A False Mirror ir-9

by Charles Todd

  “Matthew?”

  “It’s my decision, not his. You mustn’t worry, it’s what I have to do.”

  She stood there for a moment longer, as if listening to the silence. Then she said, “I don’t believe either one of you.” She turned, went back in her room, and shut the door.

  They went down the stairs and into the night. Outside, in the sharp air of a predawn darkness, Hamilton said softly, “I never expected to see her again. I never thought how it would feel if I did. But I always knew where to find her. I made certain of that for more than twenty years.”

  When he reached the motorcar, moving with a care that betrayed his pain, he spoke again. “I think I understand now how Felicity felt about Stephen Mallory. There’s that question in the back of your mind. What might have been…”

  He let Rutledge help him into the motorcar, then looked up at the lighted window he’d left behind. But he said nothing more until they were well on the road back to Hampton Regis.

  27

  When they reached the police station in Hampton Regis, Rutledge found the door unlocked and a message waiting on his desk.

  All’s quiet. What took you so long?

  It was signed Bennett.

  “Are you up to this?” Rutledge said, offering the tired man beside him a chair. “It was a long journey, and it’s very late.”

  “In more ways than one. All right, what is it you want, a statement?”

  “Yes.” Rutledge found pen and paper, took Hamilton to his makeshift office, and asked him to describe in his own words what he recalled about his injuries and what he believed had happened when Mrs. Granville was killed.

  He sat there, thinking it through, the scars on his face knitted with uncertainty. Then he wrote essentially what Rutledge had suggested to him in Miranda Cole’s guest bedroom.

  At the end of it, he reread the statement, and then signed his name. Tossing the pen aside Hamilton asked, “Am I spending the night here? Or what’s left of it?” He walked to the door and looked down the passage at the dark rooms, airless and bleak, the furnishings old, the walls in need of paint. There had been no money for refurbishing such buildings during the war, and none since. “I suppose murderers can’t be fussy.”

  “I think, not here. Are you sure you’re satisfied with what you’ve written?”

  “Does it matter? You’ve told me I’m a murderer.”

  “It could matter, yes.” Rutledge folded the statement and thrust it into his breast pocket. He led Hamilton back to the motorcar, but the man’s injured leg was so stiff now that he had difficulty stepping in. Swearing under his breath, Hamilton finally managed to get the passenger door closed. Rutledge drove to the Duke of Monmouth. It was dark, but he found that the door was unlocked, and he took Hamilton inside.

  The room on the other side of his was still empty, and he looked out the window for a moment, then said, “There’s no way down short of a fall. And I have the key. I might remind you as well that Stratton is here in Hampton Regis. I don’t think you want to meet him in the dark.”

  “What about Felicity?”

  “She’s safe for tonight. You can go to her tomorrow.”

  “Fair enough.” He hesitated. “Do we have to bring Miranda into this business? Does Felicity have to know where I was?”

  “I’m afraid the police must. And so she’ll hear of it.”

  Hamilton sighed. “Good night, Rutledge. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “So do I.” After a moment, he said, “I haven’t told you that Nan Weekes is dead. Someone has killed her as well.”

  Hamilton was not prepared for it. He said, blankly, “Good God. Are you saying to me that I did that too?”

  “I hope not. Good night, Hamilton. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  When he was certain that Hamilton was asleep, Rutledge left the Duke of Monmouth and walked as far as Casa Miranda, calling quietly to the constable on duty when he was within hearing.

  “Good evening, sir.” It was one of the men from outside Hampton Regis.

  “Constable Gregory, isn’t it? How is it tonight?”

  “Yes, sir. Quiet enough. The lady refused to come for the night, sir. Miss Esterley, that was. I believe the rector stayed in her place.”

  Rutledge said only, “I’m sorry to hear it.” He stared up at the housefront, wishing he could look through walls and judge the state of mind of the occupants. But tomorrow would be soon enough.

  He bade the constable good night and walked back the way he’d come. Hamish, cross with him, was giving him no peace, and he came close, more than once, to venting his own annoyance aloud.

