by Charles Todd
Felicity shut the door and leaned against it, her legs refusing to hold her up. “What are you doing here? The police—Bennett’s foot may be broken, did you know that?”
“I’m sorry. He tried to stop me, it was his own doing. I had to come here, I had to tell you that I didn’t harm Matthew. I didn’t touch him, Felicity! I would never have touched him. Tell me you believe me?”
He got to his feet, standing there with such pain in his eyes that she couldn’t bear to see it.
“Felicity—”
He put out his hand, begging.
“Please, Felicity. I didn’t hurt him!”
She took a deep shuddering breath. “I don’t know what to think anymore. If you were innocent, why didn’t you let Bennett question you? Why did you run him down?”
“I didn’t run him down. He was clinging to the door of the car, and wouldn’t let go. When he couldn’t hold on any longer, he dropped the wrong way. I couldn’t have stopped if I’d had angels holding the motorcar back. All I could think of was that I had to see you, had to tell you that I didn’t touch Matthew.”
“Then who did?” she asked wearily.
“I don’t know. I’m going to find out, I promise you that.”
“Oh, Stephen—” Her voice broke.
He stepped forward, intending to comfort her, and then turned away. “For God’s sake, don’t cry.”
“Don’t cry?” she repeated through her tears. “Matthew’s probably dying, and I’m here, instead of there, and I love you both, and I don’t want anything to happen to either of you. Why can’t we just be happy, and not think of anything else but that?”
“Because I love you,” he told her bluntly. “And God help me, I can’t stop.”
5
Rutledge, following his quarry through the busy London streets, kept a good distance between himself and the man who had been leaning against the lamppost.
Old Bowels would have his head on a platter if he was wrong. Hamish was busy reminding him of that. But instinct told him he wasn’t wrong. The man’s interest had been too intense. Too personal.
His quarry moved briskly, but without the illusion of hurrying. They were into Kensington now, shops and flats on one side, the palace grounds on the other. At length the man turned down a side street, walked four houses from the corner, turned up the steps, and let himself in the door.
Rutledge stayed where he was. It was an old trick, walking into a building and waiting to see who was behind you. And if someone was there, he was often gullible enough to keep on going, right past the window where you watched. And you simply stepped out when he was past and went quietly in the opposite direction.
But after half an hour, no one had come out the front door, and Rutledge was swearing with certainty that his quarry had gone out the back and disappeared.
He had resigned himself to losing the man altogether, just as his quarry stepped out of the door again, looked both ways, and then came toward Rutledge.
“Whist!” Hamish warned in his ear.
There was nothing for it but to disappear into the door at his shoulder, and Rutledge found himself in a tobacconist’s, the aroma of cigars strong in the confines of the small, paneled shop.
“May I help you, sir?”
He turned to find an elderly clerk behind the counter, staring at him.
If he confessed to being a policeman, Rutledge thought, it would be all over the neighborhood before tea.
And then his quarry came around the corner and opened the door to the shop.
Rutledge quickly said to the clerk, “I’m looking for a Mrs. Channing—”
It was the first name that came into his head.
“Channing? I don’t believe I know any Channings hereabouts. Mr. Fields, is it a name you’re familiar with?”
And Rutledge, turning, found himself confronting the observer at the lamppost.
His face was scarred, giving it a bitter twist, the slate blue eyes wary, the mouth tight.
“Channings? No, I can’t think of any. Sorry.”
Rutledge had no option. He thanked the man and the clerk and went out the shop door into the street. He made a pretense of standing there, looking first one way and then the other, as if uncertain what to do next. Hamish, in the back of his mind, said, “Ye canna’ loiter.”
Rutledge snapped, “You needn’t tell me.” He turned back the way he’d come and moved on, wondering where the constable whose patch this was might have taken himself.
He found a pub one street away, and went inside.
“Do you know where I might find Constable—” He left the name open.
