A False Mirror

by Charles Todd

  “There’s not much to tell. He’s been a valued civil servant, he came back to England, married a much younger woman, and seems to have settled into his new life without looking back.”

  “Did you know him before he came to Hampton Regis?”

  Something in her face belied her response. “No. I must say that he’s been an asset to us here, recognizing his responsibility to set a good example for all of us. I admire that.”

  “And Mrs. Hamilton?”

  “She could do far more than she has, to be frank. I don’t think she realizes how she lets her husband down at every turn. Refusing to serve on committees, refusing to take up charitable work, refusing to entertain in the style that I’m sure Matthew was accustomed to abroad. After all, a senior foreign ser vice officer does have a certain social position. But that’s what comes of marrying someone so much younger, you know. No sense of what’s due a man of Matthew’s stature.”

  “Does Matthew Hamilton have enemies?”

  She stared at him again. “Enemies?” Her emphasis on the word was noticeable. “I shouldn’t think anyone in Hampton Regis has any connection with his past. Why should they? Most of them have never been abroad, unless they were in the war. Much less to Malta and Sicily and Crete.”

  “I was thinking more specifically than that. Here in Hampton Regis.”

  “You are entirely too young and inexperienced to handle this inquiry,” she said flatly. “I shall have a word with the Chief Constable about that when he comes to tea.” And without waiting for him to come around and open her door for her, she did it herself and stepped out. “Good day, Inspector.”

  9

  When Felicity wandered down for breakfast, there were dark shadows under her eyes and she seemed distracted.

  “Rutledge was here again,” Mallory said. “You were asleep.”

  “Just pretending. I heard him knock at my door and panicked.”

  “I don’t think he believed the hostage story. But Nan gave him an earful.”

  “Yes, I’m sure she did. I wish we could let her leave, just to be rid of her. I don’t feel comfortable when she’s in the house. I never have. She adores Matthew.” She hesitated. “Did he say—is Matthew all right?”

  She was asking if he still lived. Mallory could feel his heart turn over. What would she do if Matthew died? Turn on him, slip out of the house in the middle of the night, when he finally sank into deep sleep, unable to keep his eyes open any longer? And then he felt guilty for even considering such a cruel betrayal.

  “Still unconscious.” He didn’t tell her that Rutledge had offered to let her visit her husband. He wasn’t sure how she’d respond to that.

  Felicity shook her head and pulled her shawl closer, as if she felt cold. “You don’t suppose we could build a fire in the study or the sitting room? It would be so much cozier.”

  “Felicity.” She looked up at him, then looked away. “What are we going to do?”

  “I thought this inspector was here to sort it all out for us. That’s why you wanted him to come, isn’t it?”

  “The question is, will he be strong enough to stand up to Bennett?” He hesitated. “He wanted to know if we’d had an affair.”

  “Hardly an affair. I was in love with you long before I met Matthew. I was going to marry you. Only you didn’t want to marry me. Not then.” There was a hurt expression on her face, as if she remembered the past more clearly or, at the very least, differently.

  “Dear girl! I told you, I didn’t want to come home to you a lame beggar—”

  “But you didn’t, did you?” There was accusation in her voice, as if he had tricked her somehow. “You came home whole.”

  “I couldn’t know that. It was you who refused to wait. Who didn’t have faith in the future.”

  “How could I, when you’d painted it so bleakly?” She stood in the doorway to the dining room. “I don’t suppose you could make a pot of tea. Matthew always brought me my morning tea.”

  He hesitated, and then said, “Yes, of course. Breakfast!” as if it had just struck him what time it was. “We’ve got to feed Nan, as well.”

  Felicity frowned. “We’d be so much better off without her. I wish she was gone.”

  “No, we shouldn’t be. She’s your chaperone.”

  “Little good she is at chaperoning. Locked up belowstairs.”

  He smiled. “Appearances, my dear, appearances,” he said, in a voice that was so like Miss Trining’s that she laughed. Nan must have heard it as well, for she began to bang ominously on the door of her prison.

