by Charles Todd
He was protesting too strongly, Rutledge thought. And yet he sat there, with no weapon visible, speaking to Scotland Yard as if he had nothing to fear. Truth? Or a well-planned fiction?
“You must look at it from Bennett’s viewpoint. You were the one person most likely to benefit if Hamilton died of his injuries. And therefore a strong suspect.”
“Benefit? Oh, yes, I could woo the grieving widow, couldn’t I? But she loves Matthew, and I don’t think I’m likely to step into his place even if he dies. I just didn’t want her to hate me, or believe I could hurt her in any way.”
“Then why did you threaten the two women? Surely by the time Bennett was knocking at the door here, you’d had a chance to explain yourself. Why go the next step?”
Mallory started to answer, thought better of it, and then finally said, frowning, “I’m not really sure myself how it happened. It just—did.”
“Let them go. That will be in your favor. I’ll see them safely away from here, and then we’ll take you down to the station to tell your side of the story.”
Mallory laughed without humor. “I’m not a fool, Rutledge. As soon as I set them free, I’ve nothing to use as a means of bargaining with you. I want you to find out who did attack Hamilton, and bring him here to tell Mrs. Hamilton why. I’m owed that, and when you’ve done it, I’ll give myself up.”
“Mrs. Hamilton ought to be with her husband. If you hold her here against her will, and her husband dies, she’ll never forgive you. Don’t you see that? For her sake, you have to take the chance that you’ll stand trial. Let her go, and I give you my word I’ll do everything I can for you.”
Mallory got to his feet and began to pace. “I can’t let her leave. Bennett would never allow her to come back here again. And if Matthew dies, who’s to speak for me?”
“Then let the maid go.”
“I can’t, don’t you see? If I’m shut in this house for days with Mrs. Hamilton without a proper chaperone, her reputation is ruined.”
“I hardly think the maid, locked away as she is, can speak on behalf of your honor or Mrs. Hamilton’s.”
“Yes, well, Nan’s staying. You don’t know the women in this town.”
“What if I offer myself in Mrs. Hamilton’s place? She can go to the surgery, look in on her husband, comfort him, and then come back again.”
Rutledge could see how torn the man before him was. A range of emotions flitted across his face before he said, “I can’t be sure Bennett will agree to that. He’ll leave you here to rot because you’ve invaded his patch, and you won’t be free to argue when he doesn’t make any effort to get at the truth. No. We keep things as they are. You’ll do what you can to learn who wanted Matthew dead, and I’ll give you my solemn word that both women are safe with me. In God’s name, why should I harm either of them?”
“Why did I drive all the way from London, if you’re unwilling to make any compromise now that I’m here, or show good faith? That’s foolishness.”
Mallory’s pacing stopped. “The trenches were foolishness. A stalemate within a stalemate. I’m just taking a leaf from the war’s book. Right now, it’s the only weapon I have.”
And then Rutledge asked the question that had been in the back of his mind all the way from London. “Why did you turn to me? Why didn’t you ask the bishop, your uncle, to help you?” It was flung at Mallory almost viciously, welling up out of Rutledge’s own anguish.
“He’s dead.” After a moment Mallory went on, the words wrenched from him. “I had promised myself I’d never have to see you again. Do you think I wanted this? Any of it? If there had been any other way?”
Rutledge stood up as well and took a deep breath, attempting to break off the unforgiving savaging of each other. Throughout the exchange, Hamish had been ominously silent, a dark presence like thunder in the distance. Like guns in the distance…Rutledge made an effort. “Let me speak to Mrs. Hamilton, before I go.”
“She’s in her room. Matthew’s room.” There was a bitter twist to his voice at the words. “At the head of the stairs, turn right toward the sea. It’s the last door but one.”
Rutledge climbed the stairs at a steady pace, neither hurrying nor taking his time. When he reached the passage at the top, he turned right, found the next but one door and tapped lightly.
There was no answer. He opened the door gently and looked inside.
