by Charles Todd
Rutledge shut that drawer and went to the next. He found more accounts for the Malta house and those from another one in Istanbul. There were letters to and from a man of business, and a name caught Rutledge’s eye as he was setting them back in the folder he’d opened. “I shall want George Reston’s assurance that all is well again, and afterward I shall move my business to the firm in Leadenhall Street, London.” There followed the direction of a firm that Rutledge recognized as old and well-established: McAudle, Harris, & Sons.
And why should George Reston have to give his assurance that all was well again?
Rutledge went back to the correspondence and read it more thoroughly. The letter was dated shortly after Hamilton had returned to England.
George Reston’s London partner—a man by the name of Thurston Caldwell—had been borrowing from Matthew Hamilton’s funds for his own purposes. On a small scale at first, and then with increasing assurance as his client had remained abroad.
If such a breach of trust had been made public, it could have ruined Reston as well as Caldwell, and probably led to prosecution.
Hadn’t Mrs. Reston said something about misappropriated funds, and the partner deserving what he got, when Reston lost his temper in public and attacked the man?
Small wonder, then!
Rutledge realized suddenly that she had chosen the perfect instrument for her revenge on her husband. Not just someone she had known as a girl, but a man who had been defrauded by Reston’s London partner. A double-edged sword that had descended with all the force of long-dreamed-of vengeance behind it.
And had Reston, twisting and writhing like a puppet in a tempest, turned not on his tormentor but on a man completely unaware of his role in the failure of a marriage?
21
Rutledge went on searching through the drawers of the desk and then in the bookshelves that stood across from it. Volumes of history and travel, some of them in French or German or Latin, had been lined up by date and subject, according to a master plan. He could follow it clearly, as if Hamilton had had time on his hands to devise a careful cataloging of his library—or could afford to hire a scholar to do it for him.
And would there be room here for diaries as well? He thought, rather, that there would be.
It took him half an hour to locate them, a set of exquisitely bound volumes in tooled cordovan leather, gold leaf on the edges of the pages, and scrollwork on the binding, but no titles. At first he’d expected the set to be a collection of verse or Latin authors or even, thinking of Reston’s library, biblical references. When he opened the first of the slim works, he discovered that each covered a year of Matthew Hamilton’s life from the time he took up his career to—so it appeared—the last entry on the night before he left Malta:
The Knights and I part company finally. I have followed them from Acre to Rhodes to Malta, not with intent but because they were before me on the road. But I have come to a newfound respect for men who lived and labored in the heat of the Roman Sea, and I understand their fascination with the harsh light of noon and the soft light of dawn and the long rays of afternoon. I have stood on the ramparts as they must have done, waiting for moonrise, and I have found a measure of peace. If these walls are haunted—and it is likely that they are, given the blood spilt here—these shades have been kind to another traveler, passing unseen behind me or standing at a distance, watchful until I go. I wonder what my life would have been if I hadn’t come here or to any of the other places I have lived in my exile. I wonder how I share fare in England. But it doesn’t matter. I have left a part of me wherever I have lain my head, including my youth. What remains will be satisfied to go home.
It was a poignant farewell. And there were equally poetic entries over the years, as the writer sat in a café and sipped coffee or finished a last glass of wine before going to bed. The rest was a meticulous account of a busy life and a devotion to duty that spoke of loneliness as well as dedication. Names, dates, times, places, matters up for discussion, resolution arrived at for every meeting and official function. Brief but incisive comments on people everywhere, from donkey men on Santorini to political appointees in the courts of the Kaiser and the viziers of Turkey. Cameos, perceptive and devastatingly honest, of visiting dignitaries and other diplomats serving their countries. And amusing sketches of the Englishmen he encountered or who had served with him in this or that capital. During the war years, there was a list of names, framed in black ink, of friends who had fallen.
Rutledge closed the last volume and put it back on the top shelf where he had found it.
