A False Mirror ir-9

by Charles Todd

  “You can’t protect him, Rutledge. I didn’t believe Inspector Bennett when he told us you were, but I believe it now. That man in there is a murderer. Give him up and let him face charges.”

  “We have no proof that he’s killed anyone.”

  “He’s locked in a house with two women, and one of them is dead. It doesn’t take a London policeman to know what must have happened. When she wouldn’t let him have his way with her, he killed her to shut her up.”

  “She was smothered in her sleep, not interfered with. Go home. Or I’ll have you locked in the police station and forget where I put the key.”

  Coxe examined Rutledge, looking him up and down without insolence but with judgment.

  “I’m not afraid of Scotland Yard. This is my flesh and blood, lying there dead.”

  Rutledge said nothing, standing between Coxe and the house with the authority of a man used to command. It was a presence that had served him well in the trenches. He had learned it over the years, dealing with everything from drunken men outside pubs to riotous fans at football matches. One man, unarmed, several stone lighter than the heavy-shouldered, angry constable in front of him, wrapped in the certainty that he would be obeyed.

  Coxe tried to stare him down and failed. In the end, suddenly mindful of his own career, he blustered, “I didn’t say good-bye. I sent her to work that day, telling her I’d not eat what she spoke of making for our dinner. I told her I was tired of a pasty made from what was left of Sunday’s roast. That I worked hard and didn’t need to cut corners to save for my old age.”

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I spoke out of turn. And I never had the chance to make amends. She’s dead, and there’s an end to it. But not for me. He took that from me, that bastard behind the door listening to me.”

  Rutledge waited.

  “All right, I’m going. I owe no apology to the house, save to Mrs. Hamilton. I’ll pray for her. Odds are, she’ll be dead in another day or two.”

  And with that he turned on his heel and walked away.

  Rutledge saw him out of sight.

  Not five minutes later, Dr. Hester arrived and, following instructions, brought Mr. Putnam with him. The rector was shown up to Mrs. Hamilton’s room and Bennett went to find the constable who had been on night duty at the house. Rutledge took Hester to the servants’ hall.

  He examined Nan Weekes, and said, “Very likely smothered as she slept. Taken by surprise, she didn’t have much chance to fight her murderer off. A knee already on her chest, a determination to see it through. That’s what it took.”

  He lifted the maid’s hands one at a time. “See, she grazed her knuckles against the wall there. But her nails are clean. He’d have been wearing a coat, long sleeves, something that protected him.”

  “A man or a woman, do you think?”

  “It would depend on the killer’s state of mind, I should think. A timid man might fail where a resolute woman succeeded. Hatred breeds strength, oftentimes.”

  Hester looked around the room, bare and yet somehow holding on to the anger and fear trapped with the woman confined here. “She couldn’t have run, even if she had been awake; there was nowhere to go. But he didn’t give her a chance to escape. He must have been very quiet, coming through that door. Dark as it was, she never saw his face, even if the pillow had slipped.” He turned over the pillow on the floor. “It’s one of the feather pillows from an upstairs bedroom, I should think. Servants don’t often sleep that comfortably. Fairly new too, and therefore better able to do the job.”

  “I’m told that bedding was brought down from one of the guest rooms.”

  “Yes, that fits. Well, that’s all I can tell you. Sorry.”

  “Mrs. Hamilton is in the house, and in distress. Will you leave something to help her through this?”

  “I’ll see her, if you like. As for Miss Weekes, shall I take her back with me?”

  “If you would.”

  “Yes. I’m getting quite a collection of Dr. Granville’s patients.” Dark wit from one professional to another. “But I daresay he won’t feel up to returning to his surgery for a few days yet. Not until after his wife’s funeral.” He closed up his case. “Whose hand is behind this, do you know? It’s not a very safe thing, to have whoever it is loose on Hampton Regis. But he failed with Hamilton, so I’m told. First try at any rate. I wonder what this poor woman did to make herself a target?”

  “As far as we know, nothing. Mistaken identity?”

