Charles Todd - A False Mirror

After a moment of perfect stillness, he could sense that all movement had stopped, nothing more was going to happen, at least not now, and he shoved himself upright, testing his weight with extreme gentleness just where he stood. It was then that he saw something on the far side of the chimney, caught in what appeared to be the splat of a chair back.

With great care he shifted himself to one side, and then found a length of planking wide enough to use as a footbridge to the other side of the chimney, and then another added to that.

Walking on the slippery boards, he kept his gaze fixed to where his feet were set, and he didn’t look up again until he’d come to the far end of his improvised bridge.

What he’d seen was there in front of him: a wad of bloody bandaging, the dark red already turned to a running pink in the rain. But bandaging it was. A doctor’s work, he thought to himself.

He reached out for it, and in the nick of time stopped, remembering what he’d risked retrieving the vase. Move his weight a bare few inches more, and the plank behind him would dip like a board over a pool, sending him headlong and face-first into the smothering earth.

Just the fear of it made him shiver like a man in fever, but he caught himself and took a deep breath, shutting out the voice roaring now in his mind. He’d been buried alive once, in France. It didn’t bear thinking of. And this time, there would be no body lying above him, giving him a precious pocket of air to keep him alive. Hamish’s body-long since rotted to bones in the rains of the Somme Valley.

To one side he saw a rung from the broken chair or perhaps its brother, and carefully squatted down until he could retrieve it, though his feet slipped and nearly launched him where he most feared to go. Catching himself again, he used the muscles in his thighs to bring himself upright once more, and felt them burn with the effort.

He had himself under control now, and gingerly using the chair rung as a tool, he slowly brought the length of bandage toward him until he could grasp it safely and shove it inside his coat, water and all.

Matthew Hamilton had been here. Or had been brought here. But whether he’d gone over the cliff with the cottage or not, God alone knew. There was no way human agency could answer that.

Over the next five minutes, Rutledge thought he might not make it back to the Bella after all. It took enormous physical effort to reach the boat, climb up on the rock, and lower himself onto the thwart once more. By that time his thigh muscles quivered from fatigue in the cold air, alternately burning and tightening in spasms.

“You’re a fair fool,” the man shouted at him with resignation. “I’d not have brought you out, if I’d guessed. I should have left you there.”

“A lucky fool,” Rutledge replied with what little breath he could spare. In fact, it had taken far more than his share of luck to cross that unstable ground back to where Perkins was struggling to keep the Bella in the eddies off the rock.

The words were hardly out of his mouth when another five feet of earth came roaring down toward them, missing the wooden stern where he was sitting by no more than a few yards and sending them bouncing like a ball across the impact wave. For an instant he thought the swell would surely swamp them.

They’d taken on a dangerous amount of water, and Rutledge, who had been using an oar to shove off hard from the rock face, swung it inboard as quickly as he could to begin bailing like a madman in an effort to lighten the load they were carrying. But Perkins was nothing if not an experienced seaman, and he kept them afloat until the waves had subsided and there was only the sea itself to fight.

Then the long, hard pull to the Mole began, one eye to the weather, the other on their destination. Every time Rutledge looked up, Hampton Regis seemed to be no closer than it was before, while the squall line was bearing down on them faster than they could row. It was, he told himself, going to be a very near thing, and very possibly they’d lose the race.

But miraculously the rain held off until they had reached the street that ran along the harbor. Rutledge welcomed it then, to wash off the worst of the muddy earth that clung to him like a skin. He was glad to rid himself of his gear at the small house where Perkins lived and feel the cool air strike him as he walked back to the police station.

Perkins hadn’t asked what he’d found but refused to accept the small vase Rutledge had given him along with the exorbitant sum owed him.

“That’s an unlucky thing, that vase,” he said.

“It survived,” Rutledge pointed out. “That should make it lucky.”

“I’m a superstitious man, Mr. Rutledge. I thank you for the thought, but I’m not happy with looking at that bit of clay and wondering why it was not crushed by what it endured.” He looked up at Rutledge with sober eyes. “What the sea wants, it takes. In the end, it’ud pounded that thing to white dust and then washed it away as nothing. I don’t want it to claim me in its place.”

But why, Rutledge found himself thinking, if Hamilton had been on the sea so many times, had the sea waited until he’d returned to England to claim him?

What gods of clay or wood had he disturbed that came after him so great a distance?

The sea had nearly drowned Hamilton three days ago, but it had been cheated of its prey. Perhaps it hadn’t forgotten.

Shaking off his black mood, Rutledge turned his mind to what he must tell Inspector Bennett.

The police station was a beehive of activity. Bennett was in a sober mood.

“I waited half an hour for you. Where the hell have you been?” he demanded, looking Rutledge over. “Crawling through a farmer’s field, I’ll be bound.”

“Close enough. I’ve-”

Bennett interrupted him. “The Chief Constable was here. I don’t know who told him what has happened-I’ll wager you it was Miss Trining, damn her eyes-but he has given us twenty-four hours to find out where Hamilton is and who killed Mrs. Granville. He’s not a man to be crossed, the Chief Constable. We’ve got one and twenty hours left.”

“It’s likely that Hamilton is dead. I went out to the landslip. And this was caught on the back of a chair that had been splintered by the fall.” He held out the wet bandage, and Bennett stared at it as if it could bite him.

“Good God!”

“I can’t think of anyone else who might have left it there. We must show it to Granville, to see if he recognizes his handiwork. Then we should have a talk with Mr. Reston.”

“Reston couldn’t have killed the doctor’s wife, whatever you’re suggesting. There’s no sound reason for it.”

“Unless she got in his way when he came for Hamilton.”

“But why should he want to harm Hamilton? You won’t make me believe it’s because of some bits of clay on a shelf at the man’s house. Mr. Reston may be a fanatic for religion, but that doesn’t make him a murderer.”

“There was a man in London he assaulted. Reston’s victim didn’t press charges, so there’s no record of it. And he’s got a violent nature.”

“Still-” Bennett was already fitting his crutch under his shoulder and getting to his feet. “Have it your way then, but you’ll be proved wrong. I won’t walk there. I can’t.”

“I’ll fetch my motorcar. Give me five minutes.”

It was twenty minutes before he was back again, having taken the time to clean himself up. He carried his trousers down to the kitchen to be dried and pressed, asked for a length of oiled cloth for the bandages, and persuaded the young girl in the pantry to make him a sandwich from pickle, last night’s beef, and a little cheese, though she protested that the luncheon ham would be ready in no more than a quarter of an hour.