by Charles Todd
He started to step back through the door and then paused with one foot on the threshold. “We’ve got no supplies. Let the rector bring us what we need. I won’t shut him in with us. And he won’t tell Felicity—Mrs. Hamilton—about her husband’s death or Mrs. Granville’s. She doesn’t need to suffer any more than she has already.”
Rutledge said to the closing door, “Mallory—”
There was silence behind the wooden paneling. But Rutledge had the most vivid image of Mallory standing there in the dimness on the other side, head bowed, hands over his face.
Climbing painfully into the motorcar, Bennett said, “I tried. No one can say I didn’t try.”
Rutledge took a deep breath. “It was admirably done. I’d hoped he would accept your offer. It was generous.” But he found himself thinking that perhaps the visit of the Chief Constable had had a salutary effect on Bennett’s determination to hang Mallory out of hand. It might still be there, but the policeman had triumphed over the broken bones in his foot when it was most needed.
But Hamish wasn’t satisfied. He said, “Ye ken, he doesna’ wish to go down in flames with you or the Lieutenant.”
It was a chilling analogy. How many airplanes had they watched crash in flames over the Front? Even if the pilot got out, he seldom survived. But Bennett was determined to see that whatever the outcome for Rutledge or Mallory, he remained the local policeman in Hampton Regis.
The inspector was saying, “Did you believe him, then? That he’s pinned in that house by Mrs. Hamilton’s fears, and never set foot outside?”
“It could well be the truth. Certainly if Mrs. Hamilton woke in the night and realized that Mallory was nowhere to be found, her first thought must be that he’d used the cover of darkness to go down to Granville’s surgery.”
“There’s no telling with women,” Bennett said with a sigh. “She might have decided to cut her losses. Here’s Hamilton dying, and her reputation damaged. She might well decide that her future was safer with Mallory than as a widow whose name was under a cloud. Husband murdered, gossip swirling about her wherever she went.”
Rutledge tried to picture Mrs. Hamilton as a schemer. And found to his surprise that while he couldn’t put it beyond her to look to the future, all things considered, she might well be better off with her husband at the end of this ordeal. Just as Mallory had admitted. He also found it hard to believe that any feelings she might have had for Mallory would survive what the two of them were going through now.
But Bennett was right. There was no certainty with women. They saw their world in a very different light. They had to face condemnation of a different sort, the look in a man’s eyes as he recalled a hint of scandal, the glance that passed around a circle of other women as she walked into a room. A hostess’s hesitation in greeting her, an older woman’s reluctance to present her to impressionable daughters. A whisper behind a fan, a man’s hand slipping as they danced, as if testing her willingness.
And there was Nan Weekes, who would gladly add to rumors and speculation.
Rutledge dragged his thoughts back to Matthew Hamilton. Why had he been attacked in the first place? That was still the most urgent question. For once that had happened, Hamilton’s death must have become a foregone conclusion, to prevent him from telling the police what he remembered. If Granville had failed to save Hamilton’s life that first morning, Margaret Granville might still be alive. Or if he’d had the sense to put a guard on his patient, she might not have been killed. But it had all begun in the mist early on Monday morning. An opportunity seized? Or a victim stalked?
What secret was so important that an innocent woman’s life had to be taken to protect it?
Rutledge delivered Inspector Bennett to the police station and then turned the motorcar in the direction of the surgery.
But after an hour of walking through the rooms, putting himself into Hamilton’s shoes and then into Mrs. Granville’s, he was no closer to an answer.
It was while he was opening closets and searching through shelves that he did make one new discovery.
While the bedclothes in the room where Hamilton had lain were thrown back, as far as he, Rutledge, could determine, none of them had been taken away. Hamilton’s clothing and all his personal belongings were missing, yes—whether put on his body or tied in a bundle. But now he noticed that blankets had been removed from the cupboard in the passage where they were stored for ready use. The evidence was so slim it wasn’t surprising that he hadn’t noticed it before. Like the sheets below them, the remaining half dozen blankets were folded perfectly and set squarely on their shelf. But the top one was skewed very slightly, as if by a hand disturbing them in the dark. Mrs. Granville would have left these as she had everything else, in perfect order. The doctor’s wife carrying out every instruction with care and attention to detail.
