A False Mirror

by Charles Todd

  She sat there for a time, a frown on her face, her eyes downcast. Finally she picked up the bell at her elbow and rang it.

  Dedham came to the door, clearly expecting to see Rutledge off the premises. Instead Miss Cole said, “Could you bring us fresh tea, please, Dedham? I think we rather need it.”

  She added as the door closed again, “You place me in a very awkward situation, Inspector Rutledge. But I can tell you frankly that Matthew Hamilton, when I knew him, was incapable of killing anyone. A good man, a fair man, a caring man. I don’t want to believe that he’s changed since then.” She looked toward the window, where the light had all but faded. But it was another light she searched for. “I’ve never been connected to murder before. It’s unspeakably frightful.”

  “None of us can say with certainty that we won’t kill, if driven to it. I have killed men in the war. They were no better and no worse than I was. But because of the uniform they wore, they had to die in my place. And because of the uniform my own men wore, I had to send them out to shoot strangers.”

  “Yes, that’s what happens in war, people are killed. It isn’t personal, is it? Like this.”

  “When you watch the living force go out of a man’s face as you fire your weapon into his unprotected body, it is very personal,” he told her grimly.

  That gave her pause. “I begin to see. I’m sorry.”

  The tea came soon afterward, and Dedham had added sandwiches to it, and cakes iced in pale green, as if intended for a celebration that hadn’t taken place.

  Rutledge poured, so that the maid could be dismissed. Miss Cole took her cup, drank deeply as if the tea were a lifeline, and then set it aside.

  “If Matthew Hamilton is dead, you’ll have no answers in the end,” she warned him.

  “I can’t help but pray that he’s still alive. We need to close this case. It has done great damage to too many people. Dr. Granville, the maid’s cousin. Mrs. Hamilton and even Stephen Mallory. Others have been dragged into it as well. It would be unkind to let them all go on suffering.”

  “But what will you do, if you find him? Carry him off in custody, like a common felon while you sort this out?”

  “Hardly that, unless we caught him with a weapon in his hand, trying to kill someone. My first question would have been, ‘What happened on your last walk?’ And my second, ‘What happened in that surgery?’”

  “If he can’t tell you, what then?”

  Rutledge set his own cup aside. He answered her honestly, weariness infusing the words with what sounded very like despair. “I don’t know.”

  She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the back of the chair.

  “Do you believe me, that he was incapable of murder, when I knew him all those years ago?”

  He took a chance, over Hamish’s fierce objections.

  “I’ll try, once you’ve told me why it was you wouldn’t marry him.”

  Her eyes flew open, her head coming up with a snap. “You have no right!”

  “There are two people dead, Miss Cole. Women who never harmed anyone to my knowledge. But they died because of Hamilton, one way or another. You owe them something.”

  “I don’t owe anyone anything,” she cried, the pain in her voice so deep it sounded even to her own ears like someone else’s.

  “You have lived here in shabby gentility, shut away from the world, punishing yourself because something happened to your sight and you believed that you had no right to inflict your suffering on someone else. He called you the most honorable woman he’d ever met, Miss Cole. I have it on good authority.”

  “I couldn’t entertain for him. I couldn’t recognize faces and remember them the next time we met. I couldn’t live in a strange world where I couldn’t see my surroundings or find my way without someone there to help me. It would have been a burden at the very start of his career, and I couldn’t bear to hear him make excuses for being overlooked for promotion or for assignments where a suitable hostess was imperative.”

  “And so you released him from any duty to you. Were you surprised he took that release?”

  She moved as if she’d suffered a physical blow. “It took him five years to accept my answer. By that time, love tends to fade a little, and it’s harder to bring someone’s face back with the same clarity. The sound of the voice is not the same, and you can’t quite recapture it. Five years of lying awake at night, five years of getting through the next day somehow. But in the end, he stopped writing. And I never heard from him again.”

  He knew she had described her own anguish rather than Hamilton’s. But he said nothing, preparing to bring the interview to a close.

