by Charles Todd
“There was a man in London he assaulted. Reston’s victim didn’t press charges, so there’s no record of it. And he’s got a violent nature.”
“Still-” Bennett was already fitting his crutch under his shoulder and getting to his feet. “Have it your way then, but you’ll be proved wrong. I won’t walk there. I can’t.”
“I’ll fetch my motorcar. Give me five minutes.”
It was twenty minutes before he was back again, having taken the time to clean himself up. He carried his trousers down to the kitchen to be dried and pressed, asked for a length of oiled cloth for the bandages, and persuaded the young girl in the pantry to make him a sandwich from pickle, last night’s beef, and a little cheese, though she protested that the luncheon ham would be ready in no more than a quarter of an hour.
Bennett came out and climbed into the passenger’s side just as a strong beam of sunlight broke through the clouds and swept the rooftops and wet streets with a warm and brilliant light.
Bennett looked up at it and said, “We could do with a shift in the weather. I smell pickle.”
Rutledge didn’t answer. He put the motorcar into gear and drove to the Reston house.
Mr. Reston was at home, they were told by the maid, but was feeling a touch of dyspepsia.
“Please tell him Inspector Rutledge and Inspector Bennett are here on police business and require a word with him. We’ll wait until he can join us.”
She still appeared to be doubtful, and Rutledge could see that she was on the point of refusing them admittance. He stepped forward and she retreated a step. He moved into the entry.
“Where does Mr. Reston receive his business acquaintances? We’ll wait for him there.”
The maid reluctantly showed them to a small study where books on law and finance lined the shelves behind the broad, polished desk, and other calf-bound titles stood in orderly rows across the room, considerably older works on the Romans, the kingdom of Wessex, and the history of the southwest of England. On one of the spines the name RESTON was set out in gold lettering. Rutledge took it from the shelf and opened it.
The title was Great Sermons for the Mind, and the Reston who had written it was either the father or grandfather of the present owner. From what he could see the sermons were long and ponderous, their heavy Victorian righteous ness apparent in their arguments for ser vice and duty as a gentleman’s responsibility to God and England and his less fortunate fellow men.
Rutledge turned pages at random, reading a line here and there. The strong Victorian voice spoke through words that stared up at him.
An upright man, whatever his calling, will address his business affairs with the same honesty he will show his family. To do other is to be guilty of a grievous fault that will lead him down the road to corrupt practices…
God resides in the heart, and a cruel heart is godless, a man to be feared for the harm he will do to others in his wickedness…
Servants must be led to the path of godliness, and it is the duty of the head of every household to see to their training up in faith and to provide the guidance and example that will set their feet firmly on the way to God’s grace…
Children will obey their fathers in all things, and show-
He got no further. The door behind him opened, and George Reston stood there on the threshold.
“That is a very valuable book you’re holding, Inspector Rutledge. I’ll ask you to set it back carefully in its place.”
Reston looked tired, or ill, as if he had had an unsettled digestion-or a long and arduous night. His face, paler than usual, was set in harsh lines, and he seemed to be holding to the door’s frame to steady himself. Then he let it go and stepped into the room.
“I can’t think why you are here. But I have been told of Mrs. Granville’s death. It’s a disgrace that with two policemen in my study, we are still no closer to learning why she was attacked.”
Bennett opened his mouth, then closed it again. Rutledge thought he was biting his tongue.
He himself said, “I understand that the cottage that went over the cliff in this morning’s downpour belonged to you.”
Raising his brows in surprise, Reston answered, “Yes. Inspector Bennett could have confirmed that without disturbing me.”
“And that your brother lived there for a time, before his-er-untimely death?”
“That’s true as well. He was not a worldly man, my brother. I was forced to see to his welfare more than once. In the end, I kept him in Hampton Regis under my eye. What does this have to do with the murder of Mrs. Granville, pray?”
“Has anyone else used this cottage since he drowned?”
