by Charles Todd
“Then you’ll just have to be cleverer, won’t you? I’ll expect a further report by noon tomorrow. And I suggest for now that you and Bennett decide between you how these extra men are to be deployed. I shan’t care to hear you’ve wasted your resources.”
Bowles rung off before Rutledge could ask him about the Green Park murders and the name of the man Phipps had brought in.
He swore, but it brought him no satisfaction. As he opened the door to the little room, Hamish reminded him, “You havena’ been completely honest with yon inspector.”
He had kept information from Bennett. But for very sound reasons. Or so he had told himself. And he was not about to drag Miss Cole into the equation until he knew more about her. Honest was the way Putnam had described her-it was how Hamilton had portrayed her to the rector. But could there be bitterness as well?
He considered that possibility and then discarded it. Surely too much time had passed for that.
It must have been years since Hamilton and Miss Cole had met. For all Rutledge knew-or even Hamilton, for that matter!-she had long since married happily, borne children, and was now a middle-aged woman with no other interest than her family. And Matthew Hamilton was a name she read in the newspapers from time to time, and recalled over the breakfast table how she’d won at tennis with him in doubles, and whether or not he was a good dancer.
But something there was. Melinda Crawford had done her best to discourage him from finding the woman. And that had been an error in judgment on her part. It had served only to fan his interest.
Hamish said, “If she’d made a promise, she’d ha’ kept it. And no’ told you why she couldna’ speak of it.”
Rutledge listened to the voice in his head and came to the conclusion that Hamish had read Melinda Crawford better than he had.
It was an unsettling thought.
Late as it was, Rutledge went straight to the police station, found that Bennett had already gone home for his dinner, and ran him to earth there.
Mrs. Bennett had just set out their tea. A plump woman with a round face, she looked Welsh. And the soft rhythm of her speech confirmed it. “I’ll just see if Mr. Bennett is available, sir,” she told him, and left Rutledge waiting on the doorstep.
When she led him back to the sitting room, there was a second cup for him on the tray by the hearth. A good fire had warmed the atmosphere, but his greeting from Bennett was cold, with an underlying wariness.
Mrs. Bennett did her duty as hostess, then discreetly left them alone. As Rutledge looked down at his cup, he saw that it had been painted with a scene of a Welsh castle. Harlech, most certainly, and there was Beaumaris on the cake stand. More of the same souvenirs took pride of place in the glass-faced cabinet between the two windows, and a watercolor print of Snowdon at sunset hung above the hearth.
“If you are expecting me to leave the house tonight, you’ve got another think coming.”
“I’ve just spoken to Bowles. I’m here to discuss how we’ll use these men the Chief Constable is sending us tomorrow.”
“They’re at your beck and call. My men are tired and they have their regular duties to perform. We can’t keep running them morning and night.”
“I agree. Any word from the constables questioning Dr. Granville’s neighbors?”
“None of importance. A dog barking, but no idea what time that was. A child up with the croup-Betsy Drews is her name, and her mother did see Dr. Granville leave. He had a small boy with him, and Mrs. Drews recognized him as Jimmy Allen, the one Miss Joyner sends along at time of need. Mrs. Drews was worried that Betsy might take a turn for the worse while Granville was out on the call, but she finally got her daughter to sleep without any more trouble, and that was the end of that. The dairyman saw him coming home. The times match what Granville himself told us.”
“Yes, I called on Miss Joyner myself, earlier. It appears that whoever came to the surgery after Granville left had a good three hours clear in which to work. More than enough time.”
Bennett offered him the small plate of sandwiches and another with slices of lemon cake with poppy seeds. Rutledge suspected that they weren’t prepared for a guest and declined with thanks. Bennett didn’t press him.
“We have to keep in mind that Hamilton could have attacked Mrs. Granville,” Bennett continued. “In his muddled state, he might not have understood what he was doing. And if she startled him, he’d leap first and think second. He might have killed himself later out of shame. It may be that whoever helped him didn’t even know about the killing.”
It was a change in viewpoint that caught Rutledge off guard. Was this a result of Bennett’s conversations with the Chief Constable? Or had he realized that it was going to be difficult to prove that Mallory had slipped into the surgery and removed Hamilton? It was hard to tell.
