Charles Todd - A False Mirror

“Because,” Hamish was pointing out, “Mallory didna’ trust the police to be fair.”

Rutledge tried to quell the voice in his head. “Who were Matthew Hamilton’s friends? He served on the vestry. What does the rector have to say to this business?”

“I haven’t asked him. When have I had the time?”

“Then perhaps we should see him now. I’ll drive you,” Rutledge went on as Bennett was on the point of protesting. He stood by the door waiting, and Bennett had no choice but to get to his feet and clumsily adjust his crutch under his arm.

Rutledge had passed the church coming into Hampton Regis last night and heard the clock strike the hour. It stood not far from the turning to Casa Miranda, a tall, rather austere stone edifice well set out in its churchyard. To the west of it behind a massive Victorian shrubbery, this morning he glimpsed the sunlit windows of what must be the rectory.

The rector wasn’t a man to take sides. Slim and frail, he looked to be older than he was, a man so trodden down by life that only his faith sustained him.

When they found him in the church, staring at the baptismal font as if expecting it to break into speech at any moment, he seemed surprised to see them.

Bennett made the introductions and said without further ado, “Mr. Rutledge would like your opinion of Matthew Hamilton.”

“Matthew?” Augustus Putnam faltered. “Is he dead then? I’ve been remiss, I haven’t been to see him.”

“He’s still very much alive,” Rutledge responded. “Shall we sit down over there?” He gestured to the chairs at the back of the nave. “Inspector Bennett would appreciate it.”

“Yes, yes-by all means.” Putnam led the way to the chairs and waited as if the host until both men were seated. Then he sat down heavily as if worn out by the interview to come.

“Matthew Hamilton,” Rutledge reminded him.

“Ah. Well, you probably know his history. Foreign Office and all that. He’s been so helpful with church affairs. I’ve been grateful. Sometimes the vestry board can be…” He hesitated, looking for the right word, then smiled. “Obstreperous,” he ended.

“Too many demands and not enough money?” Rutledge asked.

“Yes, exactly,” Putnam agreed gratefully. “We have to make do-the war, you know. It changed so much.”

“The rector lost his only son at Passchendaele,” Bennett told Rutledge with some bluntness, as if that explained the rector’s situation.

“I’m sorry,” Rutledge’s voice carried more than the usual polite murmuring of sympathy.

Putnam nodded in acknowledgment.

“Thank you. It’s still amazingly raw. The loss.” His thoughts seemed to wander away, as if searching for some explanation for why his son had been taken. After a moment, he came back to the present. “I’ve the greatest respect and admiration for Matthew Hamilton,” he said. “There’s been much comment about his interest in foreign gods, but I can tell you he’s a fine example of what a good parishioner ought to be. Kind, considerate, intelligent, compassionate.”

“Foreign gods?” Rutledge asked.

“He was something of an amateur archaeologist in his spare time. Part of the collection he brought home with him has-er-stirred up some confusion in the minds of a few people. Especially the goddess.”

For an instant Rutledge found himself wondering if the reference was to Mrs. Hamilton, and then he remembered the headless figure in the drawing room. “Have you seen this collection?” he asked with interest.

Putnam smiled. “Yes, I was particularly asked to view it. George Reston was most insistent about that. He was shocked, you see. I expect Matthew had enjoyed a little amusement at his expense. We aren’t very worldly, here.” He cast a swift glance toward the silent Bennett, then added to Rutledge, “Have you been to Malta, Inspector? Or to some of the other early sites in the Mediterranean? I’ve read a little about them, and I must confess they tend to be extraordinary in their perspectives.”

Rutledge held back a grin. In so many words Putnam had told him more than Bennett had understood. Putnam, he realized, wasn’t quite as childlike as he appeared. It was a facade developed over time to shield himself from the wrath of the Restons and the Trinings among his flock.

“And Mrs. Hamilton? Do you know her well at all?”

“A lovely young woman,” he said. “We’ve been saddened by the fact that she doesn’t come to ser vices as often as we’d like. But she seems sincere in her faith.”

Hamish said, “The auld biddies must ha’ driven her away.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Rutledge answered aloud, then winced.

Bennett put in, “We’re here to inquire if you can think of anyone who might wish Mr. Hamilton ill.”

Putnam considered that for a moment, then shook his head. “I would say he’s universally liked.”

Which left the impression that no one felt that way about his wife.

“And Mr. Mallory?” Rutledge asked.

“Ah. Mr. Mallory. We’ve had long talks, you know. On the nature of faith. He lost his in France. Not too surprising, I’m told. But not lost forever, one hopes.”

Translated, it seemed to say that Putnam had enjoyed very little success with Mallory. But there was an undercurrent of compassion that spoke of understanding and sadness.

Sometimes, Rutledge thought, reading between the lines was a skill a policeman ought to develop early on. But Bennett, sitting there with righteous stolidity, was not listening to the nuances. He was a blunt man with little imagination, and his foot must have been hurting him after the exertion of getting in and out of the motorcar. There was a grim downturn to his mouth, as though he was consciously suppressing the pain.

And then Putnam commented, as if reminded by something only he could see, “I should like to know what you think of our bosses. Will you take a moment to look at them?”

Bennett opened his mouth to say that they had other calls to make, but Rutledge was before him, intrigued by the rector’s shift in subject.

“By all means,” he told Putnam with enthusiasm infusing his voice. “I’ve a fondness for architecture.” He turned to Bennett and said, “It shouldn’t take more than five minutes.”

Bennett said stiffly, “I’ll just wait in the motorcar then.” He adjusted his crutch and walked off, clearly put out by the distraction.

Putnam led Rutledge down the nave, where they could look up into the darkness of the high vaulted ceiling. Pointing to the ribs of the vaulting where what appeared to be flat stone buttons pinned them into place, he said, “If your eyes are younger and better than mine, you can just pick out the devices on each boss.” The rector’s words echoed above their heads, as clear to Bennett as they were to him.

And Rutledge could. As the west door closed behind Bennett, he stared upward into the shadows. The bosses were from Henry VII’s day, he thought, with the white rose of Lancaster and the red rose of York melded into the Tudor rose, healing all wounds of the long bloody wrangling among the descendants of Edward I. Or such was the hope. Henry Tudor had certainly done his best to rid himself of any opposition. The device of the portcullis was there too, and while they were both of interest, they weren’t unique to this church.

But Rutledge waited patiently for Putnam to explain the significance of them. After a moment he said, quietly, “One morning Matthew Hamilton was standing where you are now, as we were discussing a vestry matter. The subject turned to mistakes we’ve all made in our lives, and he said to me, ‘There’s a Miss Cole who could tell you much about a mistake that altered my life. I’ve carried more than a little guilt about that over the years, and I’ve wondered how to make amends. Only I’ve put it off too long now.’” The rector shrugged diffidently. “I recall almost his exact words because whatever he had done still greatly distressed him. I asked if he’d care to tell me more, and he said it was his own cross to bear. This may have nothing to do with the attack on him. But you did ask if there might be someone who wished him ill. I would be grateful if you kept this to yourself. It could cause needless pain if I’m wrong.”