  Hester turned to look at Rutledge. He was quick, his mind already leaping ahead. “Really? If you’re telling me that first Mrs. Granville and then Miss Weekes were killed because someone thought they were Felicity Hamilton, then I’d see to it that that policeman spent the night outside her door, not under that tree by the road.”

  Bennett joined them then, with word that the constable had seen no one come or go from the house during the night. Hester gave him an abbreviated account of his preliminary examination. Then he prepared to move the body.

  Looking down at the woman, Bennett said to Rutledge, “My money is still on Mallory. Hamilton’s dead, a scapegoat. Problem is, how are we going to prove any of it? You were saying before we have a clever bastard on our hands. But even clever bastards make mistakes. Let’s hope nobody else dies before he makes one.”

  Putnam spent some time with Mallory, and then went back a second time to knock on Felicity Hamilton’s door. When she answered, his heart went out to her.

  “My dear child!” he said and held her as she cried on his shoulder.

  It seemed to ease her a little, although he could see that she was frightened and feeling the onslaught of responsibility for all that had taken place since her husband had been carried into Granville’s surgery.

  He sat with her, brought her tea and a sandwich he’d managed to put together in the kitchen, careful to avoid the room where Nan Weekes had died.

  But he had gone in to the maid before her body was removed, giving her the comfort of the church, wishing that she had heeded his encouragement to cooperate and had died without such resentment on her conscience. He tried to keep himself from dwelling on the question of which of the household would be blamed for her death. Mallory most likely, although it was even possible that Felicity might have been tempted to rid them of such an angry presence. He hoped Rutledge wouldn’t look in that direction. He himself felt none of the animosity toward Mallory that others had expressed, seeing only a wounded soul. But he grieved for the maid, in his own way.

  After Felicity Hamilton had eaten, Putnam offered to come and chaperone her, now that Nan was dead.

  But she shook her head. “I must see it through,” she told him. “I was the cause of so much of the trouble here. I must somehow make restitution.”

  “You shouldn’t concern yourself with that. Leave it to Mr. Rutledge, my dear.”

  “Where is Matthew, Mr. Putnam? No one will talk to me about him. And I know what the police must be thinking. If it wasn’t Stephen who killed her, then it was Matthew, trying to find Stephen and stumbling on Nan instead. But she wouldn’t have given him away, you know, even if he’d decided to slaughter half of Hampton Regis.”

  “Is that what you believe must have happened? That he managed to make his way here?”

  She rubbed her temples, as if her head throbbed. “Either I’m married to a murderer or locked in this house with one. And I don’t want to think about that. Stephen was as tired as I was of Nan’s tantrums, he could have killed her out of sheer despair. But not in cold blood, not in her sleep. Matthew could have decided that it was Stephen who was on the strand with him and wanted revenge. But why harm Nan? She liked Matthew, and he was wonderful with her, keeping her jolly when I couldn’t. She didn’t like me very much. And now either way I’ve got her killed.” Felicity turned to look out the window. “If Matthew came searching for his revolver and couldn’t find it because I’d given it to Stephen, Nan could have told him. She knew.”

  Pu
tnam didn’t put what was on his mind into words. That Nan, in that back passage, would have raised the alarm if someone had crept in. And it might have been all the warning Stephen Mallory and that revolver of his needed.

  He was ashamed of the thought as soon as it had formed.

  But almost at the same time that Putnam was considering the possibility, Bennett brought it up to Mallory.

  “All right, let’s assume for the sake of argument that this is Mr. Hamilton’s work. In for a penny and all that. If he’s going to be hanged for Mrs. Granville, what’s one more corpse? And if he wanted you badly enough, he might feel that the maid was a fair exchange for the opportunity. Only, he discovered you had his revolver. Oh, don’t be a fool, Mallory, it must have been his, you weren’t in possession of one when you ran me down.”

  “I can’t see why Hamilton had to hurt her,” Mallory said, rubbing his face with his hands, as if to scrub away his fatigue. “At least if he’s in his right mind. If he’d come to the bed and put a hand over her mouth, she’d have listened to him and done whatever he asked. Mrs. Hamilton tells me she thought he walked on water.”