He didn’t need Hamish’s soft “’Ware!” to warn him to watch his step.
He said, “True enough. But his wife was still under duress at Casa Miranda. Wouldn’t he have felt his life better spent tackling Mallory?”
“We can’t be sure, can we, what Hamilton knew or didn’t know. Or even if he was capable of reasoning. As I see it, after attacking Mrs. Granville, he might have felt he served his wife better by killing himself.”
Rutledge had a sudden, sharp image of himself standing beside that bandaged body discussing events with Dr. Granville. And beside them, Hamilton lay in a stupor, apparently unable to hear or to speak. And later Bennett and Granville between them had tried to rouse him as Rutledge had done so briefly. Could Hamilton have absorbed snippets of those conversations, and twisted them into something far less acceptable-that his wife was in league with Mallory? If that was true, he’d want to take himself as far away from them as he could, until he was well. Attacking Mrs. Granville by mistake would have shaken him badly.
Had he mistaken her for Felicity, in the dark?
Only Dr. Granville could tell Rutledge if this was possible. But he’d seen men on the battlefield with head wounds. One had walked in stumbling circles, screaming. And another had sat with his back against the trench wall talking to his mother, begging her not to lock him in a dark room, unaware that the blackness surrounding him had nothing to do with childhood fears.
He finished his tea and set the cup on the tray. “I’ve also been told that there’s a watch along the coast, in the event Hamilton is washed ashore.”
“Currents are tricky in this part of the world. He may be washed out to sea, then brought in again to the west of us. There’s rocks in Cornwall that trap corpses. But what he’ll look like by that time, that’s another question. We may never discover the true cause of his death.”
Rutledge left, thanking Mrs. Bennett as she led him to the door. Walking out to the motorcar, he couldn’t be sure whether Bennett’s failure to tell him all that the Chief Constable was offering had to do with an interloper on his patch-or a very clear recognition that this was Bennett’s opportunity to show himself a competent and resourceful policeman in his own right. He rather thought that the complacent Bennett had come to the conclusion that with the Chief Constable looking over his shoulder, it behooved him to change his ways. An awakening.
Rutledge went next to the rectory, more than a little worried about Putnam after their last conversation. The rector assured him that food had been delivered without incident. There was the rich scent of frying ham wafting through the door, and Rutledge thought he smelled potatoes and cabbage as well.
“And I spoke with Nan Weekes,” Putnam was saying. “For her own sake, I encouraged her to be less intransigent and more cooperative. The stressful conditions in that house are very worrying to me, and no doubt to you as well.”
“And I don’t see a swift resolution,” Rutledge admitted. “Thank you, Rector.”
“Would I could do more,” he said with a sigh, and closed the door.
Rutledge drove on to Casa Miranda, and found the odors there less appetizing. Someone had burned the meat, acrid smoke greeti
ng him when Mallory finally admitted him to the house.
“I won’t be alive to be hanged,” he said with grim gallows humor. “I’ll starve or be poisoned first. What do you want now?”
“I need to look through Hamilton’s papers. There’s the possibility that something he’d done abroad has come back to haunt him.”
“Those confounded statues ought to haunt the man. I’m tired of staring at them. Felicity-Mrs. Hamilton-must give you permission.”
Mrs. Hamilton, when she came to the study where he’d been left to wait, had a smudge of flour on her nose and an air of hurt resignation. She said to Rutledge, “I don’t know that I should give you leave to go through Matthew’s desk. I don’t see why we can’t wait until he’s awake.”
Mallory had left the two of them together, withdrawing quietly. Rutledge wondered if he were in the kitchen trying to resurrect his dinner.
“We have no other leads, Mrs. Hamilton. Half the village is convinced that Mallory here attacked your husband. The other half holds every opinion gossip can think up, from some past deed following him here from abroad to a boatman telling me that the sea claims its own in time. As if the Mediterranean pursued him to England.” He tried to keep his voice light, but she wasn’t diverted from her concern.
“Well, it’s none of anyone’s business, is it?” she said with asperity.
“London has only so much patience. If they recall me, the next man may not be as willing as I am to search for answers in the past.”
