Charles Todd - A False Mirror

Fate was never kind.

He wasn’t prepared tonight. No more than he expected Mallory to be prepared. His mind needed to be fresh, and in the dark, Mallory would be on edge, expecting trickery.

Hamish spoke just behind his shoulder. The voice seemed much nearer, as if the Scot had leaned forward to whisper. “Mayhap he willna’ open the door.”

And Rutledge answered silently, “He’ll want to see what I’ve become.”

Hampton Regis was fitted inside the curve of its tiny bay with the snugness of centuries. Houses along the Mole-the ancient harbor-were timeless, their facades much the same, Rutledge thought as he turned the motorcar, since the days of Drake and the Duke of Monmouth. The later houses-and they were barely later than the last century-had been built along streets set perpendicular to the waterfront, like newcomers handed second best.

Bennett, suddenly aware that he’d lost Rutledge’s attention with his barrage of advice, dropped the subject of Mallory and nodded toward the western end of the Mole disappearing behind them. “The river was broader once, and the shipyards and fishing industry lined its banks. Once the river silted up, Victorian money leveled the ground and built there. Now the Hampton’s hardly more than a little stream passing under a stone bridge.” Then he added with the satisfaction of the working-class man, “My grandfather always said fish scales make the slopes of social climbing rather a slippery business.”

He waited for Rutledge to smile at his grandfather’s plebeian sense of humor, but the man seemed to be intent on his driving, as if feeling the miles he’d already come.

Instead, Rutledge was struggling to marshal his thoughts, wondering in another part of his mind if anything remained of the authority he had once exercised over the lieutenant under his command in France. And whether he could wield it now.

The Hamiltons lived out on the road he’d come down from London, the one that ran in a gentle bend down into the town, traced its way along the water, and then rose softly to the far headland, following the coast for miles before vanishing into Devon. Bennett was telling him now that the western stretch of cliffs was prone to landslips, and from time to time over the centuries had sent houses and farms and churchyards down into the sea. Matthew Hamilton on the other hand had chosen the more stable eastern heights, living in one of the larger houses there on the seaward side, with sufficient property around them to give them privacy.

The view of the water as the motorcar climbed was stippled with faint moonlight, like a tarnished mirror. Bennett pointed and Rutledge paused to drop off the pair of constables. Then he turned through gates into a trim garden. The drive made a loop through the flower beds, ending at the steps.

Time had run out. What was he to say to Mallory?

He looked up at the house, wondering what emotions ran rampant behind that late Georgian front, upright and gracious, its weathered brick surely a lovely rose in the daylight. Very much the sort of classic design a career foreign ser vice officer might have yearned for in his long exile abroad in the heat of some godforsaken island or busy, overcrowded capital. An England that existed now only in homesick dreams. The war had changed all that.

There were no lights that Rutledge could see. He hoped the household had gone to bed, where he wished he was now. But it would not be a peaceful sleep for the two women imprisoned there with a possible killer. And he was their only hope.

He tried to picture Mallory creeping up behind Hamilton as he walked along the strand, and striking him hard across the back of the head. He wanted to believe it was impossible that a man he’d known in the trenches could do such a thing. But then they’d been taught to kill by masters, and what was one more life in the long rolls of the dead? Bennett had been treated with equal callousness. There had to be a reason. And why, if he’d had the chance to run, had Mallory come here instead?

And that brought Rutledge to Hamilton’s wife. What was her relationship to Mallory? Or his to her?

Without warning Hamish said, “You should ken how he feels.”

Rutledge caught his breath on the realization. In spite of the promises they’d made to each other at the start of the war, Jean had left him, to marry a diplomat serving now in Canada.

Had Mallory been Mrs. Hamilton’s lover once? Was that the key?

Bennett was staring at him, waiting for him to act.

Rutledge forced himself back to the present.

“Stay here,” he said to Bennett, and left the motor turning over quietly as he went to lift the knocker.

After a time a male voice called warily, “Who’s there?”

He didn’t recognize it.

“Rutledge, from Scotland Yard,” he answered carefully. “It’s very late, I’m aware of that. I drove straight through, after the summons. I wanted you to know I’m here.”

“Stand in your headlamps, so that I can see you.”

Rutledge turned and did as he was asked. After nearly a minute, a curtain twitched in an upstairs room.

Then the voice was back at the door, calling, “You’ve changed. But then so have I. Come back in the morning. Alone. Keep Bennett out of this.” The tension behind the words was clear even through the door’s wooden panels.

“I told you,” Bennett jeered. “Wound like a spring.”

“I won’t leave until I’m certain the women are safe,” Rutledge responded, returning to the door himself to listen for whatever sounds he could hear from inside.

Someone had a candle, its brightness wavering as if in an unsteady hand. Had Mallory been drinking? That was a bad sign. Rutledge tried to recall what they’d talked about in the lines, and what the man’s weaknesses were. The problem was, they hadn’t been close. Mallory, like Rutledge himself, had had other things on his mind. Rutledge had had more in common with Hamish, though they had come from vastly different backgrounds. Both had possessed an instinctive understanding of tactics and strategy, and that had drawn them together.

Over his head the fanlight was elegant, reminding him of Georgian houses in London. It had been crafted, he thought, by a master hand. But all the candle’s golden light showed him was a shadowy flight of stairs and the lamp hanging in the hall. Venetian, he thought in one corner of his mind.

Hamish was saying, “He broke, Mallory did. Only you didna’ shoot him.” And that summed up more than Rutledge was prepared to deal with tonight.

The voice inside the house went on, “They’re safe. I had promised as much, if Bennett sent for you. They’ll be safe until the morning. I swear it.”

“I want to speak to Mrs. Hamilton myself.”

“Damn it, man, she’s asleep.”

“Nevertheless. I’ve kept my half of the bargain.”

There was a silence broken only by Bennett’s grumbling from the motorcar.

Finally a woman’s voice, nervous and uncertain, called, “Inspector? He hasn’t harmed us. Please do as he asks. We’ll be all right tonight.”

“Mrs. Hamilton?”

“Yes. Have you news of my husband? I’ve been so worried about him.”

“He’s resting, Mrs. Hamilton. So I’m told. But you need to be with him. If Mr. Mallory will allow it, I’ll take you to the surgery myself, so that you can be reassured your husband is going to live.”

From the motorcar Bennett called, “It’s not her we want out of there, it’s him.” Rutledge ignored him.

“I-I can’t leave,” she answered. “I-in the morning, perhaps?”

“Mallory? Surely you’ll relent for Mrs. Hamilton’s sake?”

But there was only silence from the other side of the door. After a time, Rutledge returned to the motorcar and climbed into his seat. He could feel the tension of the last few minutes smothering him, until his head seemed to thunder with it.