  “I wish she was dead!” Felicity said in anger, and then covered her mouth with her hand. “I didn’t mean that, truly I didn’t.” She waited to be forgiven, like a child.

  “No, of course you didn’t.” But he turned away, his appetite gone, and went on to prepare a meal he couldn’t swallow.

  Bennett was in a foul mood. His foot had kept him awake most of the night, and this morning Rutledge had proceeded to act without him. It was unprofessional, and in his present state of mind, unforgivable. He sat in his office hunched over his desk like a poisonous toad, waiting for Rutledge to appear.

  Then he said, with understated anger, “I hear you’ve been busy.”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Rutledge said blandly, his face giving nothing away. “And so I went to the house. The women are safe, but their situation isn’t the best. I’d like to bring this business to a conclusion today.”

  And so would I, Bennett thought, if only to be rid of the likes of you.

  His feelings were so clear in his expression that Hamish said, “Watch your back. He doesna’ care how it ends.”

  “Yes, at least Mallory is right there,” Rutledge answered silently. And to Bennett, “Perhaps it would help if we could go over the evidence against Mallory again.”

  “I’ve told you. Twice before. There was reason to believe he might have had a hand in the assault, and I went to confront him. He ran me down and fled. What more do you want in the way of evidence?”

  “I believe you, of course. But what I’d prefer are witnesses, some sort of direct proof at the scene that he might have been there. I daresay Mallory can afford a decent barrister. We had better be prepared for that.”

  “The only tracks were ours, the ones we made coming down to have a look at Hamilton. We didn’t know then he’d been beaten, did we? First thought was, he’d walked too far and his heart had given out. Dr. Granville was with us, I’d sent for him straightaway. And he was anxious. Hamilton’s had malaria, dysentery, and God knows what other diseases out where he’s been,” Bennett retorted, easing his leg in front of him. “Bones are the very devil! You’d think they’d have no feeling in them. At any rate, I cast about for footprints, a weapon, some sign of a struggle—and I came up empty-handed. Here was a badly injured man, he had no enemies that we knew of, and the only person with any reason to see him out of the picture is the man now hiding behind the skirts of two frightened women. That should tell you something. If he’s innocent, why didn’t Mallory stand and take questioning like a man?”

  “Because,” Hamish was pointing out, “Mallory didna’ trust the police to be fair.”

  Rutledge tried to quell the voice in his head. “Who were Matthew Hamilton’s friends? He served on the vestry. What does the rector have to say to this business?”

  “I haven’t asked him. When have I had the time?”

  “Then perhaps we should see him now. I’ll drive you,” Rutledge went on as Bennett was on the point of protesting. He stood by the door waiting, and Bennett had no choice but to get to his feet and clumsily adjust his crutch under his arm.

  Rutledge had passed the church coming into Hampton Regis last night and heard the clock strike the hour. It stood not far from the turning to Casa Miranda, a tall, rather austere stone edifice well set out in its churchyard. To the west of it behind a massive Victorian shrubbery, this morning he glimpsed the sunlit windows of what must be the rectory.

 
The rector wasn’t a man to take sides. Slim and frail, he looked to be older than he was, a man so trodden down by life that only his faith sustained him.

  When they found him in the church, staring at the baptismal font as if expecting it to break into speech at any moment, he seemed surprised to see them.

  Bennett made the introductions and said without further ado, “Mr. Rutledge would like your opinion of Matthew Hamilton.”

  “Matthew?” Augustus Putnam faltered. “Is he dead then? I’ve been remiss, I haven’t been to see him.”

  “He’s still very much alive,” Rutledge responded. “Shall we sit down over there?” He gestured to the chairs at the back of the nave. “Inspector Bennett would appreciate it.”

  “Yes, yes—by all means.” Putnam led the way to the chairs and waited as if the host until both men were seated. Then he sat down heavily as if worn out by the interview to come.

  “Matthew Hamilton,” Rutledge reminded him.

  “Ah. Well, you probably know his history. Foreign Office and all that. He’s been so helpful with church affairs. I’ve been grateful. Sometimes the vestry board can be….” He hesitated, looking for the right word, then smiled. “Obstreperous,” he ended.

