by Charles Todd
“I shan’t presume on a mission of mercy,” he said quietly. “But I can offer my ser vices for what they are worth.”
Mallory said, “I wish you would pray for us, Rector. We’re tired and dispirited. And Nan Weekes has made the worst of this business. I hadn’t counted on that. I thought she’d do more to comfort her mistress.”
“Would you like me to speak to her. She may be frightened.”
Mallory gave a short bark that wasn’t amusement. “Yes, and while I guard the door, what then?”
Putnam said with asperity, “I do not represent the police, Mr. Mallory. My duty is to God. If you ask me to help you, I would be here as his representative, and no one else’s.”
Mallory wiped a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Rector. Yes, if you would have a word with Miss Weekes, I would be grateful. It would make life within this house a little less—” He shrugged. “I’m no match for two angry women.” Then as Putnam seemed to take a step forward, Mallory said, “I haven’t told either of them about Hamilton. Or about Mrs. Granville. It was unnecessarily cruel, to worry Mrs. Hamilton when there’s nothing she can do. You’ll respect that, won’t you?”
“I understand. I’ll just ask Mr. Tavers to wait.” In a moment he was back. He passed Mallory at the door and made his way into the hall, wondering if he would encounter Mrs. Hamilton on his way belowstairs. But she was not waiting for him. He found the room where Nan Weekes had been incarcerated and saw that the key was in the door. Turning it, he stepped inside.
The woman standing with braced shoulders where she could face whoever came into the room, raised her eyebrows as she recognized the priest.
“You’ve come to tell me it’s over,” she said flatly. “Did he kill her and then himself? It’s what I’ve been expecting, but I’ve heard no gunshots.”
“Nan, nothing has changed. I’ve come because Mr. Mallory feels you need the little comfort I can offer. It’s been a trying few days.”
“Trying.” She seemed to spit the word at him. “It’s not what I’d use, not trying. They’re tormenting each other and tormenting me. I blame both of them, her for giving him false hope, and him for not seeing that he wasn’t wanted here.”
“You think that’s what has happened?” Putnam asked.
Nan Weekes said, “A decent woman doesn’t find herself pursued by a man she turned down. A decent man takes his dismissal. But my cousin has seen him watching this house of a night, from across the way. And she looks out that window toward him, in the morning. I’ve seen her when I go to bring down the ashes, and if I’ve seen her, so has Mr. Hamilton.” She turned away, as if she preferred not to face him for the next question. “No one tells me how Mr. Hamilton is faring, after that beating. I’m not to speak of it, she says. It’s too painful, she says. And who else could have given it to him, I ask you, but that Mr. Mallory? Is he dead? Is that why you’ve come, to offer comfort to the widow?”
“No. I don’t know how Mr. Hamilton is faring, Nan. I haven’t been to see him, you see. For several days he wasn’t allowed to have visitors, he was too ill.”
He had kept to the letter of his promise, Putnam thought. But not the spirit of it. With a sigh, he said, “Could you bring yourself to help Mrs. Hamilton through this ordeal? You may not approve of her actions, but you cannot judge what’s in her heart, you must leave that to God. For now, your strength and your willingness to be a witness to her ability to steer Mr. Mallory toward a peaceful end is your first duty to Mr. Hamilton. Will you keep that in mind? Will you stay here, make no trouble for either of them, and do what you can to help us while Mr. Rutledge is trying to bring Mr. Mallory to his senses?”
She said, “If you say so, Rector. But it was Mrs. Hamilton who gave him that revolver. And if anything happens to me, you must tell my cousin that I told you as much. He’s one of Mr. Bennett’s men, he’ll see things set to rights.”
“I think you must be mistaken—”
“That I’m not, Rector. I was there on the stairs, wasn’t I? It’s Mr. Hamilton’s revolver from his foreign ser vice that Mr. Mallory has, and I’ve been praying since I was shut up in here that he would turn it on himself and be done with it. It would be her punishment, wouldn’t it? And very fitting.”