Not proof, of course, and such as it was, it would have to be confirmed by Dr. Granville. But possibly an indication that Hamilton was still out of his head and needed to be hauled away like a sack of goods.
There had been sea mist and a rain…. To keep Hamilton dry was inconsequential surely, if the intent was to kill him anyway. No, trundled in a barrow or carried over the shoulder, it was prudent to shield him from sight.
What still struck Rutledge was the mind behind every move that the killer had made so far.
Meticulous planning and execution.
Nothing left to chance but Mrs. Granville’s sudden appearance. And even that deterrent had been overcome.
Was Mallory capable of such planning? In the trenches he’d followed orders and carried them out with a soldier’s skill, but without passion or flair to spur on his men. Foresight was deeply imbedded in most officers who had survived through to 1916 and the Somme. They learned. They profited from the costly mistakes of others.
If positions had been reversed, Hamilton, the Foreign Ser vice career officer, might have plotted Mallory’s death and seen it through with such precise skill. He’d dealt with the Turks and the Germans, where every word and gesture had been watched and scrutinized for its nuances. It was a hard school and he’d survived in it.
Who had turned just such cunning against the man? And why?
18
Rutledge went back to the inn for a late luncheon, eating quickly without speaking to anyone. He could feel the other diners regarding him surreptitiously, their ears cocked for his voice.
Bennett, nursing his foot, had all but dropped out of his usual haunts, growling in his cave like a wounded bear. And one didn’t call on the policeman’s wife, not socially, without a damned good excuse.
He on the other hand was a fish in a glass globe, Rutledge told himself wryly, living here at the Duke of Monmouth. The one man who could tell the inhabitants of Hampton Regis what had happened at the surgery this morning had to take his meal somewhere, and such a small town ran either to tearooms suitable for women or a pub or two where workmen could pick up their midday meal or stop by for a sandwich and a pint at the end of the day. He had seen the latter tucked into back streets, with perhaps a small dining room on the far side of the bar, and names like Fisherman’s Rest or The Plough and Share. Plain food, but filling and faster ser vice than the hotel. Nearer the Mole was The Drowned Man, with a lurid sign of a corpse wrapped in seaweed lying on the pub doorstep on one side and being handed a pint of what appeared to be bitter, on the other.
It wouldn’t have mattered today if the roast beef was lightly burned, the potatoes dry, the beets hard, though he had to admit the Duke of Monmouth had outdone itself in the kitchen this morning. In fact, the meal was excellent, and he was grateful that the cook hadn’t been struck down by Becky’s mumps. Guests had come to overhear a brief exchange, like the one he’d had earlier with George Reston, or a comment dropped into the silence as he was being served. Those who’d misjudged their timing had had to linger over their pudding or savory longer than was customary. Conversation had flagged noticeably as he walked into the dining room and took
his table at one corner of the room.
But he wasn’t the friendly local man, someone who might be hailed with “Good God, Bennett, are we all to be murdered in our beds? And was that the Chief Constable coming out your door this morning? What’s going on at the surgery? My wife was turned away and the youngest with colic, mind you. Is Mr. Hamilton dead? Was it his body Dr. Hester took away?”
Word was out that there had been a death. It couldn’t be avoided. Dr. Granville’s neighbors had seen enough to hurry to a friend’s home or a shop, passing on their eyewitness accounts. The question was, would any of them also remember anything from the previous night that would be useful to the police? He’d rousted one of Bennett’s men from bed and withdrawn the other from Casa Miranda for the day and set them going door-to-door wherever windows looked out on the surgery. It would be a matter of great good fortune if they came back with reliable reports.
He walked out, a subdued scraping of chairs behind him to follow his progress, and went directly to the telephone in its cramped closet.