The barkeep’s face was closed. “Constable Waddington? May I ask why you’re looking for him? Is there trouble?”
“There’s been a break-in at a neighbor’s house, I’ve been sent to find him.”
“Well, then—he’s just stepped over to Mrs. Whittier’s house, sir. He—er—he looks in on her from time to time.”
“And where do I find Mrs. Whittier?” Rutledge asked patiently.
“On Linton Street, around the next corner but one. You can’t miss it, number forty-one. If I may ask, whose house has had a break—”
But Rutledge was gone before the man had finished his question.
The Whittier house was no more than a stairwell-and-a-room wide. He went up the front steps and knocked firmly at the door.
A woman answered the summons, her face a little flushed, her curling fair hair more than a little mussed.
“Mrs. Whittier?”
“Yes?” Her voice was rather breathless, and her manner dismissive, as if he had no business knocking at her door at this hour of the day.
“I’m looking for Constable Waddington. Will I find him here?”
The flush deepened. “Oh—yes. He was just—he was just helping me with the—attic door. I couldn’t shift it at all, and my trunk is in there—”
But Rutledge was already moving past her into the house.
“Waddington!” he bellowed, and the constable came hurrying to the top of the stairs, buttoning his tunic at the neck.
“Who are you?” the constable retorted. “And what do you want of me?”
“Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard. Come down here and get on with your duty.”
Waddington moved swiftly down the steps, straightening his tunic as he came, and brought up short at the foot of the stairs. Braced for a reprimand and worse. The skin around his eyes was tight with apprehension. He was a short, thin man, with a ruddy complexion, as flushed now as Mrs. Whittier’s.
Rutledge said, “I need you to identify someone for me. Hurry!”
Relief flooded Waddington’s face, and he cast a swift glance at the woman watching anxiously. A wordless warning.
Rutledge was out the door with Waddington at his heels, and they had hardly reached the bottom step before the house door swung quietly shut, the latch turned.
“I’m sorry, sir. Mrs. Whittier is a widow woman and—”
“—the attic door wouldn’t budge.”
Waddington trotted beside him, attempting to keep up. “Er, yes, sir.”
“There’s a man called Fields who appears to live on Swan Street, the fourth house down. The tobacconist knew him by name. Do you?”
Waddington responded, “Scarred face, tall?”
“Yes.”
“That’s his sister’s house. He’s been living there since her husband was killed last month. A widow, three small children—”
“What happened to her husband? What’s his name?”
They had nearly reached the tobacconist’s shop on the corner.
“Greene, sir. He was murdered. By person or persons unknown.”
Someone had known. Whether the inquest had been aware of it or not.
“Any reason for the killing?”
“Money, sir. A scheme that went wrong, one that was to make his fortune. Only he was taken advantage of and lost everything instead. All his savings. This according to
the widow at the inquest. All the same, she couldn’t name the man who tricked him. Greene had kept his dealings to himself, wanting to surprise her, he said. She begged him to go to the police, but the next day he turned up hanging from a tree along the Thames. His killer tried to make it look like suicide, but it didn’t wash. He’d been garroted first.”
And the men in Green Park had been garroted.
They had stopped at the corner, and Rutledge indicated the house in question. “Is that where Greene lived, and Fields now lives with his sister?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then let’s walk on, shall we? As if we’re looking for someone else.”
As they went on up the road, Waddington said, “What’s this in aid of, sir? Why are you asking about Mr. Fields? Do you think he committed the murder?”
“No. But I think he’s been out for revenge.”
A cab came along and Rutledge hailed it. “I want you to maintain a close watch on Fields for me. If there’s any change in his circumstances, call me at once. Or Sergeant Gibson, failing that. Meanwhile, keep this to yourself. I don’t want gossip in the canteen or the shops. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. Am I to do anything else?”
“Yes. Stay away from Mrs. Whittier while you’re on duty.”