  She rose, as if anticipating that, and he stood as well.

  “Thank you for taking the time to help me through what has become the most difficult day of my life.”

  “I’m sorry that you’ve been brought into my inquiry—”

  Miss Cole brushed that aside, fumbling for her cane. She found it and moved easily toward him. “I wasn’t sure what to do. Now I see my way more clearly. Come with me, Mr. Rutledge, and I’ll take you to Matthew Hamilton.”

  26

  Rutledge found himself standing there gaping.

  She smiled wryly, a great sadness behind it. “I can imagine what’s going through your mind. But he wasn’t here last night. I didn’t lie to you. He was brought to my door early this morning by a very concerned lorry driver. He’d found Matthew along the road near a farm just west of Hampton Regis. I don’t know what Matthew expected to do, but he was still on his feet through sheer willpower, and the lorry driver told me he was hardly sensible for a quarter of an hour or more. It was several miles before he could even tell the man where he wanted to go.”

  “Surely the driver must have been suspicious.”

  “Apparently Matthew told him that he’d been robbed and beaten, and wanted to go home. Here. To my house. The driver was all for sending at once for the police, but I persuaded him to let me find the doctor first. And instead, I telephoned you.”

  “Quite right.”

  She reached out her hand. “If I may have your arm?”

  Hastily he offered it to her, and she led him to the staircase. As they started to climb, she said, “Promise you won’t upset him. I’m going against his express wishes to tell no one he’s here. He will blame me for what you do.”

  “I understand.” But he found himself wondering if she was afraid of Hamilton now, afraid that two women had died at his hands, and she might be placing herself in jeopardy. Even as she struggled to protect him.

  Hamilton was lying in bed in what appeared to be a guest room, his skin gray against the stark white of bleached and pressed sheets.

  Miranda Cole had opened the door quietly so as not to disturb him, but it was obvious that nothing short of cataclysm would rouse him from his exhausted sleep.

  Rutledge stood there on the threshold, studying him for a moment.

  His beard had grown dark shadows across his face, and his eyes seemed to have sunk deep into their sockets. The bruises had faded, a little, but the green and yellow replacing the livid red and dark purple made him seem closer to death than he had in Dr. Granville’s surgery when they were still bloody. As if he were already a corpse and no one had thought to tell him.

  Signaling Miss Cole with a touch on her arm to stay where she was, he crossed to the bed and called Hamilton’s name in a sharp, clear voice.

  It penetrated the heavy slumber. An arm, flung out to ward off a blow, was followed by Hamilton rearing up in bed, his face wild, prepared to defend himself.

  Rutledge said rapidly, “You’re safe, man, no one will harm you here. You’re with friends.”

  Some of the wildness fled but Hamilton frowned at him. “I don’t know you,” he said, the words a rumble in his chest.

  “I’m someone Miss Cole sent for. To help you, if that’s possible. She’s there in the doorway, ask her yourself.”

  Hamilton peered toward the door. “Miranda? W
hat are you doing here?”

  “It’s my house,” she told him in an ordinary voice, but Rutledge could see how her hands clutched the edges of her shawl. “Matthew, this is Ian Rutledge. I can’t do this alone, I had to find someone I trusted. Please let him help us.”

  Hamilton lay back on his pillows, his eyes closed. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this, Miranda. But I didn’t know where else to turn.”

  Rutledge said, “Do you remember how you got here, Hamilton?”

  After a moment he said, “I remember lying down by the road, cold and tired. But then a vehicle was coming, and I got to my feet, trying to walk away from the road. I think he stopped. The lorry driver. The next thing I remember was being warm enough to think, and my leg hurting as we bounced over ruts.”

  “Where had you been before lying down by the road?”

  Hamilton gave a short bark of laughter. “In someone’s henhouse. I ate the eggs raw, I was that hungry. There was a cow as well, and I milked her when I felt stronger. But I couldn’t stay there. They’d gone to market and were bound to find me if I fell asleep in the hay.”

