Charles Todd - A False Mirror

“Yes, poor man. In that case, then.” She let him into a passage that ended in a door that was half glass, with fenced lawns and bare trees beyond. He followed her past a series of closed doors to the last but one. “He’s in quite a bit of pain, isn’t he? The inspector. But he wouldn’t hear of anything to help, you know.”

Now he could see through the glass into the tidy garden just beyond, and a table under a tree, with chairs around it. He had a picture of tea set out there on a summer’s day, and children running through the grass, laughing. The England he and Mallory and so many others had fought for. Bleak now in winter, cold and quiet. As if war had drained away the color and reality, not the seasons.

Hamilton’s tiny room was windowless. He lay there on the cot bed, the lamp beside him lit but shielded to keep the light out of his eyes.

But Matthew Hamilton’s bruised eyes were closed, and his breathing was labored, as if it hurt to draw too much air in at a time.

Rutledge, looking down at him, took his measure: a tall man, broad shouldered, with dark hair silvering at the temples, long sun-bronzed fingers lying idle on the coverlet, slender body. He could have put up a good fight, if he’d been attacked face-on. A match for Mallory or anyone else, physically.

Hamish said, “It was a vicious beating.”

And that appeared to be true. His ribs were wrapped tightly, the broken arm set, and lumps under the coverlet indicated bandaging on his legs as well.

To kill? Or simply vengeful, without much caring about the outcome.

“I’m told he was found near the tideline,” Rutledge commented quietly.

“Oh, his clothing was soaked with seawater,” Mrs. Granville replied. “It’s a wonder, cold as he was, he didn’t die of exposure. But Anthony-the doctor, that is-feels that the cold may have prevented massive internal bleeding.”

“One good thing, then. No sign of returning to consciousness?”

“He’s moaned a time or two. The doctor is reluctant to administer anything to help with the pain, at least for the next few hours, because of possible brain injury.”

“But he’s not conscious enough to speak, as far as you know? When he begins to moan?” He reached out and touched one of the hands on top of the coverlet, and raised his voice a little. “Mr. Hamilton? Can you hear me? I’ve brought a message from your wife, Matthew. Do you understand what I’m telling you? Grasp my hand if you do.”

There was no response.

“How is Mrs. Hamilton?” Mrs. Granville asked him, leaning forward a little, as if eager for news. He turned to look at her, seeing her now as one of the village women rather than just the doctor’s assistant. “She hasn’t been back to see him,” she continued. “I’ve heard that she’s under-er-constraint at the house.”

A thin face, thinner lips, gray eyes alive with curiosity.

“Mrs. Hamilton is safe where she is,” he answered carefully. “I don’t think you need to fear for her or the maid. I’d hoped to bring her with me. Perhaps the next time. Could I see Mr. Hamilton’s clothing?”

Surprised, Mrs. Granville said, “Well, yes, of course, if you like. It’s all in the cupboard there. I dried the woolen things as best I could.”

He was already opening the low cupboard at the foot of the bed. The coat and trousers Hamilton had been wearing were still dampish, and had that odd feeling that salt water gives to fabric, heavy and slightly stiff. No hat, as if the man had enjoyed the wind in his hair. Or had lost it in the struggle.

“Boots,” Hamish said, and Rutledge saw the Wellingtons under the neatly folded pile of undergarments.

“He was planning from the start to walk by the sea,” Rutledge responded silently. “He wasn’t lured there.”

Mrs. Granville was saying, “The contents of his pockets are in that small box. I was going to offer it to Mrs. Hamilton yesterday, but she left so suddenly.”

Rutledge took out the box and opened it. Wallet, in some unusual leather now stiff and water stained. Several pounds in bills. A handkerchief. A handful of coins. Keys on a ring. A pipe and tobacco in a pouch. And a watch, the fob on the gold chain an enameled shield with the cross of Malta in red and white. The watch must have been cleaned and wound, for it was ticking softly.

Nothing unusual or unexpected. Save for the keys, he returned the items to the box and set it back where he’d found it. Then as an afterthought, he put them back as well. As long as Hamilton was alive, they should be left for him.

Just as he was closing the cupboard, the man on the bed groaned in pain, then stirred uncomfortably before subsiding into silence once more.

“If he speaks at all, no matter how trivial his words may seem to you, write them down and summon me at once. Leave word at the station or at the Duke of Monmouth.”

“Yes, of course, Inspector.” She followed him to the door. “I’ll tell the doctor you came, and if he has any need to speak with you, he’ll reach you.”

He walked down the passage and was almost at the outside door when a woman came out of the surgery waiting room, nearly colliding with him.

“Miss Trining,” Mrs. Granville said, in the tone of voice reserved for someone of substance.

“I shan’t wait any longer,” Miss Trining said. “I feel better now, anyway.”

“Are you sure you oughtn’t stay until the doctor sees you? Indigestion is sometimes-”

“I know my own body best,” Miss Trining said shortly, then looked Rutledge up and down. “Who are you?”

He gave her his best smile. “Inspector Rutledge from Scotland Yard,” he said. “And you are…?”

“Charlotte Trining. I’m a member of the vestry, along with Matthew. Have you been to see him? Dr. Granville won’t let me near him.”

“And rightly so. Rest is the best cure, sometimes,” he said. “I’ve my motorcar outside. May I drive you somewhere?”

Over Miss Trining’s head, Mrs. Granville shot him a grateful look.

“Yes, thank you.” She nodded to the doctor’s wife and let Rutledge hold the door for her.

He said good-bye to Mrs. Granville and followed Miss Trining to the car, opening the passenger door for her.

He had met many women like her over the years. Imperious and self-important, accustomed to having their way, and as often as not a force in any community out of sheer natural gall and ferocious, driving energy. The sort of women who had connections and were never shy about alluding to them.

Her dark blue eyes were scanning him as he turned the crank and then climbed in beside her.

Hamish said, “’Ware!” and was silent again.

Miss Trining said, “I shouldn’t have thought Bennett’s foot injury was sufficiently serious to summon Scotland Yard to his aid.”

“I expect he felt he couldn’t remain objective,” Rutledge answered. “And rightly so.”

“I never liked that man, Mallory,” she went on. “I’m not surprised he attacked Matthew. What does surprise me is that he didn’t finish the job while he was at it. Lack of moral fiber, I expect. I’m told by a cousin in Sussex that he suffered shell shock during the war. I don’t hold with cowards. Watch where you’re driving, young man. You nearly hit that cart!”

He had. Her words had struck him like a physical blow, and he had swerved without realizing where he was.

Saying nothing, he fought to regain his composure, and she looked at him sharply, turning her head to stare at him.

“Don’t tell me you feel differently on the subject.”

“I was at the Front, Miss Trining,” he answered after a moment. “I saw firsthand what men had to endure. I can’t stand in judgment of them now.”

“I should have thought you would know, better than most, how they let their friends and comrades down.”