Charles Todd - A False Mirror

The building appeared to have been a coaching inn during the early 1800s, hardly the duke’s era. Still, there was a portrait of him in velvets, a wig, and a plumed hat on the sign hanging from an iron frame above the door. If the artist was to be believed, Monmouth had been a rather handsome young man who bore no resemblance to the long-faced Stuarts.

The sign creaked on its hinges as Rutledge walked around to the door after leaving his motorcar in the yard behind the inn. He could feel the sea’s breath, salty and damp, as he lifted the latch and stepped into the dark lobby.

A lamp bloomed from the door into the office, and a sleepy night porter stepped out, wary but curious.

“Inspector Rutledge,” he said to the man, setting down his valise and moving to the desk. “Inspector Bennett has taken a room for me.”

The night porter reached inside a drawer and handed him a key. “First floor, to your left. Number fifteen.”

Rutledge took the key, retrieved his case, and went up the shadowy stairs.

Hamish said, as they made their way down an even darker passage, “I wouldna’ be astonished to see a ghost outside yon door.”

“As long as he doesn’t rattle chains as I sleep, I’ve no quarrel with him.”

Hamish chuckled derisively. There were other things Rutledge feared in his dreams. The rattle of machine-gun fire…

He opened the door to number 15, and discovered that it was large enough and pleasant enough, with a view toward the sea through rows of chimney pots. But standing at the glass, careful not to place himself where he could see his own reflection-or Hamish’s behind him-he could just make out the rooftop of Hamilton’s house on its gentle rise above the harbor and the sweep of the drive as it reached the gates and turned in.

And it intrigued him that the house, sheltered in its garden, was so visible from this angle. It would be easy to wait here and watch the comings and goings to the door. He made a mental note tomorrow to look in the other rooms on this side of the inn, to see if the view was as clear.

After conferring with the desk clerk after breakfast, Rutledge learned that the rooms to either side of his were not presently occupied, and he took the opportunity to look out their windows. But the inn’s chimneys blocked any view from the room to his right, while to the left a clump of trees in the rear garden of a house across the way broke up his line of sight sufficiently to shield most activity at the Hamilton home.

Number 15 offered the clearest view.

“Aye, but to what end?” Hamish asked him bluntly.

“Someone must have watched Hamilton leave his house on the morning he was attacked. Without necessarily being seen. As far as I can tell, other than the church tower the inn offers the best vantage point.”

The night desk clerk slept in his little room behind Reception. Anyone could step quietly through the inn door without waking him. And the stairs are only a stone’s throw away, carpeted and dark as pitch.

Rutledge decided to walk to the Hamilton residence this morning, a quieter approach than arriving by motorcar. The air was damp and cloudy, the sea a wintry gray and the tang of salt strong on the wind, mixed with the reek of the tideline. Gulls wheeled, dipping and calling raucously where a man sat cleaning his catch over the gunwale of his boat.

As he climbed the road, Rutledge turned to look at the headland across the bay. The woman waiting tables at breakfast had told him there had been landslips there in living memory. It no doubt explained why no one had built there, but five minutes later showed him the stone foundation of what appeared to be an ecclesiastical building rather than a house.

Hamish said, belligerent this morning, “You canna’ be sure.”

But he thought he could. The pattern of the stones seemed to indicate a round small chapel, perhaps once called St. Peter’s after the Fisherman, its tower a beacon to returning ships. Or dedicated to St. Michael, since that militant saint seemed to fancy the high ground.

And then the other side of the bay was cut off from view, and he could look down into the harbor and far out to sea. A fishing boat bobbed in the near distance, taking the weather in stride, but a man in a rowboat, coming around the cliff face and pulling for the Mole, was battling stiff currents.

Rutledge reached the Hamilton gate, nodding to the damp constable huddled under his cape beside a cedar that seemed to drip constantly, its own waterfall.

The tiled plate announcing Casa Miranda caught his attention. An exotic name for a stately Georgian house. But Hamilton might have wanted a nostalgic reminder of another life.

Rutledge went directly to the door and lifted the brass knocker, letting it fall heavily, like the stroke of doom.

It was daylight now, he thought. Such as it was. He prayed the ghosts would stand more easily at bay.

After a moment a weary male voice called, “Who’s there?”

“Rutledge. I’m alone.”

“Give me five minutes to be sure of that.”

Finally satisfied, Mallory let him inside but kept the door between himself and the gardens beyond, as if expecting a sniper waiting to pick him off.

“He’s haggard,” Hamish said, not without satisfaction as Rutledge and Mallory confronted each other in silence, both taking note of changes since they had fought together in France. Both searching for a middle ground that had nothing to do with France.

Mallory, looking at Rutledge, could see more clearly the toll the war had taken and the peace had not replaced.

Rutledge could read all too well the long lines of pain in the other man’s face, the dark circles of sleeplessness and strain under the eyes. How much of it had been put there by the past few days, Rutledge could only guess. But Mallory was tall and English fair and still handsome, and it was easy to see that he might be very attractive to women.

Hamish, reminding Rutledge, added, “The men didna’ like him.”

Crossing Hamish’s words, Mallory was saying, “Neither of us has prospered since France, it would seem.”

After a moment Rutledge said, “No. Few of us did.”

It was as if the empty words summed up four years of war for both men, neither willing to admit to the personal shadows that dwelled under the surface of the mind, neither wanting to bring any of it back. And yet the very act of standing here opened the nightmare in ways neither had foreseen.

For Rutledge it was the sound of a firing squad slamming a round home with nervous, ragged precision. And the memory of men lifting wooden stocks to their shoulders, sighting down the steel barrels at one of their own.

All for nothing-all for nothing.

For Mallory it was the voice of Dr. Beatie shouting at him, urging him to do what had to be done to end his suffering. Driving him to kill.

The awkward silence lengthened, and Mallory was the first to turn away, abruptly gesturing toward the drawing room. “In there. Where we won’t be overheard.”

His voice cracked on the words, and he cast a backward glance toward the stairs, as if expecting to see someone standing at the top of the flight.

Rutledge reminded himself of the task he’d been sent to accomplish. “Where is Mrs. Hamilton?” he asked, not leaving the hall. “And her maid? I shan’t bargain with you until I’m certain they’re safe.”

Mallory grimaced. “Damn it, they’re well enough. Felicity-Mrs. Hamilton-is still asleep. The maid-her name is Nan Weekes-is threatening me with God’s curse if I touch her. She might well be the best cleaning woman in Dorset, but she’s safe enough from rape, even in the dark. A few more days of the rough side of her tongue, and she’ll stand in greater danger of murder.” He’d meant it facetiously, but it hung in the air like a threat and he cursed himself for a fool.