by Charles Todd
She had an interesting face, square jawed with a straight nose and deep-set eyes. The kind, Hamish was saying, that could lie well, without betraying the thoughts behind the words.
“Were you badly injured?”
“My knee took the brunt of the blow. It was weeks before I could walk on it again, and then it was stiff for ages after that.”
“Who was your doctor?” he asked, intending to verify details of the accident and how she might have felt at the time it occurred.
“Dr. Granville, of course, and I must say he worked a miracle.” But it was clear she preferred to talk about Hamilton. “It was my claim to fame, you know. Meeting Matthew Hamilton on his very first visit to Hampton Regis. I have first acquaintance. It quite puts Miss Trining’s nose out of joint.”
He smothered a laugh. “When was this?”
“Last year. I was disappointed to discover that he was married. We’re short of eligible bachelors here.” He thought she was mocking him.
Miss Esterley was, in fact, striking, while Felicity Hamilton could be described as beautiful. But there were attractions other than beauty. Intelligence for one, character, spirit. A shared background. “Are you on good terms with Mrs. Hamilton?”
“I have no reason not to be. I don’t dally with married men.”
“I didn’t mean that you did—”
“What you were asking, Inspector, was whether or not his wife was jealous of me. I doubt it. Was I jealous of her? No. I enjoyed Matthew Hamilton’s visits to hospital immensely, and later at the convalescent home. He has a very pleasant manner, and it passed the time. I’ve traveled a little, and we shared an interest in that. Otherwise, he came out of kindness and a sense of duty. He felt responsible. And as I had no one else to look out for me, it was rather nice to be taken care of.” Before she could stop herself, she cast a wistful glance at a photograph on the table at his elbow. An artillery captain, he saw, smiling at the camera with a devil-may-care expression. He didn’t need to ask Miss Esterley if the captain had come home from France.
Hamish said, “Aye, but she wanted you to notice.”
Rutledge responded silently, “If she was jealous of Hamilton, it would have been his wife struck down on the strand.”
“A woman scorned,” the Scots voice retorted.
Almost as if she’d heard Hamish, she said, “I grew up in Kenya, Mr. Rutledge. Matthew Hamilton hadn’t traveled to Nairobi, but I’d been to Crete and Malta and Cyprus on holiday with my parents. We could only afford the slow steamer, not the fast packet, you see. And that was our good fortune, because we enjoyed exploring. It was what took my father out to Kenya in the first place.”
“Do you know Matthew Hamilton well enough to tell me who might have wished to see him die?”
“Whispers say it must be Stephen Mallory. But I doubt it.” She frowned. “It’s going to make it difficult for all three of them when Matthew Hamilton is recovered. Even if Stephen didn’t harm him, he’s destroyed Felicity Hamilton’s reputation here.”
“There’s the maid—”
“Yes, well, you don’t know Nan as I do. She used to work for a friend before the Hamiltons came. If it had been Felicity who was attacked, I’d have thought of Nan before anyone else. It’s a terrible thing to say about someone you know, but I see her stooping to murder if she thought it would free her employer from his wife’s spell. And spell it is. Make no mistake.”
11
As they were leaving the Esterley house, Hamish said, “What’s the secret of Matthew Hamilton, then?”
“Miss Trining is jealous of him in her own fashion,” Rutledge answered thoughtfully. “Miss Esterley enjoyed his company more than perhaps was—suitable, for want of a better word. If she’d been as fond of the doctor responsible for seeing to it that she walked again, I’d find that more commendable. And there’s Miss Cole. I expect the rector heard something in Hamilton’s voice that betrayed more than he’d intended to say, when he brought up her name. I wonder what Frances would make of him?”
His sister was a very good judge of people and often better than most when it came to understanding the roots of relationships.
The trouble was, the force of character and the vitality of the help less man lying on the cot in Dr. Granville’s examining room were obscured by bandaging and silence. It was hard to tell whether his charm was real or merely cultivated through years of diplomatic necessity. Even Felicity might not know the answer, even though she had married him.
Hamish could be right, that what people wanted to see in him, they did see. The eye of the beholder.
Rutledge threaded his way through the busy streets, intent on going to the police station, but he paused briefly to look out across the Mole toward the open sea. The view beckoned, the day clear enough to see for miles, the water lapping softly at the strand of shingle where Hamilton had been walking. There were boats there now, drawn up out of reach of the tide, and gulls sat on the jutting pier, calling to one another. He had always loved the water. And this afternoon it was a mirror, deep blue and peaceful. But the sea was not always so quiet.
Inspector Bennett was waiting for him, demanding to know why Mr. Reston had been questioned like a common suspect. “He’s respected in these parts,” Bennett pointed out. “A man of business.”
“Even men of business commit murder,” Rutledge said blandly. “More to the purpose, he might well have been walking to the bank that morning and passed someone hurrying away from the Mole. I’d have thought a prominent citizen would be more than happy to help the police with their inquiries. Instead he complains to you.”
“That’s as may be. I’ve already put my men to questioning the fishermen and the loungers who hang about the Mole. They’re a more likely source of information.”
