Charles Todd - A False Mirror

Stung, she said, “That was a matter of business, Mr. Rutledge. I knew nothing about it until George told me that he was taking a position here, in Hampton Regis, and why. His partner, fool that he was, had been using client funds improperly, and George lost his temper when he found out. I never liked the man, I felt he was responsible for our leaving London, and I am sure that he deserved what he got after badgering my husband publicly to help him make restitution in time.”

“You seem to have a very callous disregard for human suffering, Mrs. Reston.”

“Yes. I was taught by masters. No one ever stepped forward to protect me, Inspector. I wonder why I should feel any driving sense of duty to protect anyone else. Let me tell you something about love. It can be very cruel and very greedy. I’ve had done with it. And that has given me a freedom that I cherish.”

Rutledge, walking through the inn doors, saw someone rising from a chair set to one side of the Reception desk.

It was Stratton, striding forward with his hand proffered.

“I say, Inspector Rutledge? Robert Stratton, Foreign Office. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

Rutledge led him to a sitting room beyond the stairs and closed the door behind them.

“I’ve been sent down with a watching brief. Mr. Hamilton is one of ours, and naturally we feel some concern for his welfare.”

“Mr. Hamilton, as I understand it, has retired.”

“As indeed he has. But he’s suffered rather severe injuries and his wife is under duress. I’m here to act on his behalf in any way that’s useful. For instance, to see that he receives adequate medical attention and is moved to hospital if the local man isn’t up to the task.”

“I have no doubt that Dr. Granville is a good doctor. The problem is, Mr. Stratton, that we seem to have mislaid Mr. Hamilton. He was not in the surgery this morning when Dr. Granville returned from an emergency.”

Stratton frowned. “I don’t quite understand.”

Rutledge took off his overcoat and sat down. “I’m at a loss myself. How did the Foreign Office learn about events in Hampton Regis? I wasn’t aware that the attack on Mr. Hamilton had received widespread attention.”

“An ear to the ground-”

“I’m a policeman, Mr. Stratton. I’m afraid that won’t do.” Rutledge waited grimly. “Who contacted the Foreign Office? And who sent you to Hampton Regis? I’d like to clear this with the Yard before I give you any more information. For all I know, you’re the man who attacked Mr. Hamilton while he walked by the sea four days ago. If you’ve lost him, so have we. And I’d like to know why.”

Stratton took the chair on the other side of the small table at Rutledge’s elbow. Looking up at the painting above the hearth showing the Duke of Monmouth standing on a battlefield, banners flying and men dying at his feet, he said, “That’s an abominable work. It didn’t happen that way.”

“The hotel is named for him. It’s to their advantage to show him as an heroic figure. I’m still waiting.”

“I was a friend of Matthew Hamilton’s at one time. I hope I still am. The problem is, we’ve wondered, some of us, if he’s writing his memoir. When the Chief Constable dropped a word in the right ear that Matthew was in serious condition and unconscious, we wondered if we might find ourselves with a posthumous publication. Disappointed men sometimes use the pen when the sword has failed them.”

“And you are here to ferret it out if anything should happen to him?”

“I’m not from the Foreign Office. That is, I am, but not officially. I came as a friend. He’ll do himself no good, raking up things best forgotten. The newspapers will make much of it, then lose interest. But by that time the harm will have been done. He, er, kept diaries. We do know that. We don’t know what was in them.”

Rutledge asked, “Did that have anything to do with the customs inspections he endured from time to time?”

Surprised, Stratton recovered quickly. “I daresay he invited them with his rather cavalier approach to other people’s property.”

“If something was sold on the open market, it was hardly appropriated by Mr. Hamilton. He simply bought the object. As I understand it.”

“All very true. But of course when a man has a reputation for buying without asking questions, he encourages tomb and site thievery. It’s simply not done. Still, a handful of rare statuary is not my interest. I’ve seen his collection and wouldn’t give it house room. We could never understand why Hamilton chose to live in Hampton Regis rather than London. The only answer was that he found it the perfect place to work. Quiet, out of the way, attracting no attention other than the social aspirations of his neighbors. A perfect place.”

“Did it occur to no one that he might like that house above the sea, that he chose a quiet place for the first years of his marriage, to give it time to flourish?”

“Of course it occurred to us, we’re not fools,” Stratton retorted irritably. “But it was unlike him. There was no connection in his past to this part of England. His wife wasn’t from this vicinity. Hampton Regis is a very long way from London, not so much as the crow flies, you understand, but in the kind of life everyone expected Hamilton to lead. It aroused our-suspicions.”

“It might well send them soaring to learn that Matthew Hamilton has vanished.” Rutledge got to his feet and lifted his coat from the back of the chair. “What’s more, a woman was murdered at the same time and in the same place. If Mr. Hamilton has been writing an account of his career, it has upset more than his friends, it’s unleashed an enemy.”

Stratton was still standing there, stunned, as Rutledge walked out of the room.

It was half past nine before Rutledge again shut himself inside the telephone closet and put in his second call to the home of Melinda Crawford.

Her voice was strong as it came over the line, and Rutledge smiled to hear it.

“Well, Ian, what have you got to say for yourself, neglecting an old woman until she’s left to wonder if you are alive or dead-and on the brink of not caring either way!”

Melinda Crawford, a child in 1857’s bloody mutiny of native troops in India, had survived that and cholera to marry, lost her husband when she was in middle age, and set about traveling as an antidote to grief. Returning to England in what most would have considered their final years, she set up a home in Kent and soon acquired a large and interesting circle of friends. If she was still waiting to die, no one suspected it.

“Mea culpa,” he said. “Blame the Yard, if you like. It’s half their doing. I’d asked for leave to visit you, and they wouldn’t hear of it.” It was the truth. But he made it sound like a lie.

“A likely story.” She waited on the other end, knowing him too well.

“It’s about Matthew Hamilton-do you remember him?”

“Of course I do. Are you breaking bad news, Ian? It’s late and I shan’t sleep a wink tonight.”

“The truth is, I’m calling to ask if you knew one of his friends, a Miss Cole.”

“Ah. Miss Cole. How did you come to know about her?”

Nothing that Melinda Crawford said or did surprised Ian Rutledge-he had grown used to her ability to leap ahead of a conversation or catch at a single word or phrase and divine what the speaker wished most to avoid.

Her question now was heavy with shadings. As if by asking him point-blank, she could somehow deflect his curiosity.

Rutledge said, “For a start, who is she, and where does she live?”

“She’s a young woman Hamilton knew many years ago. Why don’t you ask him about her?”