Charles Todd - A False Mirror

The woman who was serving him was a little flustered, as if this wasn’t her normal duty. She smiled ruefully as his soup spilled onto the plate under the bowl, and said, “Sorry! Becky usually does this, but she’s not been well enough this week. I’m a very poor substitute.”

“Not at all,” he responded politely. “She’s recovering, I hope?”

“Mumps,” she said with a sigh. “And at her age! Dr. Granville tells me that one can have them again, if the first time was long enough ago and quite mild. I look in my mirror every morning, wondering if I’ll come down with them next. The doctor is a good man. He sat with her most of Sunday night, when her fever was so high. And we’re not allowed to visit. One of the maids looks after her.”

“She’s here, in the inn?”

“In the servants’ wing. It’s the only home she has.”

Rutledge tried to remember when he’d had mumps. Bowles would call for his head, if he got them now. Measles had spread through the trenches. That had been nothing compared with the sweep of the influenza epidemic.

When the woman brought his next course, he asked, “Is there anyone living in or near Hampton Regis by the name of Cole? A Miss Cole?”

“No, sorry. I don’t believe there is. Perhaps it would help if you knew her married name?” But he didn’t, and she was off to the kitchen once more.

For once even Hamish was quiet. There were only a handful of people in the room. Two women who looked enough alike to be sisters. Two men having an earnest discussion at a table by the window. Three women nearer the door who cast occasional glances in his direction as if they knew who he was. Their low-voiced conversation had about it the intensity of gossip. But it was one of the men by the window who came across to his table as they were leaving. The shorter one, with graying hair and a scar across his face.

“I’m George Reston,” he said, not holding out his hand. “I serve with Matthew Hamilton on the vestry committee. Is there any improvement in his condition?”

Reston…who held the goddess against Hamilton, or so the rector had told him.

“He’s in guarded condition,” Rutledge responded.

“Such a pity.” But the cold expression in his eyes belied his words.

Hamish’s voice rumbled through Rutledge’s mind. “He’s of the opinion Hamilton came by his just reward.”

Rutledge had to agree with that. Aloud, he said, “Yes, assault usually is.”

Reston stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“He was struck from behind. A cowardly way of settling a score, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”

Reston said only, “We are praying for him.” And he turned on his heel to go.

But Rutledge stopped him, rising to stand looking down at him. “We’re asking everyone in Hampton Regis to tell us where he or she was early Monday morning.”

Reston retorted tightly, “Are you suggesting that I’m a suspect?” His jaw was flexing with his anger.

Rutledge replied blandly, “We’re looking for witnesses. Anyone who might have seen anything, anyone who might have heard something. Perhaps unwittingly able to give us a small piece of information to solve the puzzle of what transpired there on the strand. I’m sure you’ll want to assist us with the inquiry?”

Reston seemed taken aback. “I was probably having breakfast with my wife.”

“When do you have breakfast?”

“When? Er, seven o’clock, I should think.”

“And when do you leave the house-as a rule?”

“I’m in my office at the bank by eight.”

The women at the other table had turned to stare, absorbing every word to repeat later to friends. Reston cast them a dark glance over his shoulder.

“I don’t pass the Mole on my way to the bank,” he went on, collecting himself. “If that’s what interests you.”

“Did you know Matthew Hamilton before he went to his posting in the Mediterranean?”

Something in Reston’s face changed, so swiftly that Rutledge wasn’t sure what it signified. “I’m afraid not. My first contact with him was through correspondence, when he was in search of a house along this stretch of the coast.”

“Thank you, Mr. Reston. I appreciate your cooperation.” Rutledge retrieved his serviette and sat down again, ending the conversation.

It was on the tip of Reston’s tongue to say something more, but he stopped himself and this time took his leave. His companion for lunch had already gone out, and Reston seemed annoyed when the woman serving tables told him as much.

Rutledge went back to his meal and made a point not to look at the three women who had been eavesdropping. After a time, they resumed their low-voiced conversation.

Hamish said, “Will ye speak to them as well?”

“Not now,” Rutledge answered. “I don’t think one of them could have overpowered Hamilton. Someone took a chance, striking him from behind. The first blow might not have been enough to stop him. But I’d wager whoever it was was prepared to finish what he’d started, if Hamilton did turn.”

“The youngest lass has a cane.” It was an observation that Rutledge had failed to make.

He quietly examined the woman more closely. She was indeed younger than her companions, perhaps in her early thirties. And taller. That was food for thought. He nodded to the woman serving, settled his reckoning, and went out to the desk in the lobby.

The middle-aged clerk was still there, reading a book that he hastily closed and put away when he saw that Rutledge was coming toward him.

“Can you give me the names of the three women seated together in the dining room?”

The clerk was surprised. He repeated, “The three women?”

“Yes,” Rutledge answered impatiently. The clerk took a sheet of paper from a drawer behind the desk and carefully printed out three names.

“How do I tell them apart?” Rutledge asked.

“Mrs. Jordan is in black. She’s a widow. Mrs. Tibbet is in blue, the one with the graying hair. Miss Esterley uses a cane since her accident.”

“Accident?”

“Yes. Mr. Hamilton struck her bicycle one night during a rainstorm, as he was coming down from London.”

“I see. Could you give me her direction?”

The clerk stared at him. “She’s still in the dining room, if you’d care to speak with her.”

Rutledge smiled. “In front of her friends? I think not.”

He was waiting by the gate to Miss Esterley’s front garden when she walked around the corner on her way home. She hesitated. Then, after a moment’s consideration, she continued in his direction, and as she came up with him, she said, “I’m to be favored by a visit from the man from London. I wonder why?”

Rutledge smiled and gave his name.

“Yes, yes, everyone knows who you are. Come in. There’ll be gossip enough as it is. We might as well sit and be comfortable.”

He followed her up the walk and into the house. It was small, comfortable, and nicely set up. The parlor, to the right of the door, was uncluttered, and a gray cat was curled up on a mat by the small fire in the hearth.

Rutledge had noted her stride. She seemed to manage quite well, and he found himself wondering if the cane was now an affectation. It was of rosewood, with a silver figure for a handle. A swan, he thought, although it was mostly hidden by her gloved hand. Feminine, and very elegant.

She ushered him into the parlor as a maid appeared from the back of the house and took Miss Esterley’s coat and gloves.

“That will be all, Nell,” she said, dismissing the girl. “Now, Inspector, why should you be standing at my gate? Has someone told you that Matthew Hamilton put me in hospital for three months? I hardly think that’s cause to batter him to death. But you may look at my cane, if you wish.”