Charles Todd - A False Mirror

“So you say. How do I know that was all that took place?”

Irritated, Rutledge said, “Good Lord, Bennett, why should I keep such information from you?”

“If it didn’t look good for your friend, you might not wish to tell me.”

Rutledge let it go, aware that anything he could say would only make matters worse. “How was Hamilton? Did you see him after I did?”

“We were there, Granville and I, in the room, trying to rouse him again.” It was a reluctant admission.

“Any luck?” Rutledge wondered just how they’d gone about it.

“None. It looked to me as if he was in a deep sleep. What’s to be done now?”

“I don’t know,” Rutledge confessed. “Until Hamilton can talk to us, we’re at an impasse. It might be just as well to set a watch over him. Did Dr. Granville mention that to you? Not only to write down anything he may say. It’s possible someone might decide it was prudent to finish what began yesterday morning.”

“Hamilton’s no danger, with Mallory clapped up in the house with the women and under guard himself.”

“But what if it isn’t Mallory who attacked him?”

“How many men do you think I have? Two are watching the house in turns. I’ve got two more questioning the loungers and fishermen along the harbor, and now you want to set a watch on the doctor’s surgery. He’s calling in a woman to sit with Hamilton. That will suffice.”

But would it, Hamish was asking as Rutledge left the station.

“It will have to” was the clipped reply.

The afternoon was unproductive. Rutledge went to find the rector to learn more about Miss Cole, but there was no answer to his knock.

He was walking back to his motorcar when he saw Miss Trining coming out the door of a neighboring house. She lifted a hand in recognition.

Hamish said, “She watched you go to yon rectory.”

“Very likely,” he murmured in reply, and waited for her to reach him.

“Good morning, Inspector. Are you in need of the rector? I’m afraid he’s been called away. Mrs. Tomlinson is not well.” She stood there, as if expecting him to tell her his business.

But he said pleasantly, “Thank you, Miss Trining. I’ll come again in the afternoon.”

“I understand you’ve been questioning Mr. Reston. May I know the purpose of your interest in him?”

“Mr. Reston’s bank is just off the Mole. I’d hoped he could tell me who was on the street that morning.”

Her attention sharpened. “And could he?”

Rutledge smiled to take the sting out of his response. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”

Her mouth tightened. “Indeed. I thought perhaps you were curious about his past. But since you don’t choose to confide in me, I feel no compunction to confide in you. Good day, Inspector.”

He watched her walk away, her back stiff and straight. Now what, he wondered, had possessed her to cast doubt on Mr. Reston’s past? Whatever it was she knew-or thought she knew-Bennett was unaware of it. And that was intriguing.

He found the Reston house after asking the shy girl behind the counter at a flower shop near the Mole for directions. The shop smelled of dried lavender and lilies. The girl, a brunette in her early twenties, was dressed in a white shirtwaist and a dark blue skirt, her hair pulled back becomingly to a knot at the nape of her neck. She smiled at him as he entered, the obligatory smile of someone hoping to make a sale.

When she recognized him, she was suddenly wary, as if he had come to question her.

“I’ve already spoken to Constable Jordan,” she said in a soft voice. “I didn’t see anyone out and about the morning that Mr. Hamilton was hurt.”

“Did you see the doctor and the police removing him to Dr. Granville’s surgery?”

“Oh, no, I looked away. It was upsetting.”

Hamish said, “It must ha’ been. But why was she no’ curious?”

“Did you know it was Mr. Hamilton they were bringing up from the strand?”

“Not then. I-I thought someone had drowned.”

“Is drowning common, off the Mole?”

She shook her head. “Not very. There’s no bathing here, not with the currents. But sometimes, especially in the war, seamen washed up along the south coast. A good many were never identified. Which is sad-no one to mourn for them, and perhaps a wife or mother somewhere waiting and waiting for them to come home.”

And no one to buy flowers to put on their graves, he thought. He asked her the question that had brought him to the shop and thanked her.

The banker lived in what Bennett had called the fish scale side of Hampton Regis, an imposing gray stone edifice with a mock turret and a battlemented porch over the drive that looped past the side of the house.

Mrs. Reston, he was told by an elderly maid in a prim starched cap that was more suited to an Edwardian household, was not at home this morning.

Feeling thwarted, Rutledge retraced his steps and went again to Casa Miranda, asking to speak to Mrs. Hamilton. Mallory, he noted, looked haggard.

She came to the door with red eyes, as if she’d been crying for some time. Her first words were, “Is there news? If it’s bad, tell me quickly.”

He couldn’t bear the distress in her voice. “Your husband was briefly awake, Mrs. Hamilton,” he said gently, then added with a glance toward Mallory, “Not awake long enough to know where he is or why he is there. I must tell you he spoke your name, and we must take that as a good sign. Dr. Granville is doing all he can.”

“Please tell him I’m grateful.” Felicity Hamilton began to weep, her face in her hands. He thought, Tears of relief. Both men looked away from her, uncertain how to comfort her.

After a moment Mallory said quietly, “What do you want, Rutledge?”

“Let me in for ten minutes. If I’m to help, I need more information than I have now. Anything that you can tell me-”

“No.”

But Felicity, finding her handkerchief, said emphatically, “Don’t be foolish, Stephen. If it will somehow help.”

Reluctantly Mallory stepped aside to allow Rutledge into the hall.

The house already had a dismal air, as if without someone polishing and cleaning, without an ordinary schedule for the day, it was deteriorating.

They went to the sitting room, where the luncheon dishes still stood on trays. Rutledge thought they’d had sandwiches of some kind, and tea. Makeshift meals.

“Tell me about Miss Esterley,” he began as they sat down, Mallory anxiously watching Felicity Hamilton.

She said blankly, “Miss Esterley? But surely you don’t think-I mean, it wasn’t Matthew’s fault that she was injured.”

“I’m not suggesting anything. Still, she has come in contact with your husband under difficult circumstances, and I must ask what effect her accident might have had on their relationship.”

“There was no ‘relationship,’ as you put it,” Felicity replied irritably. “He felt responsible for her, he saw to it that she had every care. And she has no problem with her knee now, she still uses that cane because she’s grown accustomed to it.”

Or to make sure Hamilton didn’t forget. He could feel Hamish’s presence behind him, the thought leaping across the space between them as if it didn’t exist.

“That may be true.” Rutledge hesitated, trying to choose his next words carefully.

Felicity was there before him. “If you’re asking me whether she read more into Matthew’s attentions than he intended, I shouldn’t be surprised. It doesn’t trouble me. Matthew is mine, he always will be-” She broke off in embarrassment, casting a quick glance over her shoulder at Mallory, standing behind her chair, and was suddenly rattled. “I meant to say, his affections aren’t likely to stray in that direction.”