Charles Todd - A False Mirror

The other man stood there, undecided. And then he opened the door wider and let Rutledge step inside, watching the water dripping relentlessly from his coat and his trousers to puddle on the floor.

Mallory gestured to it and said ruefully, “I can’t even call the maid to clear it up. Just stay away from Nan, and from Mrs. Hamilton. And don’t linger. I don’t trust you, and I’ll be searching the house again after you leave. I’m quite serious, Rutledge, don’t drive me into a corner.”

He said to Mallory, “If Hamilton managed to make his way here, pray that his mind is clear. It could be your salvation.”

And with Hamish behind him, alternately warning and driving him, Rutledge set about his search.

It would be to Mallory’s advantage to bring the wounded man to his wife, Rutledge kept telling himself, since she couldn’t go to him. And yet-

He went into every room belowstairs and on the ground floor, testing the window locks, looking for signs of a break-in while Mallory slept. He searched for wet footprints on carpets and felt for damp draperies where windows might have been thrown open during the heavy rain. And he listened intently for any sounds that might tell him that Hamilton was here, and also a prisoner.

But a quarter of an hour later, he had found nothing except the irate Nan, demanding to know why she hadn’t been set free long since.

Passing Mallory where he sat on the staircase, Rutledge moved on to the first floor, methodically going from bedroom to bedroom even as he began to realize it was hopeless. Looking under beds, into wardrobes, behind screens, even behind the stiff brocade draperies that hung at each window, he tried to think where Hamilton might have gone if he hadn’t come here to Casa Miranda. But there were still the grounds to search.

The only room he didn’t enter was Mrs. Hamilton’s.

When he’d finished in the attics, he stood outside her door and tapped lightly on the panel. He had the feeling she was cowering inside, unwilling to face him.

Without Stephen Mallory’s knowledge, had she gone to the doctor’s surgery during the night and somehow managed to bring her husband back with her? It would have been a disastrous act of courage and determination even to try, and she couldn’t have moved Hamilton if he’d been unconscious still.

Mallory had to sleep sometime, although he looked as if he’d never closed his eyes. Was that her solution to the need to know how her husband fared?

And if it was, then he himself must now tread with care.

“Mayhap she doesna’ know who is at the door,” Hamish pointed out.

The room must look out to the sea and the headland on the other side of the Mole. She may not have heard his motorcar with the rain making such a racket. “It’s Inspector Rutledge, Mrs. Hamilton. No one else is with me.”

Except for Hamish, he added silently. But how would she know?

After a moment, he called to her again, more insistently this time.

And she said, her voice tremulous, “What do you want? Is there news?”

“Are you alone in there, Mrs. Hamilton?”

There was a pause before she came to the door, opening it a crack. She too looked very tired, her face already losing some of the soft vulnerability he remembered.

Warily she said, “What do you mean? Of course I’m alone.”

“May I come in and look around your room, Mrs. Hamilton? I won’t take more than a moment or two.”

“Look-what is it you’re looking for?”

“I want to see that all is well with you, as Mr. Mallory has assured me it is.”

But with the intuition of a woman, she could sense that something wasn’t right.

“Have you interviewed George Reston?” she demanded suspiciously. “What has he said to you?”

“I’m looking into that, I promise you. Just now-”

Pulling her shawl closer, as if trying to warm herself, she said, “No. I don’t want to see you or anyone else. Go away.”

“Mrs. Hamilton.” He studied her hair, but it appeared dry to him. Yet out in this storm, nothing stayed dry for very long. Had Matthew Hamilton been moved before the rains began? Under cover of the mist?

“I’m not feeling very well this morning. I want to be left alone. Don’t disturb me again until you can bring me good news.” She looked away from him, tears filling her eyes. “I can’t bear much more.”

She closed the door in his face, and he heard the key turn in the lock.

Hamish said, “She didna’ ask how her husband was, this morning.”

There was nothing for it after that but to search the grounds. And the heavy rain hadn’t let up. Rutledge briefly explained to Granville what he was doing and why, then asked to borrow his umbrella.

The doctor said before he handed it over, “I really ought to look in on Mrs. Hamilton while I’m here. When she hears what’s become of her husband, she’ll be distraught. If you’ll have a word with Mallory-”

Rutledge cut him short. “Stay out of it. If you want to be useful, think where we ought to look if Hamilton isn’t here.” He took the umbrella, effectively stranding Granville in the motorcar.

The umbrella turned out to be all but worthless, and after a time he gave up and furled it. There was no sign of Matthew Hamilton on the grounds or in the outbuildings. No sign, even, that someone had been there, no muddy marks on floors in the garden shed or the small stable that had been partly converted to a garage. Rutledge put his hand on the bonnets of the motorcars there-they were cool to the touch-and hunted for deep footprints in the soft wet earth. The lone horse nickered as he leaned into its stall, and blew as he offered his hand to it. And he used his instincts as well, lifting rain-heavy branches, burrowing under shrubs, putting himself in the shoes of a man desperately tired or overcome by weakness. He even poked a hand around the iron seat in the back garden, now draped in a tentlike covering of oiled cloth to prevent rusting over the winter. Mrs. Hamilton and her husband must have sat here and watched the sunset of a summer’s evening. Today the sea and the sky seemed to have merged, a gray mass that was nearly indistinguishable behind the curtain of fresh squalls on the horizon.

Rutledge was just turning away when he realized that closer to hand there was a gathering of men down along the Mole, Bennett among them, leaning on his crutches. They were all getting into a line of carts and carriages and motorcars, hurry evident even at this distance.

Hamish said, “They’ve found him, then.”

Mallory was once more sitting at the bottom of the staircase, this time with a whiskey glass in his hand. He was staring at it morosely and barely glanced up as Rutledge stepped through the door. Then something in Rutledge’s face brought him to his feet.

“What? What have you found?”

“Nothing. Here. But I think perhaps Bennett has been more successful in the village. I must go.”

He turned away toward the motorcar but Mallory called him back. “Did you tell her he was missing? I must know-did you tell her?”

“No,” Rutledge said, standing there looking closely at him. How much more would it take to make this man break? He was grateful now that he hadn’t discovered Matthew Hamilton hidden in the house. “I saw no point in adding to her distress. But if we find Hamilton has crept out and died-or has been left somewhere to die-it will be hard to stop Bennett from wanting your liver nailed to the police station door.”

“Damn you!”

The curse followed Rutledge down the drive as Dr. Granville demanded, “What’s that you were saying? Damn it, man, how did Bennett find out about Hamilton?”

“Someone must have stumbled on him. I could see from the gardens-a dozen or two men by the Mole, sorting themselves out into vehicles.”