Charles Todd - A False Mirror

Bennett was saying, “You were a little hard on him.”

“He had to identify what I’d found. And it was important to know who might have slipped into that back room out of concern for Hamilton or even to scout in broad daylight how difficult it would be to come again at night. I’m beginning to think no one turned a lamp on. He or she may have had a shielded torch. Mrs. Granville must have been awake, waiting for her husband, and either an unguarded flash of light or some sound from the surgery attracted her attention. It was she who reached for the office lamp, and before she could light it, she had to be stopped. I’ll wager you that’s precisely what happened.”

“Dr. Granville wouldn’t have used a torch, he’d have felt free to turn up the lamp. On the other hand, he might well have left a lamp burning, and it went out. And she came down to see why. Yes, that’s bound to be what happened. But why take Hamilton away? Why not simply finish him there and be done with it?”

“Because without Hamilton, we can’t clear up what took place by the sea on Monday. And without Hamilton we don’t know what happened last night. If we’d been able to broaden our search for him before the cottage vanished, would we have found Hamilton there, dead of his wounds or exposure? Or only this bit of bandage to make us think he’s still alive somewhere?”

“You make it far more complicated than it needs to be,” Bennett complained as the motorcar began to roll. “Someone wanted Hamilton out of the way, and that someone also wants his wife. Add those facts together and we’re back to where we were when you arrived. And in my view, if we don’t arrest Mallory, we’re derelict in our duty now.”

“Where is the proof, other than walking into that house and holding Mrs. Hamilton at gunpoint? You can’t support trial on that alone. You went out after him, Bennett, and put the wind up. He could very well be telling the truth, that he believed he would hang if you had your way. And he went to the one person who mattered to him, to tell her not to believe the police. Or turn it another way-he was desperately afraid that it was Felicity Hamilton who’d attacked her husband.”

“You’ve taken his side. I say again, it was bound to happen. You were in the war, and that’s a tie hard to break-”

“The war has precious little to do with this! I’d have gladly seen Stephen Mallory die in the trenches instead of-”

He stopped. But the words were spoken even if not finished. “-instead of Hamish, who had no bishop uncle to pull him out before he broke. Who had had to go on fighting because he wasn’t an officer, and men in the British Army did their duty to God and King, dying if need be without complaint. Instead of all the others I couldn’t save, better men, better soldiers, who deserved a chance to live to see their children and their children’s children.”

He tried desperately to cover his blunder, ending lamely even to his own ears, “-instead of being accused of murder today, and a dishonor to his uniform.”

But Bennett said nothing, staring down the road, his face shadowed in the uncertain light inside the motorcar as the sun came and went. Something in his stillness was different now, as if a sudden thought had occurred to him. Or as if he’d read into Rutledge’s short, sharp silence and unsuccessful recovery a revelation that shifted the relationship between the two men. Whether for better or worse, Rutledge was still too stunned to judge.

Bennett insisted that they go to Casa Miranda directly to speak to Mallory. “He’ll be expecting us sooner or later. And I’d like to know how Mrs. Hamilton feels when she learns she could be a widow. That length of bandage is damning evidence that Hamilton’s dead. And it just might shock her into her senses, make her see Mallory for what he is. But he won’t let me in on my own. It’s the two of us, then, together.”

Rutledge paused at the intersection where he must make a choice, to rising land where the house stood or back toward the Mole and the police station.

Bennett was right; it was the next logical step in confirming what they feared.

But would it turn out the way the inspector was convinced it would?

Better to be there. To watch faces for himself. The question was, Would Mallory feel cornered and explode? Or would he simply give himself up, knowing that there was nothing more Hamilton could tell the police now? Had that been his reason for sending for Rutledge in the first place, gaining a little time until Hamilton died of his wounds without ever regaining consciousness? If so, he hadn’t reckoned on Dr. Granville’s medical skills.

Still, without Hamilton to testify against him, with no murder weapon found, with the constable on duty swearing Mallory hadn’t left the Hamilton house last night, there was precious little evidence to hold him, even if Bennett succeeded in taking him into custody.

The entire complexion of the case had changed.

“He willna’ give himsel’ up,” Hamish said. “You remember. He was a verra’ stubborn man.”

Stubborn-and sometimes impetuous, failing to look ahead at the consequences of his actions. He’d shown that impetuosity again in his flight from Inspector Bennett.

And now it could still drive him to suicide. Guilty or not guilty, it wouldn’t matter if he believed he could exonerate himself in Felicity’s eyes. A last grand gesture. Because the bubble of infatuation had burst, and it was unlikely, even if Mallory didn’t stand trial, that Felicity would marry him now that she was free.

Rutledge considered postponing the confrontation until he’d made his call to Melinda Crawford. But what she could tell him about Matthew Hamilton had no bearing on what must be said to Stephen Mallory. And what would Bennett do while Rutledge was speaking with Melinda? Decide to storm the heights on his own?

“He willna’ be put off,” Hamish warned.

True enough. The die, as it were, was cast.

Rutledge pulled up the hill in a shower of the brightest light yet, although the wind was cool beneath the warmth of the sun. As he stepped out of the motorcar by the house door, he looked to the horizon. Where the squall line had been hours earlier, a long stretch of pale blue rain-washed sky was spreading.

Motioning for Bennett to stay where he was for the time being, Rutledge walked around the boot, trying to put words together to make their visit worthwhile. But he had condemned Mallory out of his own mouth, now, and it still jarred him. He hadn’t meant it. He’d never wanted to see any of his men dead.

The knocker seemed to resound through his head as well as the house.

In due course, he heard Mallory call, “What’s this visit in aid of, then? Was it Hamilton they’d found in the village?”

“No. But there appear to be new developments.”

“You’re not bringing Bennett in with you. I won’t be outnumbered that easily.”

“A truce then,” Rutledge said quietly. “You don’t want Mrs. Hamilton hearing what we will be shouting at you through the door.”

Mallory swore. “Don’t take me for a fool.” But the words were more bravado, Rutledge thought, than anger.

“Unlock this damned door and listen to me. Then make up your mind.”

The door, after a moment, swung slowly open, a small slit that showed Mallory’s face in shadow.

“You know Hamilton went missing. We’ve found something to indicate where and possibly why. Bennett and I are here to put you in the picture. It is not going to be something Mrs. Hamilton will find comforting or reassuring.”

Bennett, peering out of the car, moved his crutch to the front seat. Mallory said sharply, “Tell him to keep his distance.”

Bennett stopped, his face flaring with anger. But he had the sense to know that patience would gain him more in the end. Without a word, he simply set the crutch across his lap, the shoulder end out the far side window.