Reston’s mouth twitched at the last word. “Certainly not. Freddy lived there because he preferred to shame me. He could have been perfectly comfortable here with us, but he chose to make it appear that I was derelict in my duty to him. I let it go. He seemed to find the isolation to his liking and it calmed him.” There was a sense of being wronged in his voice, the good brother taking the blame for the bad brother’s ill treatment of himself.
Hamish, who had been quiet for some time, said, “Aye, a drunkard is no’ a very easy man to deal with.”
Two men, sharing the same blood, and as different as night and day. Had the writer of the sermons succeeded with one of the brothers and failed the other? Or had Reston been the one to drive his brother to drink? Rutledge found himself thinking that Reston was not a pleasant man to deal with, twisted in his belief that what he knew and what he had been taught set him above others. A man of limited intellect, perhaps, who had struggled where his brother might have soared and made his tormentor pay for it the rest of his life.
As if Reston had listened to Rutledge’s judgment, he said forcibly, “He was the favorite, you know. My grandfather adored him. But he had no backbone, and he failed in life because of it. I did my best to protect and shield him, and I did my best to bring him around to his duty. No man can say that I didn’t.” He turned and glared at Bennett. “You will confirm that, if you please, Inspector.”
“It’s true,” Bennett answered. “The whole of Hampton Regis can tell you as much.”
Satisfied, Reston said, “And if you have finished with the subject of my brother-”
Rutledge said, “I went out to the landslip by sea. And in the ruins of the cottage I found a fresh bandage. It appears that Matthew Hamilton was either taken there or went there sometime in the early-morning hours. There is no other explanation for bandaging to be found there.”
Reston seemed to fold in on himself, as if his stomach had failed him. He crossed the room and sat down behind the desk, his head in his hands. “I have had nothing to do with Matthew Hamilton’s assault or his disappearance. Why must you drag my brother into this business?”
“Your brother drowned, Mr. Reston. Only a few yards from where Matthew Hamilton nearly died. The cottage is your property. Hamilton was in that cottage, if the bandages prove to be his. If you aren’t responsible, tell me if anyone else had access to it, borrowed it, used it, or could have unlocked the door.”
“The door was never locked. The cottage was falling down, what purpose would locking it serve? I daresay half the homeowners in Hampton Regis fail to lock their doors at night. We are not a violent place.” He lifted his eyes to Rutledge’s face, drawing on some inner strength that seemed to rise and sustain him. “I will not be badgered in this fashion. I have a solicitor who will speak to you on my behalf. Good day, Inspector.”
Rutledge stood there for a moment, judging his man. “I am not accusing you of anything, Mr. Reston. But perhaps it would be wise to account for your hours last night between eleven o’clock and this morning at first light.”
“I was at home in my bed, as a decent man should be.” The words were spat out, anger barely controlled.
“And your wife can confirm that?”
“I will not have my wife dragged into a murder inquiry. She’s delicate, and I’ll not have her upset. You can accept my word
, as a gentleman.”
But that would not stand up in a courtroom. Rutledge let it go. He had a feeling that Mrs. Reston might well tell him whatever it was her husband wished, whether it was true or a lie. Delicate might well be translated as browbeaten.
Bennett said, surprising Rutledge, “I have no choice but to ask her, sir, if you will summon her. The Chief Constable will insist. He was here earlier and made plain the fact that he expected full cooperation with the police.”
In the end, Reston sent for his wife, and after five or six minutes she came into the room.
Henrietta Reston wasn’t what Rutledge had expected. A tall, slender woman with reddish gold hair that seemed to shine in the dimness of the room and blue eyes that were intense in a long, aristocratic face, she greeted her husband’s guests with courtesy and waited for an explanation.
Rutledge put the question to her, choosing his words carefully. “Mrs. Reston, as a matter of course we are asking people where they were last night and into this morning, from perhaps shortly before midnight until dawn. In the hope that someone might have looked out a window and can help us with our search for Mr. Hamilton.”