  The sound of the voice in his mind seemed to follow him through the silent streets, an uncomfortable companionship in the darkness. The church clock behind him struck the hour. He’d forgotten how late it was. But there was no sleep for him yet.

  He passed the turning for the Duke of Monmouth and walked instead to the water, his steps echoing as he neared the shops and a cat, a mouse dangling from her jaws, trotted around the nearest corner and into the shadows.

  There were boats drawn up on the shingle, and others bobbing in the tide at the end of their tethers. He walked among them, poking about here and there, looking at gear and breathing in the rich smells of the sea, salt, and fish and that almost-impossible-to-describe scent of block and tackle and nets that have long lived in the water and grown stiff with it.

  It was not too many days ago that he’d gone out with Perkins to the landslip. A futile effort, but it had given him a key when he found the bandages.

  Hamish said, “The church clock struck the half hour. There’s naething here. And you’ve been away a verra’ long time.”

  He reminded himself that Hamish was a Highlander from the narrow mountain passes of Glencoe, where eagles soared high over the Pap and screamed down the slopes. But he himself had been accustomed to the sea, he’d learned to row a boat watching his father, and he’d spent his holidays by the water more than once.

  Finally satisfied, he went back to the first boat he’d come to, reached down, and pulled out the best example he’d seen of what he was looking for. Holding it close to his body, he retraced his steps.

  Someone was going to be unhappy with him in the morning. But he could make that right later in the day.

  He stopped at the motorcar in the inn yard, looked around him at the night, making certain that there was no one in the shadows or walking along the street at the end of the drive. Then he reached into the back, where Hamish sat, for the rug he kept there. But Hamish now was at his shoulder. Wrapping up his find, he stowed it carefully against the back of the rear seat, glanced up at the windows above him, and saw only dark panes of glass. This was the kitchen yard of the inn, where the staff slept. Neither Stratton nor Hamilton could have seen him at work.

  He went round to the front entrance and took the steps two at a time. He’d had almost no sleep the night before, and it had been a wearing day.

  Quietly testing the lock on Hamilton’s door, Rutledge went into his own room and stretched himself out on the bed. It would be the second night he’d slept in his clothes.

  In the high-ceilinged room, Hamish had full rein.

  “She wasna’ strangled. She was bludgeoned.”

  “I know that. But does Hamilton? It’s the only way to find out, damn it.”

  “It was a trick.”

  “It was a necessity.”

  “And what will you do wi’ him in the morning?”

  “Take him with me to Casa Miranda. And see what transpires.”

  “Oh, aye? And after that?”

  “For the love of God, go to sleep.”

  There was silence in the room, and through the walls, he could hear Hamilton twisting and turning in his bed, the springs creaking under his weight.

  It was a little after first light when Rutledge woke with a start. He had set his mental clock for an hour before that and slept straight through.

  Rising to shave,
he listened for sounds from Hamilton’s room.

  Finishing dressing, he went out to the passage. He stayed there for nearly three minutes, judging the faint snores coming from Stratton’s room. So far, so good. He went on to unlock Hamilton’s door.

  He was heavily asleep, a pillow under his bad leg, and one arm thrown across his face. Rutledge woke him with some difficulty, and said, “I want you to come with me.”

  Hamilton scrubbed his face with his hands. “Where am I? I don’t remember.”

  “The Duke of Monmouth.”

  “Yes, of course. Give me a few minutes.” But he lay there as if the willpower needed to get out of bed had slipped away in the night. “I don’t have any shaving gear. I’d like to clean myself up a little before Felicity sees me. Are you going to tell her, or will I?”

  “Leave it to me. Are you coming?”

  It took Hamilton all of ten minutes to dress, but he walked through the door finally and said quietly, “The leg hurts like the very devil.”

  “It’s damp out this morning. A sea mist again.”

  And there was a white blanket over the village, drifting in off the sea with a softness that could be felt on the skin.