A man could reconstruct his entire professional life from such a detailed account of twenty-odd years abroad. As an aide-mémoire the diaries were priceless.
Whether Matthew Hamilton had intended to use them in such a way, Rutledge had no idea. But there was enough privy information in them to ruin more than one career. Or to provide a rich vein of blackmail material for an unscrupulous reader. And Hamilton had not spared himself on the pages, either.
Robert Stratton had every reason to fear the existence of the diaries. Whether he had ever confronted Hamilton about them, on the strand here in Hampton Regis or in the narrow, dirty streets of Istanbul, or bribed ill-paid customs officials to find and confiscate them at port cities, it was certain that the Foreign Office knew nothing of Stratton’s presence in Hampton Regis today.
The door opened, and Rutledge looked up, expecting to see Mrs. Hamilton on the threshold. But it was Mallory who stepped into the room. “You should go. I’ve been patient long enough.”
“I was just coming to find you. What do you know about Hamilton’s financial dealings?”
“Precious little.” He closed the door. “Should I be interested in them? Is there something that will hurt Felicity?”
“Not that I can see. But there was some trouble early on, when Hamilton returned to England. Does Mrs. Hamilton know the details of how his money was managed when he was abroad?”
“I’ve heard her remark, since I’ve been here, that his financial advisers don’t care for her. She suspects there was some trouble over resuming control of his money, and although it’s settled now, the man couldn’t be counted on to do her any favors. She seems to think the man blames her for enticing Hamilton back to England and cutting short his career. In all likelihood, he may believe that if Hamilton hadn’t married, he’d have gone abroad again.”
“But Hamilton didn’t know Felicity before he came back here, did he?”
“Of course not. It was my misfortune that he met her at a dinner party in London, while I was still in hospital. But that wouldn’t matter to a man like Caldwell, caught with his hand in the till—it was easier to point the finger of blame at a new wife.”
“Were there discrepancies in the accounts, do you think?”
“Hamilton’s not one to be gulled. I expect there was a swift rearrangement of funds to cover any difference in sums. Otherwise, the police would have been brought in. Are you telling me that Hamilton’s banker has been stalking him?”
“I’m only saying that there may be another motive besides an affair with his wife.”
“I never—”
Rutledge cut him short. “I’m not accusing you. I’m telling you that it’s very likely that a good case could be made on your behalf, bringing up the issue of embezzled money versus your past relationship with Mrs. Hamilton.”
Mallory took a deep breath. “All right. Thank you. But it isn’t Hamilton’s man of business here in Casa Miranda with her. Bennett won’t give a curse in hell for him. And where is Hamilton, come to that? I’ve had a rough day of it, keeping what I know from her. Is he dead? Rutledge, damn it, tell me!”
“I don’t know any more now than I did this morning.”
“God help us. I thought Scotland Yard could walk us through this maze and bring us safely out the other side.”
“Scotland Yard,” Rutledge told him with an edge to his voice, “is only as good as the information given it. And
so far, that’s been precious little.”
Rutledge was very tired when he reached the inn. Hamish, hammering at him, was a dull ache that wouldn’t leave him, a reminder that he had failed Mrs. Granville as well as Matthew Hamilton.
He stretched out on his bed in the dark and, hands behind his head, stared up at the ceiling. There was one more thing he had to do this night, and he wasn’t sure where to begin.
Would Miss Cole be expecting a policeman at her door? Not unless she’d learned of events in Hampton Regis. And that was unlikely—the newspapers still hadn’t got wind of the assault on Hamilton or the murder of the doctor’s wife. It would be left to him to break bad news.