There he put through the long-delayed call to Kent, prepared to wait patiently while it was answered at the other end and Melinda Crawford was summoned to the telephone.
Instead the maid informed him that Miss Crawford had gone to dine with friends and would be home at nine o’clock that evening. Was anything wrong? Miss Crawford would wish to know straightaway, rather than worry herself sick until she could reach him.
“You know how she is, Inspector,” the voice at the other end of the line chided him. “I needn’t remind you.”
“Tell her it’s a duty call, after I’d been swept by a strong sense of guilt,” he said, smothering his disappointment at missing her.
“And not a minute too soon, as you well know! Good day, Inspector.”
It had been Boxing Day when he last spoke to her. Nearly three months ago.
Hanging up the receiver, Rutledge was still standing in the shadows of the closet when he heard someone at Reception speak his name.
The desk clerk was saying, “He was in the dining room a short while ago, sir. Shall I see if he’s still in the building?”
The male voice said breezily, “Don’t bother. I’ll be staying, if you have a large room with a sea view available.”
“We have very few rooms with a sea view, sir. The Duke of Monmouth was a coaching inn in its day, and most of our guests were grateful to be spared the dampness of the Mole.”
“A large room, then.” After a moment, the man went on, “I hear you’ve had a spot of trouble here. Cleared up, is it?”
The desk clerk answered with the caution of a local resident. “As to that, sir, you’ll have to speak to Mr. Rutledge. If you’ll just sign here, sir.”
“Ah. Well, I shall require tea, if that’s possible. I’ve had a long wet drive. At least the rain has stopped here. It’s pouring farther to the east.”
“I’ll take you up, sir, and then have a word with the dining room staff.”
“Just tea will do, and perhaps…” the new guest was saying as his voice faded in the distance.
Rutledge listened as the clerk led the way up the stairs, waiting for a moment longer until they’d turned into the first-floor passage and it was safe to step out of concealment.
He hadn’t recognized the newcomer. But the name would be there in the hotel register. Walking quietly, he crossed to the desk and turned the heavy book his way.
R. G. H. Stratton was scrawled on the page.
Rutledge didn’t know anyone by that name. Either at the Yard or in London.
He left the Duke of Monmouth and went out to his motorcar. Stratton, whatever his business was, could wait. Who was he? Not sent by Bowles, surely—Bowles preferred his chosen minions. But perhaps from the Home Office, following on the heels of a report from the Chief Constable that all was not well in Hampton Regis. The first of the firestorm.
Hamish said, “It’ll no’ be your inquiry for verra’ long.”
And Mallory would not care for that.
He drove again to Miss Esterley’s house, and knocked at the door. She received him with concern writ large in her eyes. But her cane was nowhere in sight.
“I’m told that a body was removed from Dr. Granville’s surgery this morning. I’m also told that it appeared to be too slight for a man’s. I warned you earlier that Matthew was dead, if he hadn’t gone to Casa Miranda and to Felicity. Was I right, after all?”
He followed her into the room where they had spoken before, and took the seat she offered him. “There has been a death. Yes. But it wasn’t Hamilton’s body that was brought out. It was Mrs. Granville’s.”
If he had slapped her hard across the face, she wouldn’t have been more shocked. Blood rushed to her cheeks and she said, her voice not quite steady, “But—Mrs. Granville? I don’t quite—”
“She was found behind her husband’s desk this morning, dead of a blow to the head. Meanwhile, we haven’t found Hamilton, alive or dead. But the only conclusion we can draw now is that he was killed as well. If not at the surgery, then elsewhere.”
It was blunt, and he’d intended it to be, though Hamish growled at him for it. But if she had helped Hamilton to leave the surgery last night, he wanted her to know the cost. And where was her cane? He had seen it this morning.
Tears welled in her eyes, and to keep them from spilling down her cheeks, she gripped the arms of her chair until her knuckles were white. Whatever she might tell him about her relationship with Matthew Hamilton, on her side it went beyond simple friendship.