  Rutledge, the devil’s advocate, said, “In the dark, how could he know it was Nan? Or even that she was here? Besides, if he’d touched her, she’d have screamed bloody murder before he could convince her who he was. Her first thought would have been that you were in the room with her, Mallory. What I want to know is, if Hamilton is alive, if he didn’t go into the sea with that cottage, where was he concealed, all day yesterday when we were searching everywhere for him?”

  “In the Granvillle house?” Bennett asked, hazarding a guess. “We never actually searched it, only the surgery. And after Granville went to the rectory, it stood empty. Or there’s the church. Putnam is half daft, he wouldn’t have noticed Hamilton if he’d hidden himself beneath one of those wretched choir stalls. Besides, he was occupied all the day with Dr. Granville. I doubt he set foot in the church.”

  “Then why did we find bandages in the ruin of the cottage?” Rutledge reminded him. “You can’t convince me they belonged to anyone else but Hamilton. If he had the strength to make it as far as the cottage, I don’t think he could have walked all the way back into Hampton Regis.”

  “How do you know it was Hamilton who left that bandage out there?” Mallory interjected. “Someone could have done it for him, to throw you off his scent. Then the question becomes, who would help him, knowing he’d killed Mrs. Granville and now Nan Weekes?”

  Hamish said only, Mrs. Reston.

  Rutledge took a deep breath. “It all comes down to the fact that if Hamilton’s dead, whoever killed him is still out there. Which brings us to the next problem. Why isn’t he satisfied now?”

  Mallory’s tiredness dropped from him. “I hope you aren’t suggesting that he’s after Felicity? In God’s name, why? And why kill me? I’m the one who will hang, for Hamilton, for Mrs. Granville, and now for Nan. Kill me and the police will know I’m not guilty of any of this.” He looked from Bennett to Rutledge. “What worries me most is that Hamilton is on the loose and half demented. And if that’s the case, he’s a very dangerous man. I can tell you I’m not looking forward to nightfall, if that’s the case.”

  “What about his injuries?” Bennett said. “And who was it attacked him on the strand?”

  “He might not have been as badly injured as Dr. Granville thought,” Rutledge said, slowly. “But there’s someone who might have struck Hamilton down by the Mole, who might have come back to get rid of him after learning he wasn’t dead, and who could have a very good reason for wanting to get into this house.”

  He told them about Stratton and the diaries.

  But Bennett shook his head. “I can see this Stratton arguing with Mr. Hamilton Monday morning, and anger getting the best of him then. I don’t see him killing two other people over a book that’s not been written. And how did he get in and out of Hampton Regis that day without anyone seeing him? I don’t think that’s possible.” He turned back to Mallory. “As for tonight, there’s the safety of the station for you, Mr. Mallory,” Bennett offered. “Safe as houses. And as for Mrs. Hamilton, we’ll put her up in my spare bedroom until this is finished. No one will touch her there.”

  Mallory shook his head. “I’ve told you from the start, to turn myself in is an admission of guilt.”

  “You’re helping us with our inquiries,” Bennett pointed out.

  “And Hamilton, if that’s who is behind these killings, vanishes abroad and I’m left holding the bag. I’ve got the revolver. I don’t want to kill him, but I can damned well knock him down. I’m a decent enough shot for that.”

  “Here, there’s going to be no gunfire in this house, tonight or any other time,” Bennett corrected him.

  “Yes, well, we’ll see what the night brings.”

  “Let Putnam take Felicity with him. I’ll stay in her place and together we’ll keep watch,” Rutledge said to stop their bickering.

  “She’s no safer in that rambling warren of rooms in the rectory than she is here. Can you picture Putnam defending her? No, she’ll remain in the house, even if I have to sleep across her threshold.”

  “Think about it,” Rutledge urged him. “You’re out on your feet, man. And you’ve got my word that I won’t take any steps against you. But another pair of eyes and ears could be very welcome at three o’clock in the morning. The wind is rising out there. You’ll be wishing by then that you’d agreed.”

  “I’m armed, and Hamilton isn’t,” Mallory retorted, stung by Rutledge’s suggestion.