Putnam stood there, rooted to the spot for an instant longer. Finally he said, “Nan, you’re no better than they are, when you say such things.”
“That’s as may be. Will you give Mrs. Granville a message from me, if you please? I’ve got her best sheets at my house, to iron them properly. They’d have been back by now if I weren’t shut away here. If she needs them, she can go and fetch them. I’ll understand.”
The rector replied slowly. “I expect to see Dr. Granville shortly. I’ll make a point of passing this information on.”
She laughed, without humor. “He wouldn’t know the best sheets from the everyday ones. No, it’s Mrs. Granville you must tell. I wouldn’t want her to think I’d mislaid them.”
He asked her, tentatively, if she would like to pray with him before he left, and she bowed her head stiffly while he did, drawing on his training to sustain him. But he saw that his hands were shaking as he locked her door again. And he wondered if Nan had noticed it as well.
Rutledge was driving back into Hampton Regis from Miss Trining’s house when he saw George Reston and two other men walk into a row of offices just up from the Mole. They appeared to be in earnest conversation, and the younger of the three carried a sheaf of papers in his hand.
He passed them without showing any interest in them. But when they had gone inside, he turned the next corner and drew up in front of Reston’s home.
The maid informed him that Mrs. Reston would receive him, and he followed her down the passage to a small room that was warm from the fire on the hearth and bright with lamplight.
“I was glad to see that Mr. Reston is feeling better,” he said. “He appeared to be with business associates just now, near the Mole.”
“He didn’t want to keep to that appointment, but he had no choice.” She regarded him coolly. “It had been arranged several days ago and one of the men has to return to Winchester tonight. Why have you come back, Mr. Rutledge?”
“First, I should like to ask you if your maiden name was Cole.”
“It was not. My father was Edward Farrington, we lived in London and Sussex. I don’t see that that has anything to do with your business here in Hampton Regis.”
He tried to place the name. Something to do with law or finance, he thought. Certainly a firm connected with some of the best families in the country. Mrs. Reston had indeed come down in the world, and it was there in her face as she watched him search his memory. But he was careful not to let her see his conclusion.
“And your second reason?”
“Because I think you must know more about Matthew Hamilton than your husband is aware of, Mrs. Reston. And I didn’t feel I should say as much in his presence.”
“Our parents traveled in the same circles, we met a time or two, but it was not an event I remember with great fondness, if that’s what you are asking me. He was just one of many people invited to the same house parties and weekends in the country. I enjoyed them. One did then, before the war. It was a very pleasant way of life. I miss that, I think a good many people must. It was a golden time. By the time I married George, Matthew Hamilton was abroad. I don’t think he recognized me when we were introduced here in Hampton Regis at Miss Trining’s dinner party. I didn’t press the memory.”
“But your husband, if I’m not mistaken, is very certain you do remember Matthew Hamilton, and with some warmth.”
“Call it a matter of revenge, Inspector. It didn’t drive my husband to attack Mr. Hamilton when he was out walking Monday last. And it hasn’t driven him to do anything drastic now.”
“You can’t be sure of that. Revenge is sometimes bloody and swift.”
“My husband bought me, Mr. Rutledge. Like goods in a shop. Or so he feels. I’ve seen it in his eyes
when he looks at me. He wanted to improve his position socially, and my father needed money rather badly. It was an arranged marriage. Two years later, my uncle died and my father had all the money he could ever wish for. And I had George Reston for my husband. There was no respite for me. But I have finally brought him around to my way of thinking—I have created a past I never had. Embroidering my relationship with Matthew Hamilton into something more than the brief acquaintance it actually was. And George can’t afford the scandal of divorce. We manage together very nicely at the moment. And I shall deny I told you a word of this, if you meddle.”
“You believe he couldn’t have beaten Hamilton nearly to death. But I’ve been informed he attacked another man in London, nearly as severely.”