“Oh, very well. The key to the desk is in the lock. But I beg you to put everything back where you found it. I shan’t care to have Matthew unhappy with me.” She crossed to the desk and took the key, holding on to it, as if hoping he might still change his mind about the need for it.
“I’ll be very careful,” he promised.
She sighed, passing it to him. “Inspector Bennett will grow old with gout. Mrs. Bennett’s menu choices would feed ditchdiggers, and I was never fond of parsnips. But you may thank her for her thoughtfulness. I’m learning to be grateful for small things, like warm bathwater and my clothes in order in my closet. No one can make tea the way-” She broke off, looked away from him, and then said, “Will you please tell me how Matthew is feeling? I dreamed last night I was burying him and I couldn’t find his best suit. It was frightful, searching everywhere, and the coffin ready and the mourners in the drive. I woke myself up crying.”
“It’s been extraordinarily difficult for you, Mrs. Hamilton. But your husband would admire your courage, if he were here to see it. A day or two more, perhaps, and we may have some relief for you.”
“It wasn’t Stephen who attacked him. I can tell you that now. He doesn’t have it in him to do such a thing.”
“I’m sure we’ll have the truth in time.”
“Yes, but you don’t understand. It’s like being married, shut in here together with no one else to talk to. We fight over the smallest things, we storm out of the room in a nervous fury, and then come back again because there’s nowhere to go. And Nan bangs on the ceiling until I’m heartily sick of it. I just want Matthew back again, and everything the way it was.”
“How does Mallory feel about it?”
She smiled, her face coming to life for the first time in days. “He will probably be very happy to see the last of me. He was annoyed with me when I burned the potatoes, but that was only because I’d burned my finger as well and had gone to dip it in vinegar and soda. And he said, ‘Felicity, I have money, I would have provided you with everything in life that Matthew has, and treasured you for yourself. But you had told me all those years ago when we were in love that you could cook.’ And I was just as annoyed, and I said, ‘Of course I can cook, it’s only that I’ve had very little practice.’ I burst into tears and he said, ‘I’ll go fetch Nan.’ But I didn’t want to be shown up by her, she’d never let me forget it, and she’d find a way to tell Matthew as well. So I told him that if he did, I’d leave here when he slept and never come back again.”
From her expression Rutledge could see that she believed she had won the skirmish and she felt better after proving her self-reliance. But it was also clear to him that whatever feelings these two people had kept hidden away for the other, time and closeness had diminished them.
“It’s like being married,” she had put it, like an elopement gone wrong. Living in a garret on slim resources and without public acceptance, and trying to pretend that love was enough.
He felt pity for her, but there was no hope he could offer her. And to tell her that Matthew was very likely dead and their circumstances here at Casa Miranda had taken a dreadful turn, would be cruel. How would she cope, if in the end, she knew Mallory would be taken away to be tried and hanged for two murders?
She seemed to sense his change of mood and said sharply, “Are you keeping something from me, Inspector? Have you told Stephen more than you’ve told me?”
He’d lost sight of the fact that women often read minds or at the very least were sensitive to shifts in emotion.
“I was thinking,” he told her, “that Matthew Hamilton is a very lucky man.”
She blushed, her eyes filling with shining tears.
“When I have him safe again, I’ll never let him go. You can tell him that for me.”
And she was gone, leaving him with the key to the desk in his hand.
Rutledge waited, almost certain Felicity Hamilton would have second thoughts and come back to ask him to leave. When she didn’t, he crossed the room, unlocked the top drawer, and began his search.
There were accounts, letters to a man of business, receipts for payments made to firms shipping his household goods from Malta, and other papers relating to Hamilton’s affairs.
Under them there was a photograph of a cream stone house on a narrow street, its facade plain, but the intricacies of the lacing around the oriel windows were very old and created by a mason with expert hands. Rutledge stood there looking at it, and then turned it to the reverse side. It said, “My house in Malta, Casa Miranda, near a shaded square where I often take my tea. The cream cakes are better than any I’ve tasted anywhere else.” It was as if he had expected to send the photograph to someone and had described it for him or her. The sort of thing a friend might include in a letter to Melinda Crawford.
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, amp; 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 complet
ely 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.