The bedclothes were a tangle, spilling half off the bed. In the midst of them was a tousled fair head, buried in a sea of dark rose coverlet that matched flowers in the draperies and the fabric of one chair by the hearth. Her face was to the wall and out of his line of sight. He’d have to go round the bed to see it.
“Mrs. Hamilton?” he called quietly.
But she was deeply asleep. Or pretending to be. He couldn’t be certain. He wasn’t close enough to the bed to see how she breathed.
Hamish said, “If she sleeps sae soundly, there’s naething on her conscience.”
But women sleep deeply after love. What role had Felicity Hamilton played in the events of the last twenty-four hours?
After a moment, he closed the door and went back the way he’d come.
Mallory was waiting for him, and without a word led him to the kitchen precincts.
The maid, Nan, was wide awake and choleric. A thin woman with weather-reddened skin and pale hair that showed streaks of graying, she sat rigidly in her chair in a small pantry off the servants hall, her eyes alive with fury.
“Who’s that, then?” she snapped at Mallory as he brought Rutledge in. He ignored her.
But Rutledge answered her, identifying himself simply as a police inspector.
“You haven’t kept her locked up like this all this time, have you?” Rutledge asked, turning back to Mallory. There was no food or water in the room, no sign even of a chamber pot.
“Good God, no. But she was banging on the door of the servants’ hall at six this morning and I couldn’t have that. I think she broke that other chair against it.” He gestured to the chair flung against the wall, the splat shattered.
“And who wouldn’t be making a racket, kept here by the likes of you?” she demanded. “I’ve a cousin at home. A policeman. He’ll be wanting your blood if you lay a hand on me!”
“I haven’t touched you,” Mallory retorted, “except to shut you up down here so that we could have a little peace.”
Nan was on the point of answering him, when Rutledge asked quickly, “Has he harmed you in any way?”
“He’d not dare to. But who can say what he’s done to Mrs. Hamilton?”
There was something avid in her face that told him she wished for it. As if there was little love between herself and her mistress, and whatever Felicity Hamilton suffered, she had earned. So much for Nan as chaperone. Mallory was right, she’d blacken his character with a vengeance. And Mrs. Hamilton’s as well, relishing the chance.
Rutledge wondered how she felt about Mr. Hamilton, whether her loyalties lay there—or with neither of her employers.
She hadn’t asked about Matthew Hamilton. How he fared, whether he was alive or dead. Did she even know why she and her mistress were being held against their wills?
“She’s no’ concerned for them. Only for hersel’,” Hamish replied. “But her tongue will clack once away fra’ here.”
“You can’t leave them like this, you have to feed them, you know,” Rutledge said to Mallory. “It’s going to be a bigger problem than you think, keeping them here.”
“I’ll manage,” Mallory replied stiffly. “I can prepare food, tea. It won’t be fancy, but it will be edible. I’ve even mucked out the stables this morning for the damned horse. All right, you’ve seen both of them.”
They turned toward the door, Rutledge promising Nan Weekes help before very long and getting the sharp side of her tongue for letting “that man” get round him so. “Poor excuse for a policeman you are.”
It was as if she’d expected him to overpower Mallory in front of her, and set her free, and
held it against him for failing to try.
Hamish remarked, “There’s the thorn in this dilemma.”
It was true. Mrs. Hamilton might sleep soundly under the circumstances, her door not locked. But Nan was another matter. Rutledge found himself more worried for her than for her mistress. Mallory’s stability would be fragile after days of strain and Nan’s belligerence.
Outside, as they walked to the back stairs, Rutledge said, “Look. Tell me what it is you want me to do? This has to end, you know it as well as I do. Tell me what it will take to set the women free.” It was an appeal to Mallory’s better nature, but even as he spoke the words, he knew they were empty.
“That’s simple,” Mallory answered. “Find out who nearly killed Matthew Hamilton.”
Rutledge went to Dr. Granville’s surgery next, greeting the doctor’s wife and asking for a few minutes of the doctor’s time. The waiting room behind him was crowded, and he could feel every eye on him as he introduced himself to Mrs. Granville.