When he reached the Yard, Rutledge learned that Chief Superintendent Bowles was well on his way to an apoplexy, and screaming for Rutledge’s blood.
6
Stephen Mallory stood there at the foot of the stairs, staring helplessly at the woman weeping in front of him. “No, I didn’t mean that. I’ve put that all behind me. Felicity!”
Before she could answer, the maid, Nan, appeared at the top of the steps.
“Mrs. Hamilton?” she asked. “Is everything all right?”
“No—yes—” Felicity said, wiping her face with her gloved hands. “Thank you, Nan. I’ve just had bad news, that’s all.”
“Not your mother—” Nan said, her strong face registering alarm. “Oh, not your mother, ma’am.”
“She’s—it’s Mr. Hamilton. I’ll explain later. Could you find some tea for us, please? We’ll be in the sitting room.”
She walked briskly toward the rear of the house, and into a room that looked out on the sea. It was filled with windows, two pairs on the front and one pair on the side, and seemed to glow with the reflected light of the sun on the water.
Vantage Point. It was certainly that.
Sinking into a chair, she said, “Shut the door. What are we to do? Bennett will be here before we know it, after your blood. Casa Miranda is the first place he’ll look. And I must go back to Matthew.” Her voice broke again. “I don’t know whether to believe you or not. Matthew hasn’t an enemy in the world, I can’t imagine why anyone should attack him like that, except in anger.” Looking up at him, she added irritably, “Do sit down, Stephen! I’m not accusing you, I’m just terribly confused, and worried and frightened. What have you done with your motorcar?”
“It’s in your shed, where Bennett or his men can’t see it from the road.” Stephen took the chair farthest from her. “Felicity, what good would it possibly do me to hurt Matthew?” He cleared his throat. “Look, even if I did away with Matthew, do you think I’d be fool enough to believe I’d have you then? That you’d forget him and walk off into the rainbow with me? What good would it do me to hurt Matthew, for God’s sake—it would be like hurting you.”
“Bennett won’t believe you. You ran, Stephen; it was the worst thing you could do.”
“I told you, I ran to you, not from him. That was uppermost in my mind, making sure you didn’t believe what he was saying. I’ll find Bennett now and apologize and let him ask me whatever it is he wants to ask me.”
“He’ll take you into custody. And there’ll be no end of fuss. They’ll drag our names through God knows what scandal, and in the end, it will be impossible to show our faces anywhere. I heard him raving in Dr. Granville’s office—” She stopped, unwilling to repeat to Mallory what had been said. “You can’t imagine how furious he is, how determined he is to blame you.”
“When Matthew comes to his senses, he’ll be able to tell them what happened—who did this to him.”
She looked at him. “What if he didn’t see his attacker? What if he doesn’t remember what happened? What if he dies without waking up? What then?”
Stephen wheeled to the window, blind to the distant sea glimmering at the bottom of the lawns, and gulls wheeling above a fishing boat pulling for shore. What would Matthew do when he was in his right mind again? And if he couldn’t remember, what would he think? Whom would he believe? Bennett?
He turned back to Felicity, trying to stifle the fear rising in him. He said, with more force than he felt, “He’s bound to remember. He’s a stubborn old bird, he’ll come through this, Felicity, wait and see.”
“I must go back to the surgery. What will you do—”
She broke off as Nan came in with the tea tray. The woman’s eyes were busy, moving from her mistress’s face to Stephen Mallory’s as she tried to make sense of the strained relations between them. There was an avidness as well, and Stephen frowned. What he saw worried him, and his first thought was that Nan would go rushing off to the police, given the chance.
He got up hastily and took the tray from her, saying, “Thank you, Nan, that will be all for now.”
The maid reluctantly withdrew, and after she had gone, Stephen went silently to the door and pulled it open suddenly, expecting to find her there, listening. But she was not in the passage.
Felicity was trying to pour the tea with shaking hands and sloshed half of hers into the saucer.