  Hamish said softly, “The fox in the henhouse.”

  That complaint had been included in a report by one of the men talking to householders out on the west road. Rutledge thought he ought to be commended for thoroughness.

  “Was this anywhere near the landslip?”

  “My God.” He groaned. “I was in that house. I don’t know why I left it, something, a sixth sense, the way the rainwater was rushing past it—I don’t know. I’d seen the family across the road leave, I told myself I could make it to their shed. But I was hardly out the door when the ground moved the first time. Like an earthquake. When I stopped long enough to look back, there was nothing there.”

  “Why did you go to it in the first place?”

  “God knows. I can’t remember. I think I was afraid, I couldn’t understand why I was hurt and bandaged.”

  “But why leave the safety of Dr. Granville’s surgery? In the middle of the night?”

  “Did I do that?” Hamilton stared at him. “No, you’re wrong there, I was in a dark fearful place and something was worrying me. Have you ever been in a Turkish prison? No, I expect not. I was once, visiting a man charged with a serious crime. I was never so glad to be out into the fresh air again in my life.”

  “Where was Mrs. Granville, Hamilton? Do you remember seeing her?”

  “She and Granville came to dinner—”

  “No, while you were lying there, being treated by her husband.”

  He put both hands to his face as if he could scrub away his confusion. “I don’t even know how I got these injuries, Rutledge. Or where I’ve been. I remember being afraid I was going to die, if I didn’t do something. There were voices, and sometimes I knew what they were saying and sometimes I didn’t.”

  “Who came to help you in the midst of everything that was happening?”

  Rutledge glanced toward Miranda Cole. She was standing there, a mixture of fear and pity on her face as she listened.

  But Matthew Hamilton said, “It was Felicity. It must have been.”

  Surprised, Rutledge stared at him, trying to determine whether he was telling the truth—or the truth as he thought he knew it.

  But he was lying back on his pillows now, his face grim as he fought pain and weakness.

  “You must stop,” Miss Cole said quietly.

  Rutledge answered her: “I can’t. I don’t have all the story. And it’s urgent that I get to the bottom of what he’s been through.”

  “Then let him rest for a bit, and eat something if he will. After that we’ll see if he’s well enough to go on.”

  Dedham brought food for Matthew Hamilton—eggs cooked in milk, with a little whiskey for strength, a broth rich with chicken and some rice, a custard that was flavored with sherry.

  He ate slowly, stopping for stretches of time, as if his arms were too heavy to lift the spoon.

  Rutledge, waiting by the window, fought his impatience. It was already dark outside, and he felt a pressing need to return to Hampton Regis.

  Finally satisfied, Hamilton pushed away the tray. “You were going to tell me what happened to me. I must have fallen. It’s the only way I can account for what I see here.” He gestured with one hand to his body.

  “You went for a walk. Down by the water, even though a sea mist was rolling in. And someone came up to speak to you.”

  “I don’t think anyone did. I walk very early, before Felicity is awake.”

  “You were found on the shingle, just above the tideline. Another half an hour, less even, and as badly hurt as you were, you’d have drowned.”

  Hamilton seemed to listen, as if bringing back to mind the sounds of that morning. “Someone went down to the boats. I couldn’t see who it was.”

  “He must have turned and come toward you.”

  “If he did, I couldn’t tell. The mists muffle sound.”

  “And then you were struck over the head, and went down.”

  “I remember men’s voices.” He shook his head. “It’s hopeless.”

  “But you left the surgery. Why?”

  “Something was going to happen. Was Inspector Bennett there? I remember him telling me over and over again that Felicity was calling for me, and I had to wake up and help her.”

  Bennett, trying to rouse him as Rutledge had done earlier.

  “By the bye, do you have your keys with you?”

  “Are they in my pocket? Look in the wardrobe.”