“I know my husband. He wouldn’t have touched Hamilton. And as Mr. Hamilton has no way of knowing the role he’s played in my life, he’s not likely to give George any satisfaction.”
“Matthew Hamilton is probably dead, Mrs. Reston. And you can’t be sure that your fantasy hasn’t driven your husband to murder. After all, the last indication we have of Hamilton’s whereabouts was in that cottage that went over in the landslip.”
“I remind you that anyone could have found a way inside. It was known to be abandoned. We had no reason to lock it or board it up. There was nothing inside of any value.”
Except, Hamish roused himself to point out, a small vase painted with lilacs.
“Was the man your husband attacked in London another of your fantasy love affairs?” Rutledge’s voice was harsh, and he meant it to be.
Stung, she said, “That was a matter of business, Mr. Rutledge. I knew nothing about it until George told me that he was taking a position here, in Hampton Regis, and why. His partner, fool that he was, had been using client funds improperly, and George lost his temper when he found out. I never liked the man, I felt he was responsible for our leaving London, and I am sure that he deserved what he got after badgering my husband publicly to help him make restitution in time.”
“You seem to have a very callous disregard for human suffering, Mrs. Reston.”
“Yes. I was taught by masters. No one ever stepped forward to protect me, Inspector. I wonder why I should feel any driving sense of duty to protect anyone else. Let me tell you something about love. It can be very cruel and very greedy. I’ve had done with it. And that has given me a freedom that I cherish.”
Rutledge, walking through the inn doors, saw someone rising from a chair set to one side of the Reception desk.
It was Stratton, striding forward with his hand proffered.
“I say, Inspector Rutledge? Robert Stratton, Foreign Office. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”
Rutledge led him to a sitting room beyond the stairs and closed the door behind them.
“I’ve been sent down with a watching brief. Mr. Hamilton is one of ours, and naturally we feel some concern for his welfare.”
“Mr. Hamilton, as I understand it, has retired.”
“As indeed he has. But he’s suffered rather severe injuries and his wife is under duress. I’m here to act on his behalf in any way that’s useful. For instance, to see that he receives adequate medical attention and is moved to hospital if the local man isn’t up to the task.”
“I have no doubt that Dr. Granville is a good doctor. The problem is, Mr. Stratton, that we seem to have mislaid Mr. Hamilton. He was not in the surgery this morning when Dr. Granville returned from an emergency.”
Stratton frowned. “I don’t quite understand.”
Rutledge took off his overcoat and sat down. “I’m at a loss myself. How did the Foreign Office learn about events in Hampton Regis? I wasn’t aware that the attack on Mr. Hamilton had received widespread attention.”
“An ear to the ground—”
“I’m a policeman, Mr. Stratton. I’m afraid that won’t do.” Rutledge waited grimly. “Who contacted the Foreign Office? And who sent you to Hampton Regis? I’d like to clear this with the Yard before I give you any more information. For all I know, you’re the man who attacked Mr. Hamilton while he walked by the sea four days ago. If you’ve lost him, so have we. And I’d like to know why.”
Stratton took the chair on the other side of the small table at Rutledge’s elbow. Looking up at the painting above the hearth showing the Duke of Monmouth standing on a battlefield, banners flying and men dying at his feet, he said, “That’s an abominable work. It didn’t happen that way.”
“The hotel is named for him. It’s to their advantage to show him as an heroic figure. I’m still waiting.”
“I was a friend of Matthew Hamilton’s at one time. I hope I still am. The problem is, we’ve wondered, some of us, if he’s writing his memoir. When the Chief Constable dropped a word in the right ear that Matthew was in serious condition and unconscious, we wondered if we might find ourselves with a posthumous publication. Disappointed men sometimes use the pen when the sword has failed them.”
“And you are here to ferret it out if anything should happen to him?”
“I’m not from the Foreign Office. That is, I am, but not officially. I came as a friend. He’ll do himself no good, raking up things best forgotten. The newspapers will make much of it, then lose interest. But by that time the harm will have been done. He, er, kept diaries. We do know that. We don’t know what was in them.”
