Charles Todd - A False Mirror

“Yes, Wallace sent Mother a copy of it one Boxing Day.”

“Well, I expect a man like Matthew Hamilton spent many of his holidays traveling to places he’d heard local people talking about, and word got out that he was there. It was rumored in the markets that he’d buy objects he liked without asking either provenance or source. Of course he couldn’t dig himself, but thievery is rampant, and important, much less unknown, sites can’t be guarded all the time. Such people sell real finds or competent fakes for whatever price they can ask. He sent Melinda Crawford the loveliest little marble figure of the god Pan, dancing. She was pleased, sure it was real, and put it in that curio cabinet of hers. When he left Turkey, there was some talk about his baggage being searched, but nothing came of it. And there have been other incidents where he was stopped by customs, but nothing of value was ever found. Part of it was probably no more than bloody-mindedness by the customs people, but once talk starts, it tends to cling.”

Or, he thought, a well-placed bribe had done its work.

And the objects in the Hamilton drawing room hardly looked like replicas. Sometimes quality spoke to the eye, even when one didn’t have the training or knowledge to back it up. A rare skill, a touch of elegance or excellence, that surely Hamilton had recognized too.

“There’s luck as well,” Hamish reminded him. But it didn’t signify. There were too many pieces.

Frances was adding, “Add to that the fact that Matthew Hamilton seldom came home to England on leave. It isn’t surprising that people jumped to the conclusion he had an ulterior motive for his travels.”

“Was there a reason for staying away? Friends abroad, that sort of thing?”

He could picture her holding the receiver as one shoulder lifted in an expressive shrug.

“Ian, I don’t know. I don’t expect anyone does, except Matthew himself. I was only ten, my dear, I didn’t know what secrets a young man would have.”

“Would Melinda know? Did she stay in close touch with him?”

“You must ask her that.”

There was another pause, and then she said, “Darling, is anything wrong? You sound-I don’t know-rather down.” She waited for him to answer, and then added, “You can’t hide it. Not from me.”

Which he should have thought of before he telephoned her, he told himself with a sigh.

“One of the people involved in the business that brought me here had served under me in France. For a short time. It brings back memories I’d rather not have raised.”

“Yes, I understand that might be difficult. But you’re going to be all right, aren’t you?”

He made himself laugh, for her sake. “If I’m not, Bowles will have my liver.”

She didn’t press.

But he found himself thinking that it was easier to talk to Stephen Mallory about the war than to his own sister. It was something he hadn’t expected, this isolation. At first he’d believed it was his own need, his own desperation, that locked the war in silence. A vain hope for time and peace in which to heal. Now he realized that somehow those who had served in France and elsewhere knew a world that couldn’t be shared. How could he tell his sister-or even his father, if the elder Rutledge was still alive-what had been done on bloody ground far from home? It would be criminal to fill their minds with scenes that no one should have to remember. No one.

Frances was on the point of signing off when he thought of something he hadn’t brought up.

“Do you know a Miss Cole who might have been a friend or relative of Hamilton’s? Her name has come up here in connection with his, but no one seems to be able to tell me where to find her.”

“Cole? Do you have a first name?”

“Sadly, no.”

“It’s not an uncommon name. A proverbial needle in the proverbial haystack. Surely Sergeant Gibson or someone at the Yard can locate her for you.”

“They’ve got their hands full just now. And I don’t have enough information about her yet to warrant taking up the Yard’s time.”

“They ought to be pleased with themselves at the moment. They’ve taken someone into custody for those wretched killings in Green Park. The newspapers are calling it masterly police work.”

“Who? Did they say who it was?” he asked urgently.

“I don’t think a name has been released yet.”

Gentle God.

He could feel Hamish in the back of his mind, thundering like the guns in France. The walls of the telephone closet seemed to press in on him.

Was it Fields they’d taken into custody? Had Inspector Phipps come to suspect the same man, in his own roundabout fashion? Or had Constable Waddington, to shield himself from charges that he was courting while on duty, ignored Rutledge’s instructions and reported Fields to the Yard?

He felt a strong sense of personal responsibility for dragging Fields into the search and told himself that Phipps had been thorough. It was Chief Superintendent Bowles, pressed by his own superiors to bring in the killer, who was not always reliable in drawing conclusions.

By the same token, what if someone else had been taken into custody, in error? And the Yard knew nothing about Fields?

But Rutledge had been ordered off that case. In no uncertain terms. It had nothing to do with him now.

Aye, Hamish retorted, duty before conscience. It’s what got me shot.

Frances was saying, “Ian? Are you still there? Ian?”

“Yes, just digesting the news. I’d been dealing with the Green Park inquiry, just before I was sent down here. If there’s a name given, will you let me know?”

He told Frances how to reach him and then rang off.

He sat there for a moment, trying to reorder his thoughts.

Melinda Crawford’s wide-ranging correspondence spanned continents, and if Hamilton had kept in touch with anyone in England during his years abroad, it might well have been with her. She had traveled most of her life and knew the world as few did. Her mind was razor sharp even in age, her wit was dry and entertaining, and her charm hadn’t diminished with time. He himself had treasured her letters in France, reading them over and over because they took him away from the war for a little while.

Rutledge stood up and stepped into the passage, considering what to say to her. She would demand to know what his interest in Hamilton was. And she could spot a well-intentioned lie before he’d finished uttering it.

The respite from the cramped confines of the telephone closet was a relief, and he went as far as the front windows of the inn, flexing his shoulders. One glance at the sky showed him it was now much lighter, as though the worst of the squalls had passed. If he was going to risk taking a boat out to the landslip, he must do it while he could.

Melinda Crawford could wait. Miss Cole could wait. He had to know what was in the cottage that had gone down with the cliff face. If Hamilton was dead-and Rutledge was beginning to feel he was-then there were two murders to deal with. He set out briskly for the harbor, to look for the fisherman who had been cleaning his catch earlier. He’d gone, but another man was standing on the Mole, staring out at the sea.

Rutledge came to stand beside him and said, “It appears to be a little calmer out there.”

The man turned. “Aye. I was thinking the same.” He looked at Rutledge. “You’re the man from London?”

“Yes. Rutledge.”

The man nodded. “Perkins,” he said in response, his weathered face deeply wrinkled from exposure to the sea and the sun. It was difficult to tell his age, but Rutledge put him down as close to fifty.

“Do you have a boat, Mr. Perkins?”

“That I do. You aren’t of a mind to take her out, are you? I don’t let my boat to any man.”