Or would she feel only a sadness for an old acquaintance? Rutledge hadn’t seen any mention in Hamilton’s diaries of Miss Cole or even of a married woman who might be her in later years. He hadn’t read them line for line, of course, but enough to have a very good feeling for what they contained. Indeed, Hamilton had seldom written about England, except for the occasional reference to a personal letter from a friend. Rutledge had come across Melinda Crawford’s name here and there, most often in connection with something Hamilton had seen or done or found that he knew she would enjoy hearing about in a letter. Whether Hamilton had actually written to her Rutledge didn’t know. He’d have to ask Melinda Crawford that. Hamilton might simply not have had time to keep up a lively correspondence, much as he might have wished to. Yet he’d spoken of Miss Cole to the rector.
After twenty years.
On the other hand, there was the photograph of the house on a quiet street in Malta, identified and ready to send. But clearly never put in its envelope. As if second thoughts had entered into the urge to keep a friendship alive, and in the end Hamilton had broken himself of the habit of following through on these small courtesies that would have left doors in England ajar.
And then he had come home and fallen desperately in love with a young woman. To recapture his lost youth? Or because in her eyes his years abroad were merely a romantic past, and she had no experience on which to judge the dangers and hardships and emptiness of a world where politics and protocol and too many secrets circumscribed everyday life.
Rutledge closed his eyes, trying to define what the relationship between Miss Cole and Matthew Hamilton had been. Instead he saw Jean’s face against his eyelids, and then Mallory, his uniform filthy, his face blistered from an early-morning gas attack, sitting with his back to the trench wall and weeping for his dead. But Hamish hadn’t wept, he had moved quietly among his remaining men, touching a shoulder here, saying a word there, bending over a soldier who was shaking and offering him a cigarette to steady him, binding up a wound that didn’t merit the journey back to an aid station. Then he had turned away and rested the splayed fingers of one hand against the earthen wall of the trench, his head coming down to touch them as he slept where he stood. For a mercy the guns were silent and for a few precious minutes the peace lasted.
Rutledge had watched from a distance. There had been nothing he could do, nothing he could say. And so he had turned his gaze back to the wire and the last lingering feathers of color in the clouds, a pink already shading to lavender and gray as night came on.
In a war mourning had to be done privately. There was never any time for more than a snatched thought, a swift prayer, a curse at what Fate had dealt men too young to die. No ceremony, no flags, no fanfare or trumpets. They were all too busy striving to live one more bloody day.
Hamish was saying, “I do na’ ken why ye’re driving sae far. She couldna’ ha’ come for him. How would he summon her? Wi’ no telephone in the surgery? And she canna’ have killed the doctor’s wife for his sake.”
Rutledge was driving west, toward the city of Exeter. The road followed the sea for a time and then turned away, miles sweeping under his wheels, and a soft wind blowing that smelled, he thought, of plowed earth.
He responded, “It isn’t the surgery I’m thinking about. We can’t be sure she hadn’t had news of him over the years, even if he’d failed to write. For that matter, now that he’s back in England, she could have wanted to see him again. And the meeting on the strand was not what she’d expected. She could have walked away, and then turned back to strike him down.”
“Oh, aye, and what of yon doctor’s wife?”
Rutledge frowned. “There’s the rub. Solve the riddle of the attack by the harbor, and that solution doesn’t fit the murder at the surgery. Explain what might have occurred in the surgery, and it doesn’t clear up what happened by the sea. It’s as if we’ve got two separate crimes, for two entirely different reasons. If Hamilton isn’t dead, it’s very possible he killed Mrs. Granville by mistake.”
Why risk removing Hamilton, when he could have been smothered where he lay with a pillow? If Hamilton had left the surgery of his own volition, why didn’t he go back to Casa Miranda? And even if Hamilton had inadvertently killed Mrs. Granville, he couldn’t have attacked himself on the strand. Stephen Mallory could have tried to kill Hamilton the first time and succeeded the second time. But George Reston had nearly as strong a motive as Mallory. And in his eyes, if no one ever discovered what had become of Hamilton now, it might seem a fitting torment for Henrietta Reston to live with.
They were soon on the outskirts of Exeter, and Rutledge cut his speed.
