Charles Todd - A False Mirror

In the end, Reston sent for his wife, and after five or six minutes she came into the room.

Henrietta Reston wasn’t what Rutledge had expected. A tall, slender woman with reddish gold hair that seemed to shine in the dimness of the room and blue eyes that were intense in a long, aristocratic face, she greeted her husband’s guests with courtesy and waited for an explanation.

Rutledge put the question to her, choosing his words carefully. “Mrs. Reston, as a matter of course we are asking people where they were last night and into this morning, from perhaps shortly before midnight until dawn. In the hope that someone might have looked out a window and can help us with our search for Mr. Hamilton.”

Reston began to speak, then fell silent, waiting, his gaze on his wife’s face.

“My husband wasn’t well in the night, Inspector. I read for a little while, worried about him. But after a time, I fell asleep and didn’t wake up until the children came in to say good morning. I don’t remember looking out my window.”

“And you cared for your husband in the night?”

She smiled. “We have separate bedrooms, Inspector. But I could hear him moving about, pacing the floor between visits to his dressing room, if that’s what you want to know. It was a very restless night for him.”

She turned as she said the last words, her eyes going directly to her husband. A message passed between them. But it wasn’t, Rutledge would have taken his oath, a message of collusion.

It was daring him to contradict her.

Outside, Bennett followed Rutledge down the walk to the motorcar. He said, as if continuing a conversation begun in the Reston house, “It’s an odd marriage, if you want the truth. The money is hers. But he’s built his empire, and he doesn’t let her forget it.”

It was the first time Bennett had been so honest about Reston, and Rutledge turned to look at him. “You’re saying that there are strains on the marriage?”

“There was talk that she’d been in love with his brother first. I don’t know the truth of that. The fact remains, she came of a better class. You can see it for yourself. Miss Trining has kept her tongue off Mrs. Reston. That will tell you which way the winds blow.”

A better class, but no beauty. Except for her hair, which seemed to give life to her face.

Rutledge cranked the car, his thoughts straying from what Bennett was saying. Then he heard part of it and said abruptly, “Sorry, I missed that?” He stepped behind the wheel and turned to stare at Bennett.

“I said, she knew Mr. Hamilton from her childhood. Or so I was told. Not well, but their families moved in the same circles.”

Was that what drove George Reston to fury? Jealousy, rather than a fanatical dislike for stone goddesses from foreign assignments that had kept Hamilton out of England most of his adult life?

And had the bane of his marriage without warning moved to the same village on the south coast of England, bringing back all that should have been buried and perhaps forgotten over the long years of exile?

“What was Mrs. Reston’s maiden name?” Rutledge asked Bennett.

“Good God, how should I know? Reston married her long before he came here. You’ll have to speak to the rector or Mrs. Trining, not me.” He shifted his foot to ease it a little. “The Bennetts aren’t on the same social rung as the Restons.”

They went next to the rectory. Granville, Putnam told Rutledge quietly, had fallen into an uneasy sleep in one of the guest rooms. “If you could wait until a little time has passed before you question him?” he asked without much hope. “It would be a kindness.”

But there was no time to be kind. And in the event, the doctor had heard voices and he came to the head of the stairs.

“I shouldn’t have listened to you, Rector. I should have rested in a chair in your study. I kept dreaming that-that all was well.” He began to descend the stairs, his face pale in the wan sunlight coming through the open door. “Mr. Bennett. Is there news?”

“Sadly, sir, no,” Bennett told him. “Just that we need to have you confirm something for us.” He turned to Rutledge, who brought out the oiled cloth and opened it so that Dr. Granville could see what it held. Putnam gasped and stepped aside to give his houseguest a better view.

He seemed shocked by the sight. “That’s my work. Or as near as I can be sure. See how the pads are placed, to absorb bleeding? And then another over that in the opposite direction. Four such in a row. And more bandaging, to keep the pads from shifting as Hamilton moved his head. Which explains why this has held together.” Professional pride had taken over. The truth hadn’t yet dawned on him. “And notice here how I turn the end of the tape back on itself, to make it easier to find for changing without disturbing the patient.” He looked up at the two policemen. “But where did you find this? At the Hamilton house? Why is it so wet? Does this mean-have you found Hamilton, then? I thought you said there was no news.”

“This was in the cottage that went into the sea with the landslip. The cottage where Reston’s brother lived until his death,” Rutledge repeated for what seemed like the tenth time that morning.

“What was it doing there?” Granville was genuinely surprised. “You aren’t trying to tell me that someone carried Hamilton out there? I can tell you as his doctor that he couldn’t have walked that far on his own!”

“If he was in the cottage when it went over, then Hamilton is dead. But we can only confirm so far that he was there at some point. If you are quite sure about these?”

“Yes, yes, who else could these belong to? He’s my only patient just now with a head injury. But none of this business makes any sense to me.”

“Did Hamilton have visitors while he was in your surgery? Other than his wife?”

“Half Hampton Regis tried to get in to see him. I left strict instructions that he wasn’t to be disturbed by anyone. My wife”-he cleared his throat-“my wife understood the seriousness of that.”

“But anyone could have stepped in the garden door. Or come down the passage from the surgery door, if no one was about to stop him or her? Even at night?”

“Well, yes, but people aren’t savages here, they asked after Hamilton but never pressed when we informed them that he was too ill to see anyone. I made it quite clear that his rest was essential to a full recovery.” His voice was testy, as if Rutledge was questioning how he ran his surgery. “Look, are you trying to suggest that my wife neglected-”

“Not at all,” Putnam cut in soothingly. “The man’s asking if it could have happened quite by chance-no one around, and someone opening doors-”

Dr. Granville said curtly, “It’s possible. It isn’t likely. Even Miss Trining took no for an answer.”

But in the back of the doctor’s mind, Rutledge was certain, loomed the fact that he had failed to provide a nurse to stay with Hamilton and keep visitors away, both day and night.

And by not doing so, he might very well carry the guilt of his wife’s death, whether he realized that yet or not. Down the years, when all was said and done, it might come back to haunt him.

Putnam, looking stricken, said only, “I think we should all have a little sherry. None of us has felt like eating any lunch, I daresay. It will do us good.” And he left them there, walking into the rectory parlor to find the tray with decanter and glasses.

Bennett called after the rector that they had no time for sherry, thank you very much, and nodded to Dr. Granville as he took his leave. Rutledge noted as they closed the door behind them that Granville seemed to shrink inside himself, as if it had taken all the strength he possessed to keep up appearances.