  “Too many demands and not enough money?” Rutledge asked.

  “Yes, exactly,” Putnam agreed gratefully. “We have to make do—the war, you know. It changed so much.”

  “The rector lost his only son at Passchendaele,” Bennett told Rutledge with some bluntness, as if that explained the rector’s situation.

  “I’m sorry,” Rutledge’s voice carried more than the usual polite murmuring of sympathy.

  Putnam nodded in acknowledgment.

  “Thank you. It’s still amazingly raw. The loss.” His thoughts seemed to wander away, as if searching for some explanation for why his son had been taken. After a moment, he came back to the present. “I’ve the greatest respect and admiration for Matthew Hamilton,” he said. “There’s been much comment about his interest in foreign gods, but I can tell you he’s a fine example of what a good parishioner ought to be. Kind, considerate, intelligent, compassionate.”

  “Foreign gods?” Rutledge asked.

  “He was something of an amateur archaeologist in his spare time. Part of the collection he brought home with him has—er—stirred up some confusion in the minds of a few people. Especially the goddess.”

  For an instant Rutledge found himself wondering if the reference was to Mrs. Hamilton, and then he remembered the headless figure in the drawing room. “Have you seen this collection?” he asked with interest.

  Putnam smiled. “Yes, I was particularly asked to view it. George Reston was most insistent about that. He was shocked, you see. I expect Matthew had enjoyed a little amusement at his expense. We aren’t very worldly, here.” He cast a swift glance toward the silent Bennett, then added to Rutledge, “Have you been to Malta, Inspector? Or to some of the other early sites in the Mediterranean? I’ve read a little about them, and I must confess they tend to be extraordinary in their perspectives.”

  Rutledge held back a grin. In so many words Putnam had told him more than Bennett had understood. Putnam, he realized, wasn’t quite as childlike as he appeared. It was a facade developed over time to shield himself from the wrath of the Restons and the Trinings among his flock.

  “And Mrs. Hamilton? Do you know her well at all?”

  “A lovely young woman,” he said. “We’ve been saddened by the fact that she doesn’t come to ser vices as often as we’d like. But she seems sincere in her faith.”

  Hamish said, “The auld biddies must ha’ driven her away.”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Rutledge answered aloud, then winced.

  Bennett put in, “We’re here to inquire if you can think of anyone who might wish Mr. Hamilton ill.”

  Putnam considered that for a moment, then shook his head. “I would say he’s universally liked.”

  Which left the impression that no one felt that way about his wife.

  “And Mr. Mallory?” Rutledge asked.

  “Ah. Mr. Mallory. We’ve had long talks, you know. On the nature of faith. He lost his in France. Not too surprising, I’m told. But not lost forever, one hopes.”

  Translated, it seemed to say that Putnam had enjoyed very little success with Mallory. But there was an undercurrent of compassion that spoke of understanding and sadness.

  Sometimes, Rutledge thought, reading between the lines was a skill a policeman ought to develop early on. But Bennett, sitting there with righteous stolidity, was not listening to the nuances. He was a blunt man with little imagination, and his foot must have been hurting him after the exertion of getting in and out of the motorcar. There was a grim downturn to his mouth, as though he was consciously suppressing the pain.

  And then Putnam commented, as if reminded by something only he could see, “I should like to know what you think of our bosses. Will you take a moment to look at them?”

  Bennett opened his mouth to say that they had other calls to make, but Rutledge was before him, intrigued by the rector’s shift in subject.

  “By all means,” he told Putnam with enthusiasm infusing his voice. “I’ve a fondness for architecture.” He turned to Bennett and said, “It shouldn’t take more than five minutes.”

  Bennett said stiffly, “I’ll just wait in the motorcar then.” He adjusted his crutch and walked off, clearly put out by the distraction.

  Putnam led Rutledge down the nave, where they could look up into the darkness of the high vaulted ceiling. Pointing to the ribs of the vaulting where what appeared to be flat stone buttons pinned them into place, he said, “If your eyes are younger and better than mine, you can just pick out the devices on each boss.” The rector’s words echoed above their heads, as clear to Bennett as they were to him.