It was a cloth manufacturing town from Norman times and a trading center that had brought it wealth and sometimes unwelcome attention. William the Conqueror had laid siege to it in person. It sat by the Exe River, and Francis Drake had supped with Walter Raleigh in Mol’s Coffee House here.
The cathedral’s Norman towers were wreathed in clouds as Rutledge came through the city, and the street lamps cast a watery light across its medieval west front. The motorcar’s rain-washed windscreen gave the sculptures a flickering, shadowy life of their own, and Rutledge, glancing up at them, could have sworn they moved.
It was a measure of how tired he was.
He found the police station and asked an overweight sergeant on duty where he could find a Miss Cole who lived with her aunt. The sergeant replied irascibly that until he knew the business of the man in front of him, such information wouldn’t be given out.
Rutledge introduced himself and received a long stare in return as the sergeant wondered aloud what had brought a Scotland Yard inspector to this part of the West Country.
“A personal matter,” Rutledge informed him and waited.
“Indeed, sir. I’ll just call Constable Mercer, and he’ll take you there. Though it’s late to be paying a social call.”
“I’ve had a long drive, Sergeant.”
“Indeed, sir.” He summoned the young constable, and while they waited for him, the sergeant said, “The house isn’t far, sir, it’s a tall one set back from the road, just past the turning where you came into town. Ah, Constable, Mr. Rutledge here is from London, Scotland Yard. Could you show him Miss Miranda’s house and let them know it’s all right to open the door to him.”
Miranda Cole. Casa Miranda…the house of Miranda.
Rutledge caught himself in time, on the point of saying it aloud.
With Constable Mercer seated stiffly beside him, Rutledge drove back to the way he’d come. He soon picked out the iron gates to Tall Trees, which Mercer had told him to watch for, and then three houses to the east of that, saw a small Georgian dwelling with pillars to its portico and a wing to one side.
With the constable in tow, Rutledge went to the door and knocked. It was several minutes before an elderly maid answered his summons, her gaze moving from him to the constable with some alarm.
“Good evening, missus,” Mercer began. “This is Inspector Rutledge from Scotland Yard, to see Miss Miranda. I was asked to bring him here, so you wouldn’t be worrying about strangers at the door at this hour.”
Her gaze returned to Rutledge, sweeping over him as if he’d brought trouble with him. “I should hope it could wait until morning. Miss Cole and Miss Miranda have reti
red.”
“I’m sure Miss Miranda Cole will see me. Tell her I’m here about Matthew Hamilton.”
The maid’s mouth tightened. “I’ll ask her.”
They stood there for what seemed like five minutes. Finally the maid returned and said to Mercer, “There’s a cup of tea for you in the kitchen, Constable. Mr. Rutledge, if you’ll come with me.”
She ushered him into a room at the back of the house, the curtains drawn against the night and lamps burning on tables by the window and by the hearth. A fair-haired woman stood by a chair across the room, her face showing no interest in him or his business.
The colors of the room were faded, as if no one had given a thought to decorating for many years—the rose paper on the wall now more ashes of roses, and the carpet, in a style more French than English, seemed to have lost interest in life. Yet the room was spotlessly clean, as if to assure godliness if not beauty.
“Miss Cole?” It was a courtesy. She must be the woman he was seeking, the age was right, and something in her face, a strength, a poise, seemed to match the man that Matthew Hamilton had become.
“Yes. I understand you are here about Matthew Hamilton. I’ve been told he’s returned to England, but he has yet to call on me.”
“I’m afraid he’s missing, Miss Cole. We’ve been contacting everyone who may have information about him. In the hope that we’ll be able to find him quickly. You’ll understand when I tell you that he’s been under a doctor’s care for several days, and there is some anxiety about his health.”
“That doesn’t sound like the Matthew Hamilton I remember. He was always a sensible and practical man. Nevertheless, I’m sorry to tell you that you’ve wasted your trip. He isn’t staying with me.”
