Charles Todd - A False Mirror

She bit her lip as she spoke the name, wishing she could take it back. She put her arms around his neck, her eyes closed. “Hold me,” she begged.

And he did, her tea forgotten.

LONDON End of February, 1920

Chief Superintendent Bowles sat at his cluttered desk, chewing on the end of his mustache, staring at his subordinate.

“Time off?” he said. “What on earth for?”

“A-personal matter,” Inspector Rutledge answered, unforthcoming.

“Indeed!” Bowles continued to stare. The nurse who’d sent him a copy of this man’s medical file before Rutledge returned to duty last June must have lied.

Rutledge was still thin for his height, and his face was drawn as if from lack of sleep. But the eyes, dark and haunted, were intelligent and alert. So much for cowardice. And he hadn’t shown a yellow streak in the north, over that nasty business about the child. The local man had complained of him, of course, and Mickelson had been angry over the outcome of the case. But the Chief Magistrate had told Bowles in no uncertain terms that the investigation had been brilliantly handled.

And the Chief Magistrate had Connections. It wouldn’t do to ignore that.

Rutledge had also done well in Northamptonshire, though it had been a grave risk sending this man to see to Hensley. But then he’d trusted Hensley to keep his mouth shut, and it had turned out all right. There was no proof to be found that he’d known what Hensley was up to. Or none that he knew of.

His thoughts returned to the letter from the clinic.

Bowles had half a mind to bring that fool nurse up on charges of incompetence. For the past six months, Rutledge had somehow managed to turn every test into a small success. What was he to do about this man who refused to destroy himself? The nurse had sworn she’d overheard him threatening suicide time and again, she had sworn he wouldn’t survive the rigors of the Yard for more than a month, two at best. What’s more, how did Rutledge manage to carry out his duties in such a way that others protected him? Protectors who were unaware that Rutledge had come out of the trenches with shell shock and must have killed who knew how many brave soldiers through his own lack of moral fiber!

Bowles would have given much to know who had pinned medals on this man’s chest and called him a hero. That officer deserved to be shot, by God!

Better still, Rutledge ought to have been shot, he thought sourly, and not for the first time. It was the least the Germans could have done, after their rampage across Belgium and France. A nice clean bullet to the heart crossing No Man’s Land. If Rutledge had ever crossed it, of course-very likely he’d cowered in the trench out of harm’s way while his men died. And no German fire could reach him there, however hard the guns had tried.

His already bleak mood was turning into a nasty headache-

Bowles suddenly became aware that he’d been glaring at Rutledge in silence. He cleared his throat, shifting in his chair to give the impression he’d been preoccupied with other issues instead of sitting there like a fool, daydreaming.

“There’s the Shepherd’s Market murder still to be solved. Not to mention that business about the men found dead in Green Park. I don’t see how I can spare you. Or anyone else for that matter.”

Rutledge said, “It’s rather important.”

“So is peace and order!” Bowles snapped. “Or do you think yourself above the rest of us? Jaunting about the countryside attending to personal affairs indeed, while there’s work to be done here.”

“Neither of these cases is mine,” Rutledge reminded him, his voice neutral. But something in his eyes warned Bowles that this leave he’d requested was a more serious business than Rutledge was willing to admit.

Bowles brought his attention back to his inspector’s face. Was Rutledge on the brink of breaking down? Was that what made him so anxious to get away for a bit?

The more Bowles considered that possibility, the more he began to believe in it. What else could it be but a recognition on Rutledge’s part that time was running out?

“You’re to stay in town and work with Phipps, do you hear me? You’ll help him find out what’s behind the Green Park murders. And there’s an end to it.”

He sat back in his chair and studied the fountain pen in his fingers. “An end to it!” he repeated forcefully. “Request denied.”

Chief Inspector Phipps was a nervous man whose efficiency was not in question, but whose personality left much to be desired. He seemed to feed on his own anxieties to the point of aggravating everyone around him. Inspector Mickelson had sworn the Chief Inspector could drive God himself mad.

What would close contact with him do to a man facing a breakdown?

Satisfied, Bowles picked up a file on his desk and opened it. Rutledge was dismissed.

Chief Inspector Phipps walked into Rutledge’s office without knocking, his fingers beating a ragged tattoo on the back of the file he was carrying.

Rutledge looked up, his gaze going to the file.

The Green Park murders, so close to Buckingham Palace, had drawn the attention of the press. Two men had been killed there, a week apart. So far nothing uncovered in the investigation indicated any connection between them. But each had been garroted and left in the bushes. An early riser found the first victim when his dog was drawn to the shrubbery and began barking. Children playing hide-and-seek with their nursemaid had discovered the second victim. Their father-titled and furious-had appeared at the Yard in person, demanding to know why his son and daughter had been subjected to such a gruesome experience. They were distraught, as was his wife, he’d told Phipps in no uncertain terms. And the Yard was to blame for allowing murderers to roam unhindered in decent parts of town. No mention was made of any anguish the nursemaid had suffered.

Phipps set the file on Rutledge’s desk and began to pace the narrow office as he spoke.

“Bowles has given you to me. Anything in particular on your desk at the moment?”

Rutledge said, “I’ve closed the file on George Ferrell. This morning.”

“Good, good!” Phipps wheeled and paced back the other way.

“Each of our victims,” Phipps went on, “was found on a Sunday morning. Tomorrow is Saturday. I want Green Park covered from first light to first light. You’ll be given a police matron dressed as a nanny. She’ll be pushing a pram, and you’re her suitor, a young clerk from a nearby shop, who urges her to sit and talk for an hour.” He paused to consider Rutledge. “You don’t really look like a lovesick young clerk. I’ll ask Constable Bevins to assume that role, instead, and you can walk Bevins’s dog several times during the day and early evening. I want an inspector close by at all times, you see. You’ll have the damned dog on your hands until Bevins is off duty. See the beast doesn’t annoy the chief superintendent, if you must bring it back to the Yard.”

“With so many people in the Park, it isn’t likely that another murder will occur there,” Rutledge pointed out.

“And that’s what I’m hoping, don’t you see? We throw our man off balance, make it difficult for him to plan.” Phipps paused long enough to crack his knuckles, one by one. “Once the killer has lured his target into the park, it won’t be easy to shift him to another site.”

“What if he’s already killed the two men he’d intended to murder?”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s a very likely possibility! We’ve got ourselves a trend here, don’t you know. He’ll come to the Park, all right. Wait and see. And he’ll have told his victim where and when to meet him, I should think. Safer than arriving together. Someone might see them and remember.” He was pacing again, rubbing his jaw with the back of his nails. “Very well, then, we’re looking for two men, arriving separately, then meeting. They’ll go off together toward the shrubbery, for privacy. That’s when we’ll have them. Bevins is to bring his dog to the Yard at six o’clock tomorrow morning. Be here and make certain that you have a change of clothes-we shan’t want to be noticed!”