Charles Todd - A False Mirror

Bennett came out and climbed into the passenger’s side just as a strong beam of sunlight broke through the clouds and swept the rooftops and wet streets with a warm and brilliant light.

Bennett looked up at it and said, “We could do with a shift in the weather. I smell pickle.”

Rutledge didn’t answer. He put the motorcar into gear and drove to the Reston house.

Mr. Reston was at home, they were told by the maid, but was feeling a touch of dyspepsia.

“Please tell him Inspector Rutledge and Inspector Bennett are here on police business and require a word with him. We’ll wait until he can join us.”

She still appeared to be doubtful, and Rutledge could see that she was on the point of refusing them admittance. He stepped forward and she retreated a step. He moved into the entry.

“Where does Mr. Reston receive his business acquaintances? We’ll wait for him there.”

The maid reluctantly showed them to a small study where books on law and finance lined the shelves behind the broad, polished desk, and other calf-bound titles stood in orderly rows across the room, considerably older works on the Romans, the kingdom of Wessex, and the history of the southwest of England. On one of the spines the name RESTON was set out in gold lettering. Rutledge took it from the shelf and opened it.

The title was Great Sermons for the Mind, and the Reston who had written it was either the father or grandfather of the present owner. From what he could see the sermons were long and ponderous, their heavy Victorian righteous ness apparent in their arguments for ser vice and duty as a gentleman’s responsibility to God and England and his less fortunate fellow men.

Rutledge turned pages at random, reading a line here and there. The strong Victorian voice spoke through words that stared up at him.

An upright man, whatever his calling, will address his business affairs with the same honesty he will show his family. To do other is to be guilty of a grievous fault that will lead him down the road to corrupt practices…

God resides in the heart, and a cruel heart is godless, a man to be feared for the harm he will do to others in his wickedness…

Servants must be led to the path of godliness, and it is the duty of the head of every household to see to their training up in faith and to provide the guidance and example that will set their feet firmly on the way to God’s grace…

Children will obey their fathers in all things, and show-

He got no further. The door behind him opened, and George Reston stood there on the threshold.

“That is a very valuable book you’re holding, Inspector Rutledge. I’ll ask you to set it back carefully in its place.”

Reston looked tired, or ill, as if he had had an unsettled digestion-or a long and arduous night. His face, paler than usual, was set in harsh lines, and he seemed to be holding to the door’s frame to steady himself. Then he let it go and stepped into the room.

“I can’t think why you are here. But I have been told of Mrs. Granville’s death. It’s a disgrace that with two policemen in my study, we are still no closer to learning why she was attacked.”

Bennett opened his mouth, then closed it again. Rutledge thought he was biting his tongue.

He himself said, “I understand that the cottage that went over the cliff in this morning’s downpour belonged to you.”

Raising his brows in surprise, Reston answered, “Yes. Inspector Bennett could have confirmed that without disturbing me.”

“And that your brother lived there for a time, before his-er-untimely death?”

“That’s true as well. He was not a worldly man, my brother. I was forced to see to his welfare more than once. In the end, I kept him in Hampton Regis under my eye. What does this have to do with the murder of Mrs. Granville, pray?”

“Has anyone else used this cottage since he drowned?”

Reston’s mouth twitched at the last word. “Certainly not. Freddy lived there because he preferred to shame me. He could have been perfectly comfortable here with us, but he chose to make it appear that I was derelict in my duty to him. I let it go. He seemed to find the isolation to his liking and it calmed him.” There was a sense of being wronged in his voice, the good brother taking the blame for the bad brother’s ill treatment of himself.

Hamish, who had been quiet for some time, said, “Aye, a drunkard is no’ a very easy man to deal with.”

Two men, sharing the same blood, and as different as night and day. Had the writer of the sermons succeeded with one of the brothers and failed the other? Or had Reston been the one to drive his brother to drink? Rutledge found himself thinking that Reston was not a pleasant man to deal with, twisted in his belief that what he knew and what he had been taught set him above others. A man of limited intellect, perhaps, who had struggled where his brother might have soared and made his tormentor pay for it the rest of his life.

As if Reston had listened to Rutledge’s judgment, he said forcibly, “He was the favorite, you know. My grandfather adored him. But he had no backbone, and he failed in life because of it. I did my best to protect and shield him, and I did my best to bring him around to his duty. No man can say that I didn’t.” He turned and glared at Bennett. “You will confirm that, if you please, Inspector.”

“It’s true,” Bennett answered. “The whole of Hampton Regis can tell you as much.”

Satisfied, Reston said, “And if you have finished with the subject of my brother-”

Rutledge said, “I went out to the landslip by sea. And in the ruins of the cottage I found a fresh bandage. It appears that Matthew Hamilton was either taken there or went there sometime in the early-morning hours. There is no other explanation for bandaging to be found there.”

Reston seemed to fold in on himself, as if his stomach had failed him. He crossed the room and sat down behind the desk, his head in his hands. “I have had nothing to do with Matthew Hamilton’s assault or his disappearance. Why must you drag my brother into this business?”

“Your brother drowned, Mr. Reston. Only a few yards from where Matthew Hamilton nearly died. The cottage is your property. Hamilton was in that cottage, if the bandages prove to be his. If you aren’t responsible, tell me if anyone else had access to it, borrowed it, used it, or could have unlocked the door.”

“The door was never locked. The cottage was falling down, what purpose would locking it serve? I daresay half the homeowners in Hampton Regis fail to lock their doors at night. We are not a violent place.” He lifted his eyes to Rutledge’s face, drawing on some inner strength that seemed to rise and sustain him. “I will not be badgered in this fashion. I have a solicitor who will speak to you on my behalf. Good day, Inspector.”

Rutledge stood there for a moment, judging his man. “I am not accusing you of anything, Mr. Reston. But perhaps it would be wise to account for your hours last night between eleven o’clock and this morning at first light.”

“I was at home in my bed, as a decent man should be.” The words were spat out, anger barely controlled.

“And your wife can confirm that?”

“I will not have my wife dragged into a murder inquiry. She’s delicate, and I’ll not have her upset. You can accept my word, as a gentleman.”

But that would not stand up in a courtroom. Rutledge let it go. He had a feeling that Mrs. Reston might well tell him whatever it was her husband wished, whether it was true or a lie. Delicate might well be translated as browbeaten.

Bennett said, surprising Rutledge, “I have no choice but to ask her, sir, if you will summon her. The Chief Constable will insist. He was here earlier and made plain the fact that he expected full cooperation with the police.”