  And Rutledge could. As the west door closed behind Bennett, he stared upward into the shadows. The bosses were from Henry VII’s day, he thought, with the white rose of Lancaster and the red rose of York melded into the Tudor rose, healing all wounds of the long bloody wrangling among the descendants of Edward I. Or such was the hope. Henry Tudor had certainly done his best to rid himself of any opposition. The device of the portcullis was there too, and while they were both of interest, they weren’t unique to this church.

  But Rutledge waited patiently for Putnam to explain the significance of them. After a moment he said, quietly, “One morning Matthew Hamilton was standing where you are now, as we were discussing a vestry matter. The subject turned to mistakes we’ve all made in our lives, and he said to me, ‘There’s a Miss Cole who could tell you much about a mistake that altered my life. I’ve carried more than a little guilt about that over the years, and I’ve wondered how to make amends. Only I’ve put it off too long now.’” The rector shrugged diffidently. “I recall almost his exact words because whatever he had done still greatly distressed him. I asked if he’d care to tell me more, and he said it was his own cross to bear. This may have nothing to do with the attack on him. But you did ask if there might be someone who wished him ill. I would be grateful if you kept this to yourself. It could cause needless pain if I’m wrong.”

  “Did he ever mention this woman again?”

  “It was not a subject I cared to bring up myself.”

  “I appreciate your advice,” Rutledge answered slowly. “And your wisdom,” he added after a moment.

  Putnam smiled. “One learns diplomacy in many arenas, Inspector. I’m sure the police and the foreign ser vice have nothing on the Church when it comes to treading with care.”

  He escorted Rutledge up the aisle to the west door and added as it swung inward, bringing in the cold air, “Some things are best left unsaid. And then there is no necessity for explanation or retraction.”

  They shook hands and Rutledge left. Hamish said, “Yon’s a canny man.”

  Bennett, fuming in the motorcar, demanded, “What’s so unique about the bosses, then?”

  “Putnam take
s pride in them,” Rutledge answered simply. “And sometimes it’s wise to give a lonely man a few minutes of one’s time. It may encourage him to remember something we ought to know.”

  Grunting, Bennett let Rutledge crank the motor on his own. As the other man stepped behind the wheel, Bennett said, “In my view, finding our man is more important than pacifying the rector.”

  “You live here. You know best,” Rutledge said without emphasis.

  “Standing around on those cold pavestones has made my foot ache like all the imps of hell taking hot tongs to it. I’ll have to rest it.” It was obvious that the man was of two minds, torn between putting up his foot and staying the course.

  “I’ll drive you home. After that I’ll call in again at the surgery. With any luck there should be news.”

  “If he’s going to live, you mean. Hamilton. I’ve got a bad feeling about that. You could tell Mrs. Hamilton that her husband is dying, in the hope Mallory will let her visit him.”

  “And if he won’t, she’ll be distressed to no purpose.”

  “Her feelings aren’t our concern. Winking Mallory out of there is.”

  “In good time,” Rutledge promised, driving through the town and turning down the road to Bennett’s house. “And Nan Weekes is still there, remember.”

  “If Hamilton lives, Mallory won’t hang,” Bennett commented, ignoring his reply. “It’s a pity.”

  He clambered down with an effort and hobbled up the walk to his door.

  Hamish said, “He wants his revenge.”

  “And I’m here to see he doesn’t have it.”

  But there was no news, although Matthew Hamilton seemed to be breathing less stressfully.

  “As if he’s coming up from the depths,” Granville said, “although it might be the body and not the mind that’s healing.” He examined Rutledge with some curiosity, and Rutledge found himself flushing under the scrutiny.

  What did the doctor read in his face? Shell shock? Nightmares?

  “I don’t quite see Scotland Yard’s interest in this business,” Granville commented. His blue eyes were concerned. “Was it Mrs. Hamilton who sent for you? Are you a friend?”