Stephen gently took the teapot from her, dabbed at her saucer with his handkerchief, then gave her the clean cup, adding sugar and milk to it.
She drank it thirstily, as if it was a panacea for her problems.
“I can’t think. My mind’s a blur,” she said, setting her cup down at last. “I wish none of this had happened, I wish it was all a bad dream and there was no truth in any of it. I wish—”
There was a pounding at the front door.
They stared at each other.
“Bennett.” Stephen said the name with despair, then added rapidly, “Felicity, if you believe I’m telling you the truth, that’s all that matters.”
But she was at the sitting room door ahead of him. “Never mind, Nan, I’ll see to it,” she called. And then turning back to Stephen, she said, “There’s the revolver in Matthew’s desk. Top drawer. Quickly!”
Stephen turned to the desk under the windows at the side of the room, opened the drawer, and found the weapon lying there under a handful of papers.
“Come with me,” Felicity added, all but pulling at him. “Hurry, to the door!”
The pounding was louder, filling the house with noise.
“I’m not shooting a policeman.”
“No, come on, Stephen, hurry!”
Nan had stepped out of the kitchen passage, half hidden by the morning shadows in that corner of the hall, her inquisitiveness narrowing her eyes as she peered toward the door. Then she saw the weapon in Stephen’s hand and cried out.
Felicity said rapidly, “Hold the revolver against my back. Do as I say!”
But Stephen was already there, the weapon pointed at her even as he prayed it was empty. Driven by the strident pounding, he refused to think beyond this moment, beyond the need to protect Felicity from any appearance of collusion in the tangle he’d made of things.
She reached the front door and called out, “Who is it?” Her voice quivered, but she had herself under control. Mallory marveled at her.
“Inspector Bennett. Open the door, Mrs. Hamilton.”
“I can’t,” she cried. “I can’t. Please go away before he shoots me!”
Stephen flinched, unprepared for her dramatic pronouncement. He kept his finger away from the trigger, bile filling his throat with a fear that had nothing to do with Felicity or the inspector.
Put the barrel into his mouth and end the torment, that’s all he had to do…. But not here, not in front of her.
There was silence on the other side of the door. Then, “Is Stephen Mallory with you, Mrs. Hamilton?”
“Yes, he’s right behind me.”
“Is he armed, Mrs. Hamilton?”
“Yes—yes, he has my husband’s revolver. Please don’t open that door!”
She could hear Bennett speaking rapidly to one of the men with him, then heard them speculating among themselves. Stephen seemed turned to stone behind her.
“My maid is here too. Please go away. Please.” The anxiety in her voice was genuine, her need to be rid of them pressing her into real fear.
“Very well, Mrs. Hamilton,” another voice said. “But we’ll be back. And I’d advise Mr. Mallory that it would be in his own best interest to give himself up quietly. There’s no need to subject you to more horror.”
“I understand.”
She thought she could hear them moving away to the drive, still talking among themselves. Bennett would be furious at being thwarted a second time, he wasn’t a man to take frustration in his stride and try to deal with it sensibly. She could feel her heart thudding in her chest, realizing only then that she’d made matters worse for herself and for Mallory.
Behind her Stephen was exclaiming hoarsely, “What have you done? In heaven’s name, Felicity, do you want to see me hang?”
They locked Nan into one of the rooms in the servants’ quarters, where a butler had kept a cot, then went up the stairs into the sitting room again.
Stephen, drained, sat down heavily in the chair by the window. Realizing he still held the revolver, he gingerly set it on the desk and leaned back again.
“Stephen,” Felicity was saying gently, “Stephen, no, listen to me. They aren’t going to treat you fairly. Bennett is vindictive at best. He’ll have you up on a charge of attempted murder, and if Matthew dies—”
She broke off, her face horrified. “I can’t go back to Matthew. I can’t go back to sit with him.”
“You should have thought of that before you got me into this muddle.”