Rutledge asked, “Did that have anything to do with the customs inspections he endured from time to time?”
Surprised, Stratton recovered quickly. “I daresay he invited them with his rather cavalier approach to other people’s property.”
“If something was sold on the open market, it was hardly appropriated by Mr. Hamilton. He simply bought the object. As I understand it.”
“All very true. But of course when a man has a reputation for buying without asking questions, he encourages tomb and site thievery. It’s simply not done. Still, a handful of rare statuary is not my interest. I’ve seen his collection and wouldn’t give it house room. We could never understand why Hamilton chose to live in Hampton Regis rather than London. The only answer was that he found it the perfect place to work. Quiet, out of the way, attracting no attention other than the social aspirations of his neighbors. A perfect place.”
“Did it occur to no one that he might like that house above the sea, that he chose a quiet place for the first years of his marriage, to give it time to flourish?”
“Of course it occurred to us, we’re not fools,” Stratton retorted irritably. “But it was unlike him. There was no connection in his past to this part of England. His wife wasn’t from this vicinity. Hampton Regis is a very long way from London, not so much as the crow flies, you understand, but in the kind of life everyone expected Hamilton to lead. It aroused our—suspicions.”
“It might well send them soaring to learn that Matthew Hamilton has vanished.” Rutledge got to his feet and lifted his coat from the back of the chair. “What’s more, a woman was murdered at the same time and in the same place. If Mr. Hamilton has been writing an account of his career, it has upset more than his friends, it’s unleashed an enemy.”
Stratton was still standing there, stunned, as Rutledge walked out of the room.
It was half past nine before Rutledge again shut himself inside the telephone closet and put in his second call to the home of Melinda Crawford.
Her voice was strong as it came over the line, and Rutledge smiled to hear it.
“Well, Ian, what have you got to say for yourself, neglecting an old woman until she’s left to wonder if you are alive or dead—and on the brink of not caring either way!”
Melinda Crawford, a child in 1857’s bloody mutiny of native troops in India, had survived that and cholera to marry, lost her husband when she was in middle age, and set about traveling as an antidote to grief. Returning to England in what most would have considered their final years, she set up a home in Kent and soon acquired a large and interesting circle of friends. If she was still waiting to die, n
o one suspected it.
“Mea culpa,” he said. “Blame the Yard, if you like. It’s half their doing. I’d asked for leave to visit you, and they wouldn’t hear of it.” It was the truth. But he made it sound like a lie.
“A likely story.” She waited on the other end, knowing him too well.
“It’s about Matthew Hamilton—do you remember him?”
“Of course I do. Are you breaking bad news, Ian? It’s late and I shan’t sleep a wink tonight.”
“The truth is, I’m calling to ask if you knew one of his friends, a Miss Cole.”
“Ah. Miss Cole. How did you come to know about her?”
20
Nothing that Melinda Crawford said or did surprised Ian Rutledge—he had grown used to her ability to leap ahead of a conversation or catch at a single word or phrase and divine what the speaker wished most to avoid.
Her question now was heavy with shadings. As if by asking him point-blank, she could somehow deflect his curiosity.
Rutledge said, “For a start, who is she, and where does she live?”
“She’s a young woman Hamilton knew many years ago. Why don’t you ask him about her?”
“I can’t lay hands on him at the moment. You’ll have to do.”
“I expect she lives where she always has, in Exeter. With an aunt, although the elder Miss Cole may have died long since. In that case, your guess is as good as mine.”
Exeter was not that far from Hampton Regis—in fact, along the west road to Devon.
“How did Hamilton come to know her?”
“As so many people came to know each other before the war. As you met Jean, at a weekend party. There were a goodly number of young men and women there—the host’s son had just come down from university and there was tennis, boating on a small lake, dancing on the terrace, even croquet. Quite tame by modern standards, no doubt. Terribly Edwardian.”