“Have they had anything to tell you, so far?”
“They saw nothing, worst luck,” Bennett admitted. “There was a mist that morning. Some people like walking in mists. I don’t see it myself, quickest way to lose your bearings and find yourself in trouble.”
“Yes, well, set your men to questioning the shopkeepers along the Mole, the man who sweeps out the pub, the milliner who comes early to work—anyone who might have seen Hamilton before he reached the Mole. Or noticed someone following him on Monday morning.”
Sourly, Bennett said, “This isn’t London, with limitless resources.”
“If someone was going to come forward of his own accord to tell us what he saw, he’d have done it by now. What we’re after is what people don’t realize is important.”
“And what’s more,” Bennett went on, moving to his next grievance, “I’m told you woke Hamilton up, questioned him, and then summoned the doctor to him. What was that about?”
“It was hardly questioning him. He came to his senses on his own, spoke a few words that indicated he was only just aware of my presence, and that was the extent of it.”
“So you say. How do I know that was all that took place?”
Irritated, Rutledge said, “Good Lord, Bennett, why should I keep such information from you?”
“If it didn’t look good for your friend, you might not wish to tell me.”
Rutledge let it go, aware that anything he could say would only make matters worse. “How was Hamilton? Did you see him after I did?”
“We were there, Granville and I, in the room, trying to rouse him again.” It was a reluctant admission.
“Any luck?” Rutledge wondered just how they’d gone about it.
“None. It looked to me as if he was in a deep sleep. What’s to be done now?”
“I don’t know,” Rutledge confessed. “Until Hamilton can talk to us, we’re at an impasse. It might be just as well to set a watch over him. Did Dr. Granville mention that to you? Not only to write down anything he may say. It’s possible someone might decide it was prudent to finish what began yesterday morning.”
“Hamilton’s no danger, with Mallory clapped up in the house with the women and under guard himsel
f.”
“But what if it isn’t Mallory who attacked him?”
“How many men do you think I have? Two are watching the house in turns. I’ve got two more questioning the loungers and fishermen along the harbor, and now you want to set a watch on the doctor’s surgery. He’s calling in a woman to sit with Hamilton. That will suffice.”
But would it, Hamish was asking as Rutledge left the station.
“It will have to” was the clipped reply.
The afternoon was unproductive. Rutledge went to find the rector to learn more about Miss Cole, but there was no answer to his knock.
He was walking back to his motorcar when he saw Miss Trining coming out the door of a neighboring house. She lifted a hand in recognition.
Hamish said, “She watched you go to yon rectory.”
“Very likely,” he murmured in reply, and waited for her to reach him.
“Good morning, Inspector. Are you in need of the rector? I’m afraid he’s been called away. Mrs. Tomlinson is not well.” She stood there, as if expecting him to tell her his business.
But he said pleasantly, “Thank you, Miss Trining. I’ll come again in the afternoon.”
“I understand you’ve been questioning Mr. Reston. May I know the purpose of your interest in him?”
“Mr. Reston’s bank is just off the Mole. I’d hoped he could tell me who was on the street that morning.”
Her attention sharpened. “And could he?”
Rutledge smiled to take the sting out of his response. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”
Her mouth tightened. “Indeed. I thought perhaps you were curious about his past. But since you don’t choose to confide in me, I feel no compunction to confide in you. Good day, Inspector.”
He watched her walk away, her back stiff and straight. Now what, he wondered, had possessed her to cast doubt on Mr. Reston’s past? Whatever it was she knew—or thought she knew—Bennett was unaware of it. And that was intriguing.
He found the Reston house after asking the shy girl behind the counter at a flower shop near the Mole for directions. The shop smelled of dried lavender and lilies. The girl, a brunette in her early twenties, was dressed in a white shirtwaist and a dark blue skirt, her hair pulled back becomingly to a knot at the nape of her neck. She smiled at him as he entered, the obligatory smile of someone hoping to make a sale.
When she recognized him, she was suddenly wary, as if he had come to question her.
“I’ve already spoken to Constable Jordan,” she said in a soft voice. “I didn’t see anyone out and about the morning that Mr. Hamilton was hurt.”
“Did you see the doctor and the police removing him to Dr. Granville’s surgery?”
“Oh, no, I looked away. It was upsetting.”
Hamish said, “It must ha’ been. But why was she no’ curious?”
“Did you know it was Mr. Hamilton they were bringing up from the strand?”
“Not then. I—I thought someone had drowned.”
“Is drowning common, off the Mole?”
She shook her head. “Not very. There’s no bathing here, not with the currents. But sometimes, especially in the war, seamen washed up along the south coast. A good many were never identified. Which is sad—no one to mourn for them, and perhaps a wife or mother somewhere waiting and waiting for them to come home.”
And no one to buy flowers to put on their graves, he thought. He asked her the question that had brought him to the shop and thanked her.
The banker lived in what Bennett had called the fish scale side of Hampton Regis, an imposing gray stone edifice with a mock turret and a battlemented porch over the drive that looped past the side of the house.
Mrs. Reston, he was told by an elderly maid in a prim starched cap that was more suited to an Edwardian household, was not at home this morning.
