Charles Todd - A False Mirror

As Rutledge started to walk on, Putnam said, “You aren’t going to be foolish enough to take a boat around to the slip in this weather, are you? You’ll be lucky to reach the slip without swamping, much less be able to clamber about what’s left of the cottage.”

Rutledge stopped and said over his shoulder, “Yes, well, perhaps someone was lucky. The question is, who?”

“Would you mind if I asked Dr. Granville to come with me to the rectory? I don’t care for the idea of leaving him here, with so many reminders of his wife everywhere he looks. He’ll be better able to cope with them later.”

Remembering the threat Granville had made against Mallory, Rutledge said, “By all means. I’d ask Bennett as well, if I were you.”

Putnam smiled. “Indeed,” he said, as if he had felt the tension between the two policemen.

Bennett, waiting for them in the kitchen, agreed at once to the suggestion, with the caveat that he didn’t think Granville would leave his surgery.

But the persuasive rector was able to convince Dr. Granville to stay in the rectory for a few days, “away from here. Until you can come to grips with all that’s happened.”

Granville got to his feet, looking around as if he barely recognized his own kitchen. “It’s raining,” he said. “I’ll need my coat. And my bag.”

He was less pale now as the nausea faded, but his features were slack with exhaustion, and he had asked twice to Rutledge’s knowledge what had become of his wife’s body, as if he’d failed to take in the answer the first time.

Indeed, whatever was proposed to him was accepted without question, and Rutledge thought, “If we asked him to walk into the sea, he might well do it.”

Rutledge found the doctor’s coat and helped him into it, then handed him his hat.

At that point, the trained medical man came to the fore, and Granville said, frowning, “I have hours this morning. And Will Joyner is quite ill. I intended to look in on him again this afternoon.”

“Your patients will be taken care of,” Putnam said soothingly. “If there’s anyone in dire need, like Joyner, we can send again for Dr. Hester. I’ll ask Miss Trining to post a note on your door, and people can come to her to be sorted out. She’s very trustworthy.”

“Yes.” Granville stood there as if unconvinced.

Bennett said, “Best go with him, sir. At least for the present.”

When Putnam and Granville had left for the rectory, Bennett turned to Rutledge. “Well, then, what do you expect to do now? We’ve Hamilton missing and Mrs. Granville dead.”

Rutledge considered taking the boat around the headland, and then dismissed it. The rain was heavier, although the wind, shifting to the south, was considerably warmer.

He said now, “Is there a gate from the back garden to the street behind the house?”

“In fact there is. Look, you can just glimpse it where the ash tree overhangs it.” He led Rutledge to the window and pointed. “Ornamental, not meant to keep people out. The Granvilles had a little dog once, I expect that’s why they put in the fence. You can also see that the distance from the surgery door to the gate is not that great.”

“What’s on the other side?”

“A lane used to bring horses and carriages round from the stables.”

Rutledge stood looking out the window, his back half to Bennett. “Apparently Granville didn’t see fit to lock his doors. Which tells me the gate wasn’t locked either.”

“I don’t think most people lock up, even at night. Why should they?”

“But Granville knew Hamilton could still be in danger. He should have taken a few precautions.” He remembered what Putnam had said-that there would have been two dead in the surgery, not one. Bennett ought to have posted a constable at the door, but he’d complained of being shorthanded.

“You can’t blame him more than he’s already blamed himself. There was a nurse, set to come tonight. She was to sleep in the room next to Hamilton’s.” He shook his head. “She was a good woman, Mrs. Granville. You’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who disagreed with that.”

The wrong place at the wrong time…Rutledge sighed.

“I’ll drive you wherever you’d like to go. For the moment there’s nothing more we can do here,” he told Bennett. “And I should have put a call in to London an hour ago.”

“I won’t argue with that. My foot has all the imps of hell pounding it, ever since the doctor kicked it. Give me an hour to rest it, and I’ll be waiting for you to come for me. You’ll do well to get out of those wet clothes, while you can.”

When he had rid himself of Bennett, instead of returning to the Duke of Monmouth, Rutledge made his way to Mallory’s cottage outside of Hampton Regis.

It wasn’t very hard to find, just down a short lane off the main road leading inland. There were no near neighbors.

If anyone had been inside since Mallory left in such haste, there was no sign of it. The rooms were tidy, the bed made with military precision, the kitchen clear of dirty dishes. But there was an empty whiskey bottle on the table by the best chair in the parlor, and a glass beside it with dregs in the bottom. The air still smelled faintly of a long night of drinking. As if Mallory had never gone to bed.

“Drowning his sorrows,” Hamish said. “Ye ken, there’s no witness to call him a liar.”

It would be difficult to prove otherwise.

And this cottage was the perfect place to conceal Hamilton, alive, dead, or about to be killed. Rutledge had been too busy searching the house above the harbor to think of coming here. After that, Mrs. Granville’s death had changed the course of the day.

If Bennett or one of his men had discovered Hamilton here, it would serve to condemn Mallory. By the same token, even the constable outside Casa Miranda would have to swear he hadn’t seen anyone leave the house.

Hamish said, “It isna’ sae perfect a place, then.”

Not if the intent was to see Mallory hang.

Rutledge walked around the outside of the cottage, searching for tracks or indications that anyone had tried to use a shovel in the wet earth. It was only for thoroughness. He knew he’d find nothing.

He drove next to Miss Esterley’s house. She owed Matthew Hamilton for the care given to her after her accident, and he might have felt he could turn to her.

Miss Esterley received him in the small parlor, concern on her face. “Gossip is rampant, Inspector. Mr. Hamilton missing, possibly dead. I’m not particularly happy, living here alone with murderers about.”

“I can sympathize,” he answered, taking the chair she indicated across from her. “But there’s nothing I can tell you that will offer comfort.”

“Which says,” she told him bluntly, “you have no idea who is behind this madness.”

“I was hoping,” he said, keeping his voice neutral as he glanced toward the cane at her side, “that Matthew Hamilton might have felt he could turn to you in his time of need.” The beautifully wrought silver swan seemed to mock him. The way the head was drawn back, the breast thrust forward under it. It was possible, he thought, but only just.

She was staring at him. “Are you suggesting that I’m hiding Matthew here, in my house?”

“I’m suggesting that if he asked you to help him leave Hampton Regis until he’s recovered sufficiently to face his enemy, whoever it might be, you would at least entertain his request.”

Her face was cold. “I haven’t spoken to him for more than a week. And then only as we left the Sunday-morning ser vice. I can’t imagine why he would turn to me.”

“He may have thought you were a friend.”

That stopped her short. For a moment she looked away from him, her gaze finding the titles of books in a shelf along the wall under the windows. “I should have thought he would go straight to his wife.” It was as if the admission cost her dearly.