  “Yes, but remember that old children’s riddle about transporting geese from one side of the river to another, while making certain the fox isn’t left with the flock on either bank? If I’m here and it comes to shooting anyone, I’ll be your witness. Otherwise it’s your word against a dead man’s. A man you’re already accused of beating until he was unconscious.”

  It was unarguable. And Rutledge could see that Mallory was torn. In the end, he went up the stairs to speak to Mrs. Hamilton and the rector.

  When he returned, he said only, “She wants you to stay. The rector offered, but I’d as soon have another soldier at my back tonight. Now if you’ve finished here, I’ll thank you to be on your way.”

  “I’ll be here before dark,” Rutledge told him. “You can search my case for a weapon, but there won’t be one.”

  23

  Rutledge had given his word, but he made his plans with the care of a seasoned campaigner.

  He set his men to guard the house, concealing them well out of sight. One stood in his room at the Duke of Monmouth, field glasses at the ready. Two others watched the roads to the headlands on either side of the Mole. And one was in the church tower, with its sweeping view of the town. They went early to their positions, armed with hot tea in thermoses and sandwiches put up by Mrs. Bennett. Constable Jordan was relieved in due course by his usual replacement. And another man kept an eye on Constable Coxe, as a precaution. Rutledge had also asked one of the men sent from another village to observe the Reston house, placing him where he could see it clearly, in the Cornelius family attic.

  Mrs. Cornelius, a little anxious, had not wished to have a policeman spending the night in her attic, but Rutledge had assured her that it was to watch the same route that her son’s monster had taken two nights before. Not precisely the whole truth, unless the headless man had been Reston himself, but it served to allay her suspicions. He didn’t want gossip flying about the town before morning.

  “But why should he come again? I’d nearly convinced myself it was Jeremy’s imagination, Mr. Rutledge, though I was reluctant to believe it at the time.”

  “Your son’s imagination made a monster out of an ordinary event. What I’d like to discover is what he actually saw. It will clear up any remaining questions I might have now.”

  “I must say, I’ve not really recovered from the news that Mrs. Granville is dead. And now poor Nan Weekes. We’ve never had anything of
this sort happen in Hampton Regis before. And you’re quite sure that you aren’t trying to comfort me by telling me my family is in no danger?”

  “If I thought you were, Mrs. Cornelius, the constable would be guarding your door, not standing at an attic window.”

  Later, Mr. Putnam, concerned for the safety of everyone involved, asked Rutledge if it was wise to lay a trap with human beings as bait.

  “Do you know of another way to catch this killer? He’s cold-blooded, he’s clever, and he’s not about to offer himself up to us without a fight,” Rutledge pointed out.

  “Yes, well, you know where to find Dr. Granville if there’s any trouble.”

  “Pray that it doesn’t come to that.”

  Before leaving the station to pack a small case with what he needed, Rutledge spent an hour reading the reports of his men from the day’s monotonous rounds of questioning. He paid particular attention to the reports from the road where the cottage had stood. The only small flutter of excitement there had been a fox in the henhouse of the small farm where Mallory sometimes bought eggs.

  A waste of time, Bennett told him. “But then, most police work comes to nothing. It has to be done, and we do it, else we’re slack. Mountains of paper and ink for one small grain of truth.”

  Rutledge thought of all Inspector Phipps’s preparations to guard Green Park in London and a man who had watched them with interest from a nearby street lamp.

  He had reported Nan Weekes’s death to Chief Superintendent Bowles.

  “It’s to stop there, Rutledge, do you hear me? I’ll not be greeted in the morning with more bad news. And heed me on this as well. If Hamilton isn’t right in his mind, you’re not to let Bennett clap him up in Hampton Regis. We’ll bring him to London and sort it out.”

  “Yes, I’ve thought about that possibility.”

  “Then see that it’s done. I’m not best pleased with this trap you’re so keen to lay. On the other hand, if there’s no other possible way to lure a killer into the open, then we’ve not got much choice. But I’ll thank you not to let that fool Mallory start shooting before we know what we’re about.”