Feeling thwarted, Rutledge retraced his steps and went again to Casa Miranda, asking to speak to Mrs. Hamilton. Mallory, he noted, looked haggard.
She came to the door with red eyes, as if she’d been crying for some time. Her first words were, “Is there news? If it’s bad, tell me quickly.”
He couldn’t bear the distress in her voice. “Your husband was briefly awake, Mrs. Hamilton,” he said gently, then added with a glance toward Mallory, “Not awake long enough to know where he is or why he is there. I must tell you he spoke your name, and we must take that as a good sign. Dr. Granville is doing all he can.”
“Please tell him I’m grateful.” Felicity Hamilton began to weep, her face in her hands. He thought, Tears of relief. Both men looked away from her, uncertain how to comfort her.
After a moment Mallory said quietly, “What do you want, Rutledge?”
“Let me in for ten minutes. If I’m to help, I need more information than I have now. Anything that you can tell me—”
“No.”
But Felicity, finding her handkerchief, said emphatically, “Don’t be foolish, Stephen. If it will somehow help.”
Reluctantly Mallory stepped aside to allow Rutledge into the hall.
The house already had a dismal air, as if without someone polishing and cleaning, without an ordinary schedule for the day, it was deteriorating.
They went to the sitting room, where the luncheon dishes still stood on trays. Rutledge thought they’d had sandwiches of some kind, and tea. Makeshift meals.
“Tell me about Miss Esterley,” he began as they sat down, Mallory anxiously watching Felicity Hamilton.
She said blankly, “Miss Esterley? But surely you don’t think—I mean, it wasn’t Matthew’s fault that she was injured.”
“I’m not suggesting anything. Still, she has come in contact with your husband under difficult circumstances, and I must ask what effect her accident might have had on their relationship.”
“There was no ‘relationship,’ as you put it,” Felicity replied irritably. “He felt responsible for her, he saw to it that she had every care. And she has no problem with her knee now, she still uses that cane because she’s grown accustomed to it.”
Or to make sure Hamilton didn’t forget. He could feel Hamish’s presence behind him, the thought leaping across the space between them as if it didn’t exist.
“That may be true.” Rutledge hesitated, trying to choose his next words carefully.
Felicity was there before him. “If you’re asking me whether she read more into Matthew’s attentions than he intended, I shouldn’t be surprised. It doesn’t trouble me. Matthew is mine, he always will be—” She broke off in embarrassment, casting a quick glance over her shoulder at Mallory, standing behind her chair, and was suddenly rattled. “I meant to say, his affections aren’t likely to stray in that direction.”
But Rutledge wondered if she was protesting too strongly. A man could love one woman very deeply and still be unfaithful to her in his mind. As Felicity Hamilton herself could have loved Matthew and still dreamed of Stephen Mallory.
“Wi’ the right weapon, a woman could ha’ knocked Hamilton doon,” Hamish reminded Rutledge softly. “It doesna’ have to be a man.”
“Do you by any chance know a Miss Cole? I’m not sure if that’s her name still, or if she’s married now.”
“Cole?” She shook her head. “Should I?”
“The name had come up in another interview. I had the feeling she might live nearby.”
“Ask the rector, he should know. I haven’t heard of any Coles in Hampton Regis. Have you?” She turned to Mallory.
He said, “No, I don’t recognize the name either. Although there are a number of Coles in Kent, I think. I was in school with a Hugh Cole.”
Rutledge posed his next question. “What do you know about the Restons?”
She smiled grimly, her pretty face suddenly cold and hard. “He’s not what he seems, I can tell you that. He raised such a fuss about the goddess. As if he’d never set foot in a museum. And the rest of Matthew’s collection as well. Obscene and disgusting, those were his exact words. Insuffe
rable little man. He thinks he’s the arbiter of morality here in Hampton Regis, but I happen to know for a fact that when he was an officer in a London bank, he had a vicious temper and nearly—”
She stopped, her hand over her mouth. “Gentle God. I’d forgotten. He struck down a man during a disagreement outside his London club. It was hushed up, of course, but the man was in hospital for days. He could have attacked Matthew! Over that stupid, stupid clay figure.”
“How do you know about this?” Rutledge asked her, breaking in.
“The mother of a friend of mine. When I told Clarissa I was coming to live in Hampton Regis, her mother said, ‘But that’s where that awful man went, the one your father saw, Clarissa, outside his club. Shocking to say the least.’” Her voice unconsciously took on the tones of the older woman speaking, giving force to the words.
“What weapon did he use in this beating?”
“He had a weighted cane. For protection, he claimed, since he often carried large sums of money for the bank. The other man wouldn’t press charges, he’d apparently said some very inflammatory things to Mr. Reston that he didn’t wish to be made public. But there’s your murderer, Inspector, you’ve only to arrest him, and our ordeal will be finished.” There was an expression of such hope on her face.
Behind her, Mallory’s lips tightened and his eyes met Rutledge’s in mute appeal.
“It isn’t that simple, Mrs. Hamilton,” Rutledge told her. “But thank you. I’ll look into this and see what comes of it.”
