chief clerk has been trying to contact Mr. Traynor to tell him what’s happening here. And Mr. Traynor hasn’t responded. The clerk has been that upset.”
    Mr. Gooding had a great deal of responsibility on his shoulders. He would prefer to have some sort of direction, but he would not have been the one to gossip. Someone in his office must be talking to the neighbor. Gooding would not be pleased. Still, it gave the constable access to information.
    “Any new information for me?” Rutledge asked.
    “There’s been another query from Norfolk, asking if we know anything about their man. He’s still missing. And we had a new name sent in by the police in south Devon. It doesn’t appear to be very promising.”
    “Just now there’s more than enough to keep me busy here.”
    He rang off, then walked out of the inn directly into the path of Miss French.
    She had taken an early train, he guessed, because she was still dressed for traveling. A motorcar for hire had just deposited her in front of the inn’s door.
    Looking up as Rutledge’s shadow fell across her path, she said, “Oh. It’s you.” As if she had been expecting to find someone else waiting for her. “Have you found my brother?”
    “Not yet.”
    A look of irritation crossed her face. “It’s so like Lewis to leave everyone waiting on his convenience. He’s probably stopped to see Henry Jessup. They were at Cambridge together, and Henry’s getting married in November. Lewis had expected Henry to ask him to stand up with him.”
    “Where can I find Henry Jessup?”
    She frowned. “I believe he lives near Hatfield. He’s a solicitor. Lewis told me he wasn’t a very clever one. Still, he’s joined his father in a partnership, and so it probably won’t matter whether he’s clever or not.”
    “Have you met this man?”
    “No, Lewis seldom brought his friends home. My parents were very ill toward the ends of their lives, and it couldn’t have been pleasant for young men looking for a country weekend to have to tiptoe about for fear of waking the invalid. And there’s no shooting here to amuse them.” She looked around. “I’ve missed my breakfast—I can’t eat anything on a train the way it bounces about. And Nan isn’t expecting me.”
    With a nod she walked past him and into the inn.
    It took him twenty minutes to run down the firm of Jessup and Jessup. It was indeed on the outskirts of Hatfield. A woman answered the telephone, asking his business.
    Without giving his name, he asked to speak to the younger Mr. Jessup.
    “He’s just come in. A moment, please.”
    And then Jessup was on the line, a deep voice that sounded as if the speaker was recovering from a summer chill.
    “I’m trying to locate Lewis French on an urgent matter. Is he by any chance with you?”
    “Gooding? Is that you? You don’t sound like yourself,” Jessup replied.
    “The name is Rutledge.”
    “Ah. Well, I must tell you that French isn’t here. Nor has he been for some weeks.”
    “There was a possibility that he had stopped over with a friend on his way back to London from Essex without telling either Mr. Gooding or his sister of his plans.”
    “I see. Yes, that does present a problem, doesn’t it? I wish you luck. And I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”
    Rutledge put up the receiver. He didn’t think Jessup was lying. So where, then, was French?
    As he was leaving the telephone closet, he glimpsed Miss French in the dining room. She had called the waiter to her table and was pointing to something on her plate. He realized that she always seemed unhappy with her lot in life, and as the waiter carried away her plate, she sat there looking at her teacup with a frown, as if it too had failed to satisfy her.
    He considered asking her for the names of other friends, and then she looked up and saw him through the glass doors.
    She beckoned to him, and he went into the dining room to speak to