Charles Todd - A False Mirror

“You mustna’ do this,” the voice in his head warned him, and he shut it out.

After a time Rutledge began to speak to the unconscious Hamilton. At first about that island in the Mediterranean that had been such a large part of Hamilton’s life, and then of his marriage, and finally, running short of material to fill the gaps in his knowledge of husband or wife, about the war.

Rutledge found himself back in the trenches as he spoke, his body tense and his mind distracted not by fear of dying but by the unbearable fear that he wouldn’t die.

Hamish rumbled in the back of his mind, emotions filling the narrow room and spilling over into silences that grew increasingly longer as Rutledge tried to avoid the personal and keep to an objective view of the war.

Except for what he’d read or been told since, he knew nothing about the peace that had been fought over and turned into punishment for Germany, each participating nation stretching out greedy hands for what they wanted out of the shambles of dead men’s suffering. He’d been locked in his own private hell while Wilson and Lloyd George and Clemenceau created the new world in their own images. The defeated Kaiser was gone, shut in his tiny estate in Holland, and the Tsar, deposed and dragged around Russia like a trophy until he was no longer of any value to anyone, was dead.

Wilson had been fixated on his League of Nations, and he was willing to trade like a tinker for anything of value in return for support. Ill and heartbroken, he’d been defeated in turn, carrying the League home like a dying comrade. And the concept of self-determination had brought Arabs and Slavs and Africans and Indians to the table to plead for their tiny patches.

What did Hamilton know about any of this? Why had he gone to Paris uninvited, and then been sent away as sharply, as if he had overstepped his bounds? If the Foreign Office hadn’t named him to the official delegation, he had no business there, and certainly no right to speak his mind as he had done. Or did the war have nothing to do with Hampton Regis and what had happened on the strand below the Mole?

Rutledge brought himself sharply back to the present and, for want of any other topic, began to talk about the case he’d left behind in London.

Hamish, receding into the shadows only a little, was crowding him now, seeming to block the door and shut out the very air with his ominous presence.

Why were there no windows in this wretched room? Why was there no sunlight to brighten it, or a wind from the sea to refresh it? It smelled of antiseptic and death and pain. Hardly an encouragement to live.

Increasingly claustrophobic and uneasy, wishing himself anywhere but here, Rutledge at first didn’t hear the grunt as Hamilton moved a little on his narrow bed. It was followed by what sounded like a word, garbled and twisted by the bruised lips. Rutledge turned to stare at the bandage-swathed patient beside him.

And this time Hamilton said, quite clearly, “Water.”

Rutledge reached for the carafe standing on the small table next to the bed, and in his haste almost knocked the glass onto the floor. He half filled it and knelt by the cot, holding up Hamilton’s head so that he could try to sip the water.

It was difficult at first, clumsily done, but then Hamilton seemed to find the knack of drinking without hurting his mouth or spilling the contents of the glass down his chest. He was thirsty, but after a time, exhausted by sheer effort, he closed his eyes and lay back again on Rutledge’s arm.

Rutledge lowered him gently back to the pillows and set the glass aside. Hamilton seemed to be breathing quietly, and for a time Rutledge thought he must have lapsed into unconsciousness again.

But then he said, hoarsely, “Felicity?” And after that, “Who’s there?”

Rutledge answered, “I’m from London. I came to investigate what happened to you. Do you remember? Can you remember?”

He groaned again as he moved a little, then touched his bandages lightly, as if not sure what they were or why they covered him. “Do I know this place?”

“You’re in Dr. Granville’s surgery. In Hampton Regis. Someone found you-”

Hamilton interrupted, saying fretfully, “You came all this way from London? But I’ve resigned, you know. It’s finished. I’ve only to close up the house in Valletta.”

And then, as if there was a crack in the confusion, he added roughly, “Felicity? Forgive me!”

Rutledge waited, trying to decide what to say to him about her circumstances, and in the end saying nothing.

But the injured man had tired himself, slipping easily into sleep or into unconsciousness, Rutledge couldn’t tell.

He waited there for another five minutes, but there was no further response. After that, he went in search of Dr. Granville.

The doctor was not impressed by Rutledge’s account of Hamilton’s brief period of apparent wakefulness. Rutledge could also feel the man’s unspoken condemnation for interfering with the welfare of a patient. But he believed he’d done no harm and stood silently beside the doctor, looking down at Hamilton as Granville examined him.

“He made sense, you say?”

“Of a kind, yes. I’ve told you. He was thirsty, drank a little, and twice spoke his wife’s name. He wanted to know who I was, and then there was something more about closing up the house. He touched his bandages but didn’t ask how he’d come by them. He wasn’t rambling. At the same time, he wasn’t fully aware of his circumstances.”

“I wish you’d called me straightaway, so that I could have judged for myself.”

“There wasn’t time.”

Dr. Granville was considering Rutledge as if he’d deliberately delayed in calling for help, in the hope that Hamilton might say something that would shed light on the beating. He turned back to the bed as Hamilton started moving his head from side to side on the pillow in silent distress.

Hamish said softly, “He’s reliving the blows.”

Granville gestured toward his patient. “Look, you can see for yourself he’s at a level of consciousness now where he’s beginning to feel the full force of his pain. I shall have to sedate him, and that’s dangerous. It’s never wise to push head injuries too soon. Leave well enough alone. That’s an order.”

After a moment, Rutledge said, “Still, he should begin to recover now, wouldn’t you think? Having come this far?”

Granville was busy. “He’s warmer than he ought to be. A degree or two of fever, in fact, if I’m not mistaken. Did you upset him, telling him why his wife wasn’t sitting here with him?”

“Most certainly not. I said nothing about Mrs. Hamilton.”

“And nothing about Mallory?”

“Nothing.”

Granville opened the door and gestured for Rutledge to precede him from the room. “We’ll leave him to rest. If his fever continues to rise, I’ll give him something for it later. And I’ll see that there’s some broth to hand, in the event he wakes again.”

“Someone should be here. You can’t hear him while you’re busy with your other patients,” Rutledge pressed, following Granville down the passage. “Or for that matter, from your house.”

The doctor said, “I’ll have to find someone I can trust.”

“As soon as possible. If I can walk in here without being seen, anyone can. Lock that garden door for starters.”

“I can’t. My wife and I use it regularly.” Granville ushered Rutledge out and went to sit at his desk, his fingers laced on the blotter in front of him. And then after a moment, he got up and went back to where Hamilton lay, silent and vulnerable.

Rutledge returned to the inn for a late luncheon, and sat there quietly by himself in a corner of the small dining room. On the walls were photographs of sailing vessels, usually in full rig, sails billowing out and the sea breaking as the bow cleaved it. One was a Chinese junk, another a felucca on the Nile, a third making its way up what appeared to be the Amazon, the rain forest bending out over the river, spreading deep and ominous shadows across the water. The technique was good, and the photographer had had a nice eye for composition, using it subtly and to great effect.