  There was no way that Hamilton could have walked up the hill, though it would have been less conspicuous. Rutledge held the door of the motorcar for him, but Hamilton refused his help getting in. As the engine came alive with a smooth roar, Rutledge said, “You’ll do exactly as I tell you. I don’t want to frighten them. Mallory is armed. He’s held Mrs. Hamilton at gunpoint in that house since you were found on the strand. The rector is there with her, and I can tell you that Mallory hasn’t harmed her. Inspector Bennett tried to arrest him, and he bolted. Mrs. Hamilton came home to find him in the house. Mallory told Bennett that he wouldn’t cooperate unless I was brought in to get to the bottom of what was going on.”

  “I thought you were a friend of Miranda’s. How do you know all this?”

  “I’m from Scotland Yard, Hamilton. Don’t you remember my telling you last night? Mallory sent for me. That’s why I knew so much about the inquiry.”

  “You tricked me into a confession.”

  “Did I? I thought it was given of your own free will. Is there any part of it you want to change?”

  “Sadly, no. I wish I could. How am I going to face Felicity, with this on my conscience? I’ve thought about that and still have no answer for it.”

  Rutledge put the motorcar in gear and drove to the road leading up to Casa Miranda. “Why did you name your house here and in Malta for Miss Cole?” he asked.

  “As a reminder that I owed her my career.”

  They didn’t speak again until Rutledge had pulled up before the front door.

  It was several minutes before Mallory answered the summons of Rutledge’s knock. He said at once, “Damn it, you weren’t here last night. Putnam and I had to hold the fort.”

  “Any trouble?”

  “No, but we couldn’t know that, could we? It was a bloody long night.”

  “There was something I had to do. How is Mrs. Hamilton feeling this morning?”

  “Better, if Putnam is to be believed.”

  “I’ve brought someone to see her.”

  Mallory craned his neck to look toward the motorcar. “If it’s Miss Esterley, she’s too-” He stopped, his face registering a variety of emotions, uppermost among them shock and then anger. “If you’ve taken him into custody, she’ll have my head. Where did you find him?”

  “In Exeter. It’s a long story. I’d like to bring him into the house. There are things he needs. Razor, a change of clothing.”

  “Did he kill those women? In God’s name, why?”

  “More to the point, he doesn’t remember what happened to him. And very little of the time he was under Dr. Granville’s care.”

  “I thought you said he was being kept sedated. For the pain. And that it had played with his mind, what he’d heard while he was half conscious. You told us that.”

  “What he does recall is tangled now. Will you let him in?”

  Mallory said with bitterness, “Why not? It’s his house, after all. Everyone else has come and gone. And I shan’t be taken up now for killing him.”

  “You may still stand trial for the attack on him.”

  “I didn’t touch him, Rutledge. Haven’t you asked him yet?” He took a deep breath. “I don’t know how to feel now that it’s over. I’m so tired I can’t think.”

  “Not quite over. Will you go and make tea? I think he’s going to need it.”

  “Tell him-tell him I never would have touched him. Not even for Felicity.”

  Mallory was gone on the words. Rutledge went back to the motorcar and helped Hamilton alight. He stood there, staring up at the house, then walked to the door and inside.

  “If I’m going to jail, I’d rather pack my things before I see her.”

  “Go ahead. You know the way. You’ll find Mr. Putnam in the passage outside her door.”

  Hamilton found it difficult to climb the stairs but kept at it until he’d reached the top.

  Rutledge heard a smothered exclamation as the rector recognized the man coming toward him. And then Putnam was greeting him anxiously, his concern for Hamilton overcoming his alarm.

  Rutledge followed Hamilton up the steps and said, as Putnam turned toward him, “He needs to pack a valise. Can you help him?”

  Putnam cast him a swift look, then said, “Of course. Are you in pain, man? Here, take my arm. Shouldn’t we send for a doctor? It might be best.”

  Mallory had come back, standing by the door, calling quietly up the stairs, “The water’s on the boil. Do you know what you’re doing?”

