Charles Todd - A False Mirror

“Did he ever mention this woman again?”

“It was not a subject I cared to bring up myself.”

“I appreciate your advice,” Rutledge answered slowly. “And your wisdom,” he added after a moment.

Putnam smiled. “One learns diplomacy in many arenas, Inspector. I’m sure the police and the foreign ser vice have nothing on the Church when it comes to treading with care.”

He escorted Rutledge up the aisle to the west door and added as it swung inward, bringing in the cold air, “Some things are best left unsaid. And then there is no necessity for explanation or retraction.”

They shook hands and Rutledge left. Hamish said, “Yon’s a canny man.”

Bennett, fuming in the motorcar, demanded, “What’s so unique about the bosses, then?”

“Putnam takes pride in them,” Rutledge answered simply. “And sometimes it’s wise to give a lonely man a few minutes of one’s time. It may encourage him to remember something we ought to know.”

Grunting, Bennett let Rutledge crank the motor on his own. As the other man stepped behind the wheel, Bennett said, “In my view, finding our man is more important than pacifying the rector.”

“You live here. You know best,” Rutledge said without emphasis.

“Standing around on those cold pavestones has made my foot ache like all the imps of hell taking hot tongs to it. I’ll have to rest it.” It was obvious that the man was of two minds, torn between putting up his foot and staying the course.

“I’ll drive you home. After that I’ll call in again at the surgery. With any luck there should be news.”

“If he’s going to live, you mean. Hamilton. I’ve got a bad feeling about that. You could tell Mrs. Hamilton that her husband is dying, in the hope Mallory will let her visit him.”

“And if he won’t, she’ll be distressed to no purpose.”

“Her feelings aren’t our concern. Winking Mallory out of there is.”

“In good time,” Rutledge promised, driving through the town and turning down the road to Bennett’s house. “And Nan Weekes is still there, remember.”

“If Hamilton lives, Mallory won’t hang,” Bennett commented, ignoring his reply. “It’s a pity.”

He clambered down with an effort and hobbled up the walk to his door.

Hamish said, “He wants his revenge.”

“And I’m here to see he doesn’t have it.”

But there was no news, although Matthew Hamilton seemed to be breathing less stressfully.

“As if he’s coming up from the depths,” Granville said, “although it might be the body and not the mind that’s healing.” He examined Rutledge with some curiosity, and Rutledge found himself flushing under the scrutiny.

What did the doctor read in his face? Shell shock? Nightmares?

“I don’t quite see Scotland Yard’s interest in this business,” Granville commented. His blue eyes were concerned. “Was it Mrs. Hamilton who sent for you? Are you a friend?”

“I’ve never met her before this.”

“I’m worried about her, to be truthful.” He ran a hand through his hair. “If Mallory will allow it, I’ll be happy to come to the house and make certain she’s holding up well under the circumstances. Something to help her sleep might be in order. She’s a strong woman, but even the strong can break under the weight of anxiety and fear.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Meanwhile, I’ll be here again,” Rutledge said, “as often as I can, until there’s news.”

“Is there any hope that Mallory will allow Mrs. Hamilton to come here to speak to her husband? He might respond to her voice, if not to ours. It’s worth trying.” His words seemed to fall flat in the small room.

“That might well depend,” Rutledge answered him, “on whether Mallory believes Hamilton will clear him or condemn him, once he’s awake.” He looked the doctor over in his turn, seeing the competent hands, the strong face, the dark hair prematurely graying at the temples. It gave the man a distinguished air, one that patients must find comforting, he thought, when they were very ill. He was wasted, here in Hampton Regis.

Granville said, “If you want my professional opinion, you’ll be wise to convince that young hothead to come to his senses. This is as vicious a beating as I’ve dealt with in many years. My guess is, Mallory’s unstable, and God knows what he intends to do with Mrs. Hamilton. If she rejects him, he may turn to murder and suicide as his only way out.”

“What are Hamilton’s chances? I need to be told.”

“Worst case? He could very well be helpless and in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. That’s my greatest fear.”

Hamish said irascibly, “He isna’ dead. Ye shouldna’ speak o’er him as if he were.”

And yet, it seemed that Matthew Hamilton had no reality, his bruises like Caesar’s wounds speaking for him. What would he have to say when he opened his eyes? Would he know where he was-or even who he was? Or would he lunge upright and swear at the memory of his attack?

What had Miss Trining had to say about Mallory? That he was a coward-and as far as anyone knew, this attack had been cowardly too, from behind. It was easy to see why guilt had been assigned so quickly. Mallory was the perfect scapegoat…

With a last look at the injured man, Rutledge left and this time openly drove to the Hamilton house. Mallory answered his summons reluctantly. “What now?”

“I’d like to speak to Mrs. Hamilton, if you don’t mind.”

Mallory frowned. “Is he-have you come to say he’s dead?”

“No. But the doctor feels it would be a good thing to have his wife speak to Hamilton, encourage him as it were, something to cling to in the darkness.”

“For God’s sake, don’t tell her that, she’ll be frantic.”

“As she should be,” Rutledge replied. “She’s his wife, man, after all.”

Mallory shook his head. “I can’t let you talk to her. I can’t-it isn’t something that will work. Get me out of this, if you can. It’s the best solution for all of us. Matthew Hamilton included. I didn’t harm him.”

He shut the door firmly. But inside, Rutledge could hear voices, raised as if in anger.

Hamish said, “It’s no’ sae simple.”

“No. It never is. I have a feeling it will get worse before it gets any better.”

But how best to find this Miss Cole whom the rector had mentioned? Without asking questions and giving half the town something more to discuss behind their hands?

He went back to the hotel and stopped at the desk to ask if there had been any messages for him.

The clerk assured him there had not been, and Rutledge started toward the stairs, heading for his room. Then he turned back to the desk. “Friends in London,” he said, “asked me to look up someone here. A Miss Cole. Do you know where I can find her?”

But the clerk shook his head. “Are you sure of the name? The only Cole here was a friend of my father’s and long since in the churchyard.”

“It’s not important,” Rutledge replied, and went on his way.

Hamish, in his mind, reminded him that he should have asked the rector where to find the woman.

“If he’d known it, I rather think he’d have given me her direction,” Rutledge said, walking into his room and coming to stand by the window, looking out on the street. “I’m not sure why he was quite so guarded. That interests me. He may believe that Hamilton spoke of her in confidence.”

Below him in the street he glimpsed a knot of women talking, their hats close together as they stood there in deep discussion. He rather thought the subject was Matthew Hamilton and his wife, a prisoner of Hamilton’s alleged attacker.

He wondered how any of them-Mallory, Hamilton, or his wife-would manage after the fact, when they must live here in spite of gossip and suspicion of what might have transpired in that house while Mrs. Hamilton was held against her will.