Charles Todd - A False Mirror

Inspector Bennett knocked on the door of the house that was set above the little stream meandering down to the town through a broad valley. It had once been a major river, this forlorn little stream, but over the centuries it had silted up, and farmers had taken advantage of the fertile soil to carve out pasture and tillage. More a pretty cottage than a house, really, Bennett found himself thinking as he stood there, left behind when one of the more prosperous farmers had built his family a grander home upstream. Restored in the 1890s by a man retiring from ser vice in India, it was what all ex-patriots seemed to dream of: wisteria-covered doorway, sweetly blooming in the spring, thatched roof hanging low, whitewashed stucco over stone, and behind a white fence, a front garden that in summer was filled with flowers that loved the cooler English weather-lupine and roses and sweet william and larkspur, with hollyhocks towering over the lot. The kind of garden his own grandmother had had, come to that.

There was no answer to his knock, and he tried again.

The cottage was actually outside Bennett’s jurisdiction, set a good half mile from the town’s inland boundaries. He was within his rights to be here, due to the nature of events, and the charge would be murder soon enough.

The door seemed to open reluctantly, and Stephen Mallory stuck his head out. He was unshaven, and smelled of whiskey. Bennett made a mental note of that, examining Mallory’s eyes. They were bloodshot, and there was a cut on his cheekbone under the left one. But Mallory was fully dressed.

“That’s a nasty cut, sir. How did you come by it?”

“I don’t know. I think I fell out of bed. What do you want?”

“It’s in connection with a body we found this morning. Might I come in, sir?”

“A body?” Mallory seemed to gather his wits. “Here? You mean in Hampton Regis?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not the war, then…” He wiped a hand across his mouth, relief evident. He’d dreamed-but let it go.

“No, sir.”

Mallory stepped out onto the vine-covered porch, his eyes wary now. “What body?”

“I’d rather talk inside, if you don’t mind, sir.”

“Why? There’s no one here to listen, saving the occasional sparrow. What body?”

It was Bennett’s turn to feel reluctance. “An early riser found the body of a man down by the breakwater.”

Mallory seemed to relax. “Washed ashore, you mean?”

“No, sir, though the tide had nearly taken him. He hadn’t been in the water long, as far as we could tell.”

“What’s it to do with me, then?”

“You sometimes take an early walk along the water or the cliffs. Did you do either today?”

“You mean, did I see the body and not report it. No, I didn’t walk this morning. I was-under the weather. Does this body have a name? Or do you want me to identify him, if I can? Is that why you’re here?”

Standing face-to-face with Mallory, Bennett found it difficult to measure his man. It would have been more useful-and more comfortable-inside, where he could have sat across the room and watched the play of emotions.

“We’ve identified the victim, sir. But I’d like to ask you a few questions first, if I may. Can you tell me where you were last evening and early this morning?”

Mallory was nothing if not quick. The truth began to dawn on him, and there was something in his eyes that startled the inspector. Relief? Anger, certainly, and then something else. A very real fear.

“He’s dead, you say?”

“I haven’t said,” Bennett responded. “If you’ll just answer my questions-”

“It’s Matthew Hamilton they’ve found, isn’t it?” For an instant Bennett thought Mallory was going to take the lapels of his coat and shake the answer out of him. “Isn’t it!”

“Why should you think that, sir?” Bennett asked, keeping his tone level, unchallenging.

But Stephen Mallory was already out the door, shoving him aside and racing toward the bicycle that Bennett had left against the gatepost.

He caught the handlebars, dragged the bicycle with him, and opening the door, tossed it high and into the rear of his motorcar. He wheeled to reach the crank, but Bennett was there, trying to catch him around the shoulders and wrestle him to the ground. Mallory threw him off with the strength of a madman, Bennett thought, as he found himself hitting a fence post with a crack that made his head swim.

It was all the time Mallory needed. He’d brought the engine to life with the crank and was already stepping into the motorcar when Bennett charged him again, tackling him around the hips. Mallory kicked out with his free leg, bracing himself with the frame of the door and the steering wheel. Bennett’s breath came out in a long whoosh! Then Mallory was free and throwing himself into the driver’s seat, reaching for the gears.

He had just time enough to swing the door shut when Bennett, still game, though breathing hard and struggling to keep on his feet, leaped for the door.

Mallory gunned the motor, shifted into first and then as fast as he dared into second, dragging Inspector Bennett with him as the motorcar jumped forward like a horse under the whip. Fighting for control of the wheel, Mallory drove on, weaving at first and then more smoothly as his tires hit the lane and caught.

Bennett, holding on for dear life, was being dragged, his grunts of pain and anger jerked from his body as he bounced beside the car. But then his grip slipped and Mallory hammered with his fist on the other hand still clinging to the door.

Bennett fell off with a wild yell, and then screamed as the rear tire bumped over his foot.

Mallory didn’t stop. There was only one thought in his head now. Reaching Felicity before she could hear the news from anyone else.

Felicity sat by her husband’s bed in the small examining room near the garden door of the surgery, where Dr. Granville treated his more serious cases.

Next to the bed were rolls of bandaging and a pan filled with bloody water, a sponge on the floor beside it and a pair of scissors next to that.

Matthew Hamilton, lying naked on the sheet, seemed to be wrapped in gauze and tape. His face was covered, although she could just see the cut lip and the thickening bruise on his chin. One arm was entirely swathed, and there was more bandaging around his chest and on one thigh.

His color was ghastly, she thought, catching his good hand in hers and holding it tight.

“Matthew,” she whispered, trying to keep her voice steady against the shock of seeing him like this. “Matthew, it’s me. Can you hear me? Oh, darling, can you hear me!”

But there was only silence from the quiet figure on the bed. Dr. Granville, behind her, said impatiently, “I told you not to come in-”

She whirled on him, her face twisting with fear and anger. “He’s my husband!”

As if it explained anything. Anything at all.

“Come sit in my office.” Granville was trying persuasion now. “Until I’ve had a chance to finish my examination. You mustn’t interfere. There could be internal bleeding, for one thing-” He caught himself before he added brain damage.

“Why can’t he hear me? God in heaven, you’d think he would know my voice, no matter how hurt he is!”

“He’s not conscious, Mrs. Hamilton. I’ve tried to explain-it was a severe beating about the head. One arm is broken. There’s a deep bruise on his thigh. At least two ribs cracked as well. That’s as far as I’ve got. For his sake, he’s better off out of his pain just now. I can’t administer any other relief until I know how his brain is affected. If you’ll just sit there in my office…”

She held on to Hamilton’s hand as if it were a lifeline. “I want to be here, not somewhere else. He’s going to be all right, isn’t he? And I want to be here when he wakes up.”