Mrs. Granville said doubtfully, “He’s got his hands full just now. What with Mr. Hamilton and his usual hours. I don’t know if there’s been an epidemic of sore throats and unsettled stomachs or if people are hoping for news of poor Matthew.”
“Perhaps you could take me to see Mr. Hamilton, then. And I shan’t have to disturb the doctor.”
“Well, I’m not certain Mr. Bennett would agree.”
He smiled. “I’m handling the matter for Inspector Bennett. Until he’s fit to do more on his own.”
“Yes, poor man. In that case, then.” She let him into a passage that ended in a door that was half glass, with fenced lawns and bare trees beyond. He followed her past a series of closed doors to the last but one. “He’s in quite a bit of pain, isn’t he? The inspector. But he wouldn’t hear of anything to help, you know.”
Now he could see through the glass into the tidy garden just beyond, and a table under a tree, with chairs around it. He had a picture of tea set out there on a summer’s day, and children running through the grass, laughing. The England he and Mallory and so many others had fought for. Bleak now in winter, cold and quiet. As if war had drained away the color and reality, not the seasons.
Hamilton’s tiny room was windowless. He lay there on the cot bed, the lamp beside him lit but shielded to keep the light out of his eyes.
But Matthew Hamilton’s bruised eyes were closed, and his breathing was labored, as if it hurt to draw too much air in at a time.
Rutledge, looking down at him, took his measure: a tall man, broad shouldered, with dark hair silvering at the temples, long sun-bronzed fingers lying idle on the coverlet, slender body. He could have put up a good fight, if he’d been attacked face-on. A match for Mallory or anyone else, physically.
Hamish said, “It was a vicious beating.”
And that appeared to be true. His ribs were wrapped tightly, the broken arm set, and lumps under the coverlet indicated bandaging on his legs as well.
To kill? Or simply vengeful, without much caring about the outcome.
“I’m told he was found near the tideline,” Rutledge commented quietly.
“Oh, his clothing was soaked with seawater,” Mrs. Granville replied. “It’s a wonder, cold as he was, he didn’t die of exposure. But Anthony—the doctor, that is—feels that the cold may have prevented massive internal bleeding.”
“One good thing, then. No sign of returning to consciousness?”
“He’s moaned a time or two. The doctor is reluctant to administer anything to help with the pain, at least for the next few hours, because of possible brain injury.”
“But he’s not conscious enough to speak, as far as you know? When he begins to moan?” He reached out and touched one of the hands on top of the coverlet, and raised his voice a little. “Mr. Hamilton? Can you hear me? I’ve brought a message from your wife, Matthew. Do you understand what I’m telling you? Grasp my hand if you do.”
There was no response.
“How is Mrs. Hamilton?” Mrs. Granville asked him, leaning forward a little, as if eager for news. He turned to look at her, seeing her now as one of the village women rather than just the doctor’s assistant. “She hasn’t been back to see him,” she continued. “I’ve heard that she’s under—er—constraint at the house.”
A thin face, thinner lips, gray eyes alive with curiosity.
“Mrs. Hamilton is safe where she is,” he answered carefully. “I don’t think you need to fear for her or the maid. I’d hoped to bring her with me. Perhaps the next time. Could I see Mr. Hamilton’s clothing?”
Surprised, Mrs. Granville said, “Well, yes, of course, if you like. It’s all in the cupboard there. I dried the woolen things as best I could.”
He was already opening the low cupboard at the foot of the bed. The coat and trousers Hamilton had been wearing were still dampish, and had that odd feeling that salt water gives to fabric, heavy and slightly stiff. No hat, as if the man had enjoyed the wind in his hair. Or had lost it in the struggle.
“Boots,” Hamish said, and Rutledge saw the Wellingtons under the neatly folded pile of undergarments.
“He was planning from the start to walk by the sea,” Rutledge responded silently. “He wasn’t lured there.”
Mrs. Granville was saying, “The contents of his pockets are in that small box. I was going to offer it to Mrs. Hamilton yesterday, but she left so suddenly.”
