Charles Todd - A False Mirror

“I can’t lay hands on him at the moment. You’ll have to do.”

“I expect she lives where she always has, in Exeter. With an aunt, although the elder Miss Cole may have died long since. In that case, your guess is as good as mine.”

Exeter was not that far from Hampton Regis-in fact, along the west road to Devon.

“How did Hamilton come to know her?”

“As so many people came to know each other before the war. As you met Jean, at a weekend party. There were a goodly number of young men and women there-the host’s son had just come down from university and there was tennis, boating on a small lake, dancing on the terrace, even croquet. Quite tame by modern standards, no doubt. Terribly Edwardian.”

He smiled. She was deliberately trying to distract him.

“And why did our Miss Cole and Matthew Hamilton even recall each other long after this uneventful weekend party was a memory?”

“You must ask him that. I recollect a lovely girl, very well mannered and quite pretty.”

“And so they became friends?” he urged.

“I expect Matthew thought he’d fallen in love with her. But nothing came of it.”

“In what sense? That they were unable to make a match of it? That she wasn’t in love with him? Or it was no more than a summer’s romance?”

“She went back to Exeter with her family, and Matthew found himself offered a position in the Foreign Ser vice.”

“And who was behind that offer? Was it you? To get him clear of her clutches?”

He could almost hear her snort down the line. “You’ll not put words into my mouth, young man. It’s rude,” she said tartly.

“I offer my sincerest apologies. Melinda, why should he describe her as the most completely honest person he knows?”

“I’m delighted to hear you at last use the present tense with Hamilton. I was afraid he was dead.”

Rutledge swore under his breath. “Will you at least tell me how to reach Miss Cole?”

“I truly don’t know. We never corresponded. You’re a policeman, Ian, you’ll find her if that’s what you wish to do. Exeter isn’t that large, as I remember.”

And with a brisk good night Melinda Crawford was gone, the line echoing emptily behind her last words.

He sat there with the receiver in his hand, until the operator spoke in his ear, rousing him from his thoughts. He gave her the number for Scotland Yard.

In fact it was time and past for him to confer with the Yard. Indeed, he found that Bowles had left a message with the switchboard for any telephone call from Hampton Regis to be put through at once.

Rutledge considered that as he was waiting for Bowles to pick up at his end. Not from Rutledge-from Hampton Regis.

Hamish said, his voice seeming to echo hollowly in the small closet, “No’ a good sign.” He had been quiet for some time, and Rutledge jumped at the sound so close to his head that he could have sworn he felt Hamish’s breath on his ear.

But Bowles was speaking now and he needed all his wits about him. “Rutledge? I’d expected to hear from you sooner.”

“Yes, sir. We’re shorthanded and I wanted to be the one to break the news of Mrs. Granville’s death in certain quarters.”

“Good. And as for shorthanded, the Chief Constable is arranging for more men, at Inspector Bennett’s request. Didn’t he tell you?”

“I haven’t been to the station since midmorning.”

“Time you did. These men will be called in from outlying towns, and Bennett is arranging accommodation for them. Expect them tomorrow morning, no later than six-thirty. Bennett tells me that’s time enough.”

“We should establish a watch along the coast as well, anywhere a body might wash ashore.”

“Yes, I’ve heard your theory that Hamilton went over with the landslip. Early days yet, Rutledge, early days. It could be what you’re meant to think. However, the Chief Constable has spoken to his counterparts west of you, and a watch is well in hand. I expect you to cooperate with Bennett, man, not run your own show.”

“I understand, sir,” Rutledge answered, offering no excuses. But he could feel Hamish bristling at his back.

Bloody-minded Bowles. It was another of the appellations attached to the chief superintendent’s name. Men in the ranks preferred Old Bowels.

“We don’t mislay important men, Rutledge. Find Hamilton, or find his body. And the doctor’s wife, for God’s sake-that’s two murders, if Hamilton is dead. And I don’t want to be hearing of another.”

“I understand,” Rutledge said for the second time. “This killer leaves very little trace of his passage. He’s clever and he’s quiet. It’s not easy to find his tracks.” He regretted it before the words were out of his mouth. A fatal weakness, apologizing, making excuses. It was how Bowles would view his explanation.

“Then you’ll just have to be cleverer, won’t you? I’ll expect a further report by noon tomorrow. And I suggest for now that you and Bennett decide between you how these extra men are to be deployed. I shan’t care to hear you’ve wasted your resources.”

Bowles rung off before Rutledge could ask him about the Green Park murders and the name of the man Phipps had brought in.

He swore, but it brought him no satisfaction. As he opened the door to the little room, Hamish reminded him, “You havena’ been completely honest with yon inspector.”

He had kept information from Bennett. But for very sound reasons. Or so he had told himself. And he was not about to drag Miss Cole into the equation until he knew more about her. Honest was the way Putnam had described her-it was how Hamilton had portrayed her to the rector. But could there be bitterness as well?

He considered that possibility and then discarded it. Surely too much time had passed for that.

It must have been years since Hamilton and Miss Cole had met. For all Rutledge knew-or even Hamilton, for that matter!-she had long since married happily, borne children, and was now a middle-aged woman with no other interest than her family. And Matthew Hamilton was a name she read in the newspapers from time to time, and recalled over the breakfast table how she’d won at tennis with him in doubles, and whether or not he was a good dancer.

But something there was. Melinda Crawford had done her best to discourage him from finding the woman. And that had been an error in judgment on her part. It had served only to fan his interest.

Hamish said, “If she’d made a promise, she’d ha’ kept it. And no’ told you why she couldna’ speak of it.”

Rutledge listened to the voice in his head and came to the conclusion that Hamish had read Melinda Crawford better than he had.

It was an unsettling thought.

Late as it was, Rutledge went straight to the police station, found that Bennett had already gone home for his dinner, and ran him to earth there.

Mrs. Bennett had just set out their tea. A plump woman with a round face, she looked Welsh. And the soft rhythm of her speech confirmed it. “I’ll just see if Mr. Bennett is available, sir,” she told him, and left Rutledge waiting on the doorstep.

When she led him back to the sitting room, there was a second cup for him on the tray by the hearth. A good fire had warmed the atmosphere, but his greeting from Bennett was cold, with an underlying wariness.

Mrs. Bennett did her duty as hostess, then discreetly left them alone. As Rutledge looked down at his cup, he saw that it had been painted with a scene of a Welsh castle. Harlech, most certainly, and there was Beaumaris on the cake stand. More of the same souvenirs took pride of place in the glass-faced cabinet between the two windows, and a watercolor print of Snowdon at sunset hung above the hearth.

“If you are expecting me to leave the house tonight, you’ve got another think coming.”