Reston began to speak, then fell silent, waiting, his gaze on his wife’s face.
“My husband wasn’t well in the night, Inspector. I read for a little while, worried about him. But after a time, I fell asleep and didn’t wake up until the children came in to say good morning. I don’t remember looking out my window.”
“And you cared for your husband in the night?”
She smiled. “We have separate bedrooms, Inspector. But I could hear him moving about, pacing the floor between visits to his dressing room, if that’s what you want to know. It was a very restless night for him.”
She turned as she said the last words, her eyes going directly to her husband. A message passed between them. But it wasn’t, Rutledge would have taken his oath, a message of collusion.
It was daring him to contradict her.
Outside, Bennett followed Rutledge down the walk to the motorcar. He said, as if continuing a conversation begun in the Reston house, “It’s an odd marriage, if you want the truth. The money is hers. But he’s built his empire, and he doesn’t let her forget it.”
It was the first time Bennett had been so honest about Reston, and Rutledge turned to look at him. “You’re saying that there are strains on the marriage?”
“There was talk that she’d been in love with his brother first. I don’t know the truth of that. The fact remains, she came of a better class. You can see it for yourself. Miss Trining has kept her tongue off Mrs. Reston. That will tell you which way the winds blow.”
A better class, but no beauty. Except for her hair, which seemed to give life to her face.
Rutledge cranked the car, his thoughts straying from what Bennett was saying. Then he heard part of it and said abruptly, “Sorry, I missed that?” He stepped behind the wheel and turned to stare at Bennett.
“I said, she knew Mr. Hamilton from her childhood. Or so I was told. Not well, but their families moved in the same circles.”
Was that what drove George Reston to fury? Jealousy, rather than a fanatical dislike for stone goddesses from foreign assignments that had kept Hamilton out of England most of his adult life?
And had the bane of his marriage without warning moved to the same village on the south coast of England, bringing back all that should have been buried and perhaps forgotten over the long years of exile?
“What was Mrs. Reston’s maiden name?” Rutledge asked Bennett.
“Good God, how should I know? Reston married her long before he came here. You’ll have to speak to the rector or Mrs. Trining, not me.” He shifted his foot to ease it a little. “The Bennetts aren’t on the same social rung as the Restons.”
They went next to the rectory. Granville, Putnam told Rutledge quietly, had fallen into an uneasy sleep in one of the guest rooms. “If you could wait until a little time has passed before you question him?” he asked without much hope. “It would be a kindness.”
But there was no time to be kind. And in the event, the doctor had heard voices and he came to the head of the stairs.
“I shouldn’t have listened to you, Rector. I should have rested in a chair in your study. I kept dreaming that-that all was well.” He began to descend the stairs, his face pale in the wan sunlight coming through the open door. “Mr. Bennett. Is there news?”
“Sadly, sir, no,” Bennett told him. “Just that we need to have you confirm something for us.” He turned to Rutledge, who brought out the oiled cloth and opened it so that Dr. Granville could see what it held. Putnam gasped and stepped aside to give his houseguest a better view.
He seemed shocked by the sight. “That’s my work. Or as near as I can be sure. See how the pads are placed, to absorb bleeding? And then another over that in the opposite direction. Four such in a row. And more bandaging, to keep the pads from shifting as Hamilton moved his head. Which explains why this has held together.” Professional pride had taken over. The truth hadn’t yet dawned on him. “And notice here how I turn the end of the tape back on itself, to make it easier to find for changing without disturbing the patient.” He looked up at the two policemen. “But where did you find this? At the Hamilton house? Why is it so wet? Does this mean-have you found Hamilton, then? I thought you said there was no news.”
“This was in the cottage that went into the sea with the landslip. The cottage where Reston’s brother lived until his death,” Rutledge repeated for what seemed like the tenth time that morning.