“I thought policemen,” she said huskily, “were taught to break bad news as gently as possible.”
“There is no gentle way to speak of murder.”
After a moment she replied, “That’s a frightful word. I don’t like it. I can’t believe anyone would wish to harm Mrs. Granville. What does she have to do with Matthew? She was always so eager to please. And she adored her husband. She’d have done anything he asked of her.”
As an epitaph, it summed up the doctor’s wife very well. She had lived for her husband, and perhaps died in his place.
“We don’t know the full story. But it appears she was there in the surgery when Hamilton went missing. That she either knew or saw something that she shouldn’t have. And that knowledge was costly.”
“Then Matthew couldn’t possibly have left of his own accord. He’d have done his best to defend her. Why was she there, in the middle of the night? Had he been waking up? That’s what everyone was hoping for. Was she sitting with him?”
“Dr. Granville had gone out to a patient and Mrs. Granville had retired for the night. Someone may have seen him leave, realized that Hamilton was alone, and took the chance that it would be safe to walk into the surgery. But something—a noise, a light, we don’t know—must have disturbed her and she went to investigate. She couldn’t have known there was an intruder. Either she thought her husband had returned home or she was afraid that Hamilton had come to his senses and was disoriented or in pain.”
“Yes, yes, it would be just like her. I didn’t know her well, but well enough to recognize her sense of duty.” She smiled sadly. “She hadn’t wanted to be a nurse, you know. She didn’t have the stomach for it. She told me as much when Dr. Granville sent her round with flowers the day I was brought home from hospital. She worked with him simply because she liked to be close to him. How is he coping? He’ll blame himself, you know. I don’t want to think about what he must be feeling. I’ve known loss myself.”
“Did you know Dr. Granville well, before your accident?”
“We met socially from time to time. He’s a fine doctor, I can tell you that. I’ve never really cared for him as a person, I don’t know why. That’s ungrateful, I know, I have no business even saying such a thing. He spent hours with me after my accident and did everything he could to see that I walked again, and without a limp. I’ve told you. But he was—I don’t know—always trying to impress me with all he’d done for me, as if he w
anted me to know the full extent of the debt I owed him. And I did know it. But I didn’t enjoy his company the way I enjoyed Matthew’s,” she ended ruefully. “I tried not to let him see how I felt. It would have been unkind. And he was married. There’s that as well.”
Hamilton had been married, but she seemed to view that differently.
After a moment she shook her head. “Somehow I’m not ready to believe Matthew is dead. I—it just seems so ruthless, to kill a helpless man, much less an innocent woman.”
“When we’ve learned why Hamilton was attacked in the first place, we’ll be able to answer that. The urgent question just now is why anyone would have wanted to take Matthew Hamilton away. The simplest solution is that he’s dead now, before he can speak to the police.”
He had told Mallory that Matthew had come to his senses briefly. Had that been an error in judgment?
“Well, it won’t help Felicity in her predicament, of course. It won’t help that man Mallory to prove he isn’t guilty of assault. And even if Mr. Mallory struck Matthew down, it was still far short of murder in the eyes of the law. He should have given himself up.”
Hamish was pointing out that she had shown less sympathy for Felicity’s loss than she had for Dr. Granville’s.
Rutledge said, “What do you know about Mallory? Could someone have killed Hamilton to revenge himself on Mallory? To make sure he was tried for murder and hanged?”
“I don’t think I’ve met Mr. Mallory more than once or twice. I know very little about him, except for the whispers I’ve heard.” She considered for a moment how to answer him. “I’m sure Inspector Bennett would love nothing better than to see the man in custody—the woman who does my washing gossips about the trial he’s been to his wife over that injury to his foot—but you aren’t suggesting he’d prefer to watch Mallory hang? That’s rather far-fetched.”
Rutledge smiled grimly. “And so we’re back to the beginning, and why Hamilton was so severely beaten.”
Miss Esterley regarded him with interest. “You are a devious man, aren’t you?” she asked.