  Rutledge had been sitting by the fire Dedham had laid in the room. Now he went to the wardrobe, his hands busy with pockets. “Yes, they’re here.” He quietly slipped the ring of keys into his own pocket, then said, “I must go. It’s late. Will you stay here, Hamilton, or come with me?”

  Miranda Cole opened her mouth to protest—whether his departure or Hamilton’s, he didn’t know.

  Hamilton said, “Where’s my wife? Shouldn’t she be here soon? I’ve tried to think what’s keeping her.”

  “You asked Miss Cole not to tell anyone you were here. She has followed your instructions.”

  “Did I? I couldn’t have meant Felicity.” He was tiring again, his shoulders slumped. “See if you can find out what’s keeping her, Rutledge.”

  Five minutes later, Miss Cole was scolding Rutledge all the way down the stairs. “I thought you would stay with us. Stay here, at the house. I thought you wanted to find Matthew and help him.”

  “There are promises to keep in Hampton Regis as well.”

  He could see her uncertainty, her belief in Hamilton wavering as the night drew in. Or was she afraid of emotions that were reawakening in herself? He couldn’t tell.

  Rutledge tried to find the words to reassure her, but he had no assurances to give. He thought about Casa Miranda, and Mallory there alone with Felicity Hamilton in that dark house. He knew where Hamilton was now, but what about preventing the disintegration of two people with nowhere else to go? What about a murderer still on the loose, if Hamilton hadn’t killed anyone?

  “Lock him in his room and brace a chair under the knob. He’s exhausted, I don’t think he’ll wake up before I’m here at first light.”

  “I shouldn’t have sent for you, I shouldn’t have heard what you had to tell me. It’s only made matters worse.”

  “You told me you couldn’t believe Hamilton was a killer.”

  She brushed her hair back with her hand. “I don’t. Not the Matthew I remember. But I see him there, the bruises, the confusion, the way he rambles. It’s not like him. There’s something wrong. I’m not sure I know this Matthew.”

  “I don’t think you’ve anything to fear. You have no connection with Hampton Regis. And it was there that it all began.”

  “Then take him with you. Please. I’ll provide you with blankets and cushions. What if he had nothing to do with the deaths, but someone else learns he’s here? Three women alone—what could Matthew do to help us?”

>   Rutledge stood there, reading the anguish in her face.

  In the end, he found a telephone and left a message for Inspector Bennett that he was delayed.

  And prayed that he’d made the right decision.

  Hamilton had nightmares in the night. Rutledge, sleepless in the room next door, heard him and went in to sit with him.

  He watched as Hamilton twisted and turned until his sheets were a tangled knot. As they tightened around him, he began to call out. Most of the words were unintelligible, but there was anger mixed with fear, and then Rutledge held himself rigid in the shadows as Hamilton reared up in his bed and called, “Who’s there?”

  A garbled, one-sided conversation followed. And then Hamilton was scrambling out of his bed, struggling to rid himself of the sheets and a blanket. He stopped, his gaze on the ? re. Before Rutledge could move, he’d picked up the small carpet in front of the hearth and was about to beat out the flames as if they threatened him. But even as the carpet was raised above his head, he froze and turned to stare directly at Rutledge, by the door.

  Lowering the carpet, he said, quite clearly, “Stratton? What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

  It took several minutes to make Hamilton understand who he was, but Rutledge, turning up the lamps, watched understanding dawn.

  Hamilton looked down at the carpet he was still holding. “Good God, what’s this?”

  “You were about to put out the fire.”

  He blinked. “Was I? Yes, that’s right. Stratton said he’d burn me out if I didn’t burn my diaries.”

  “When was this?”

  “Before I left London to come to Hampton Regis with Felicity.”

  “Did he mean it, do you think?”

  Hamilton sat down in the nearest chair. “I think it was bravado. It was one of the reasons I chose a house backed up against the sea.”

  “Did you know that Stephen Mallory was watching the house?”

  “I thought at first it was Stratton. I was relieved that it was Mallory. But I knew Felicity had seen him at least once. And that rankled.”