“What was it doing there?” Granville was genuinely surprised. “You aren’t trying to tell me that someone carried Hamilton out there? I can tell you as his doctor that he couldn’t have walked that far on his own!”
“If he was in the cottage when it went over, then Hamilton is dead. But we can only confirm so far that he was there at some point. If you are quite sure about these?”
“Yes, yes, who else could these belong to? He’s my only patient just now with a head injury. But none of this business makes any sense to me.”
“Did Hamilton have visitors while he was in your surgery? Other than his wife?”
“Half Hampton Regis tried to get in to see him. I left strict instructions that he wasn’t to be disturbed by anyone. My wife”-he cleared his throat-“my wife understood the seriousness of that.”
“But anyone could have stepped in the garden door. Or come down the passage from the surgery door, if no one was about to stop him or her? Even at night?”
“Well, yes, but people aren’t savages here, they asked after Hamilton but never pressed when we informed them that he was too ill to see anyone. I made it quite clear that his rest was essential to a full recovery.” His voice was testy, as if Rutledge was questioning how he ran his surgery. “Look, are you trying to suggest that my wife neglected-”
“Not at all,” Putnam cut in soothingly. “The man’s asking if it could have happened quite by chance-no one around, and someone opening doors-”
Dr. Granville said curtly, “It’s possible. It isn’t likely. Even Miss Trining took no for an answer.”
But in the back of the doctor’s mind, Rutledge was certain, loomed the fact that he had failed to provide a nurse to stay with Hamilton and keep visitors away, both day and night.
And by not doing so, he might very well carry the guilt of his wife’s death, whether he realized that yet or not. Down the years, when all was said and done, it might come back to haunt him.
Putnam, looking stricken, said only, “I think we should all have a little sherry. None of us has felt like eating any lunch, I daresay. It will do us good.” And he left them there, walking into the rectory parlor to find the tray with decanter and glasses.
Bennett called after the rector that they had no time for sherry, thank you very much, and nodded to Dr. Granville as he took his leave. Rutledge noted as they closed the door behind them that Granville seemed to shrink inside himself, as
if it had taken all the strength he possessed to keep up appearances.
Bennett was saying, “You were a little hard on him.”
“He had to identify what I’d found. And it was important to know who might have slipped into that back room out of concern for Hamilton or even to scout in broad daylight how difficult it would be to come again at night. I’m beginning to think no one turned a lamp on. He or she may have had a shielded torch. Mrs. Granville must have been awake, waiting for her husband, and either an unguarded flash of light or some sound from the surgery attracted her attention. It was she who reached for the office lamp, and before she could light it, she had to be stopped. I’ll wager you that’s precisely what happened.”
“Dr. Granville wouldn’t have used a torch, he’d have felt free to turn up the lamp. On the other hand, he might well have left a lamp burning, and it went out. And she came down to see why. Yes, that’s bound to be what happened. But why take Hamilton away? Why not simply finish him there and be done with it?”
“Because without Hamilton, we can’t clear up what took place by the sea on Monday. And without Hamilton we don’t know what happened last night. If we’d been able to broaden our search for him before the cottage vanished, would we have found Hamilton there, dead of his wounds or exposure? Or only this bit of bandage to make us think he’s still alive somewhere?”
“You make it far more complicated than it needs to be,” Bennett complained as the motorcar began to roll. “Someone wanted Hamilton out of the way, and that someone also wants his wife. Add those facts together and we’re back to where we were when you arrived. And in my view, if we don’t arrest Mallory, we’re derelict in our duty now.”
“Where is the proof, other than walking into that house and holding Mrs. Hamilton at gunpoint? You can’t support trial on that alone. You went out after him, Bennett, and put the wind up. He could very well be telling the truth, that he believed he would hang if you had your way. And he went to the one person who mattered to him, to tell her not to believe the police. Or turn it another way-he was desperately afraid that it was Felicity Hamilton who’d attacked her husband.”