Rutledge took out the box and opened it. Wallet, in some unusual leather now stiff and water stained. Several pounds in bills. A handkerchief. A handful of coins. Keys on a ring. A pipe and tobacco in a pouch. And a watch, the fob on the gold chain an enameled shield with the cross of Malta in red and white. The watch must have been cleaned and wound, for it was ticking softly.
Nothing unusual or unexpected. Save for the keys, he returned the items to the box and set it back where he’d found it. Then as an afterthought, he put them back as well. As long as Hamilton was alive, they should be left for him.
Just as he was closing the cupboard, the man on the bed groaned in pain, then stirred uncomfortably before subsiding into silence once more.
“If he speaks at all, no matter how trivial his words may seem to you, write them down and summon me at once. Leave word at the station or at the Duke of Monmouth.”
“Yes, of course, Inspector.” She followed him to the door. “I’ll tell the doctor you came, and if he has any need to speak with you, he’ll reach you.”
He walked down the passage and was almost at the outside door when a woman came out of the surgery waiting room, nearly colliding with him.
“Miss Trining,” Mrs. Granville said, in the tone of voice reserved for someone of substance.
“I shan’t wait any longer,” Miss Trining said. “I feel better now, anyway.”
“Are you sure you oughtn’t stay until the doctor sees you? Indigestion is sometimes—”
“I know my own body best,” Miss Trining said shortly, then looked Rutledge up and down. “Who are you?”
He gave her his best smile. “Inspector Rutledge from Scotland Yard,” he said. “And you are…?”
“Charlotte Trining. I’m a member of the vestry, along with Matthew. Have you been to see him? Dr. Granville won’t let me near him.”
“And rightly so. Rest is the best cure, sometimes,” he said. “I’ve my motorcar outside. May I drive you somewhere?”
Over Miss Trining’s head, Mrs. Granville shot him a grateful look.
“Yes, thank you.” She nodded to the doctor’s wife and let Rutledge hold the door for her.
He said good-bye to Mrs. Granville and followed Miss Trining to the car, opening the passenger door for her.
He had met many women like her over the years. Imperious and self-important, accustomed to having their way, and as often as not a force in any community out of sheer natural gall and ferocious, driving energy. The sort of women who had connections and were never shy about alluding to them.
Her dark blue eyes were s
canning him as he turned the crank and then climbed in beside her.
Hamish said, “’Ware!” and was silent again.
Miss Trining said, “I shouldn’t have thought Bennett’s foot injury was sufficiently serious to summon Scotland Yard to his aid.”
“I expect he felt he couldn’t remain objective,” Rutledge answered. “And rightly so.”
“I never liked that man, Mallory,” she went on. “I’m not surprised he attacked Matthew. What does surprise me is that he didn’t finish the job while he was at it. Lack of moral fiber, I expect. I’m told by a cousin in Sussex that he suffered shell shock during the war. I don’t hold with cowards. Watch where you’re driving, young man. You nearly hit that cart!”
He had. Her words had struck him like a physical blow, and he had swerved without realizing where he was.
Saying nothing, he fought to regain his composure, and she looked at him sharply, turning her head to stare at him.
“Don’t tell me you feel differently on the subject.”
“I was at the Front, Miss Trining,” he answered after a moment. “I saw firsthand what men had to endure. I can’t stand in judgment of them now.”
“I should have thought you would know, better than most, how they let their friends and comrades down.”
It was harshly said and harshly meant.
He remembered a line from O. A. Manning, the war poet who was in reality Olivia Marlow.
Without looking at Miss Trining, he quoted,
“Courage is not measured by
Marching bands and banners in the wind.
If you have not walked
The bloody lines and seen the faces,
You have no right to describe it so.
We die here to keep you safe at home,
And what we suffer
Pray you may never know.”
“Yes, yes, I know the poem. What does it say to anything?”
“That you weren’t there, Miss Trining. And have no right to judge.”
She turned away in a huff. “You can let me down here, if you will,” she said, pointing to a milliner’s shop to his left.
But when he drew up to the shop, he said, “You appear to know the Hamiltons well. Tell me about Matthew.”