  In another fifteen minutes, the three men were downstairs once more. Mallory had taken the tea tray into the sitting room. Hamilton’s valise was left outside the door.

  Hamilton and Mallory faced each other in stiff silence.

  Mallory was the first to speak. “If I’ve caused you worry, I’m sorry. It was all I could think of, to keep myself safe. She’s your wife, and I have respected that. She will tell you as much.”

  Hamilton said, “Thank you.” He found a chair and sat in it. “I’d like to see her now, if I may.”

  Putnam said, “I’ll bring her to you.”

  But they had finished their tea before Felicity Hamilton came down to the sitting room. She had dressed herself carefully, her hair shining in the light and her dark blue skirt nearly the same shade as Miranda Cole’s sweater.

  “Matthew?” she said tentatively. “Are you all right?”

  “As well as can be expected. I’ve given you a fright, I’m sorry.”

  “We thought you were dead,” she wailed and started toward him. Then she stopped, not knowing quite what to do.

  There was an awkward moment, before Putnam said, “You’ll want some tea, my dear. Come and sit here, by the fire.”

  She hesitated, and then crossed the room to take the chair he offered her. He brought her a cup, like a good host, and went to stand by the windows, a watcher and a witness.

  Mallory, his back to the wall, said, “Keep this short, Rutledge. We’re none of us at our best.”

  Rutledge said, without preamble, “Someone has been mischiefmaking. At a guess it began when whoever it was watched Mr. Hamilton here walk down to the Mole for his morning stroll. Inspector Bennett believed it was Mallory, because there appeared to be a very good reason for him to wish Hamilton out of the way. We needn’t go into that. But I’ve come gradually to the conclusion that Bennett is wrong. And that’s why he’s not here this morning. I’ve got the three principals sitting in this room. A witness in Mr. Putnam. I expect what is said here to stay here. Do you understand me? Hamilton, I’m offering you a list of names. Tell me which one had a reason to kill you.”

  Matthew Hamilton, surprise in his voice, said, “I’ve told you. Stratton threatened me. But I never believed he’d carry it out. If he’d been on the strand that morning, I’d have t
urned away and left him there. I’m not a fool. But I wasn’t afraid of him attacking me.”

  “Who is Stratton?” both Mrs. Hamilton and Mallory asked in almost the same breath.

  “A colleague,” Hamilton answered. “Go on, Rutledge.”

  “George Reston.”

  Mr. Putnam moved to say something, then thought better of it.

  “He’s an angry man, filled with bitterness long before I knew him. He dislikes me, and I’ve never quite understood why. I dealt with his business partner. I still do. I rather believe that Thurston Caldwell would like to see me dead. But he daren’t touch me. Too many people would point a finger in his direction. That’s why I’ve stayed with him.”

  “But they haven’t pointed at him, at least not here in Hampton Regis.”

  “Then I was wrong, wasn’t I?”

  “Mallory, here.”

  “No, I don’t see that any more than you do.”

  “Miss Esterley.”

  “In God’s name, why her? She’s been a friend.”

  “Then we must look at your wife. Felicity Hamilton.”

  She smothered a little cry of disbelief.

  “That’s enough, man, I won’t listen to any more of this!” Hamilton was angry, his face flushing with it. “If you can’t be sensible about this, then it’s over.”

  Mallory had started to his feet, then sank back into his chair, remembering that, with her husband in the room, he had no right to be Felicity’s champion.

  Putnam anxiously watched Rutledge.

  He waited until the protest had subsided, and then said, “We haven’t found the weapon that was used to strike you down, Hamilton. But I want you to look at what I’m about to bring in.”

  He went to the motorcar, lifted the rug from the rear seat, and carried it into the house with him.

  When he held one end and let the rug unfurl, something hard and long went clattering across the floor to the hearth, nearly touching the toes of Felicity Hamilton’s shoes before it was stopped by the wood basket. She cried out, and the three men, already on their feet, crowded forward to see it better, though it was nearly five feet long and made of teak with worn brass tips.