Charles Todd - A False Mirror

“I’ve just spoken to Bowles. I’m here to discuss how we’ll use these men the Chief Constable is sending us tomorrow.”

“They’re at your beck and call. My men are tired and they have their regular duties to perform. We can’t keep running them morning and night.”

“I agree. Any word from the constables questioning Dr. Granville’s neighbors?”

“None of importance. A dog barking, but no idea what time that was. A child up with the croup-Betsy Drews is her name, and her mother did see Dr. Granville leave. He had a small boy with him, and Mrs. Drews recognized him as Jimmy Allen, the one Miss Joyner sends along at time of need. Mrs. Drews was worried that Betsy might take a turn for the worse while Granville was out on the call, but she finally got her daughter to sleep without any more trouble, and that was the end of that. The dairyman saw him coming home. The times match what Granville himself told us.”

“Yes, I called on Miss Joyner myself, earlier. It appears that whoever came to the surgery after Granville left had a good three hours clear in which to work. More than enough time.”

Bennett offered him the small plate of sandwiches and another with slices of lemon cake with poppy seeds. Rutledge suspected that they weren’t prepared for a guest and declined with thanks. Bennett didn’t press him.

“We have to keep in mind that Hamilton could have attacked Mrs. Granville,” Bennett continued. “In his muddled state, he might not have understood what he was doing. And if she startled him, he’d leap first and think second. He might have killed himself later out of shame. It may be that whoever helped him didn’t even know about the killing.”

It was a change in viewpoint that caught Rutledge off guard. Was this a result of Bennett’s conversations with the Chief Constable? Or had he realized that it was going to be difficult to prove that Mallory had slipped into the surgery and removed Hamilton? It was hard to tell.

He didn’t need Hamish’s soft “’Ware!” to warn him to watch his step.

He said, “True enough. But his wife was still under duress at Casa Miranda. Wouldn’t he have felt his life better spent tackling Mallory?”

“We can’t be sure, can we, what Hamilton knew or didn’t know. Or even if he was capable of reasoning. As I see it, after attacking Mrs. Granville, he might have felt he served his wife better by killing himself.”

Rutledge had a sudden, sharp image of himself standing beside that bandaged body discussing events with Dr. Granville. And beside them, Hamilton lay in a stupor, apparently unable to hear or to speak. And later Bennett and Granville between them had tried to rouse him as Rutledge had done so briefly. Could Hamilton have absorbed snippets of those conversations, and twisted them into something far less acceptable-that his wife was in league with Mallory? If that was true, he’d want to take himself as far away from them as he could, until he was well. Attacking Mrs. Granville by mistake would have shaken him badly.

Had he mistaken her for Felicity, in the dark?

Only Dr. Granville could tell Rutledge if this was possible. But he’d seen men on the battlefield with head wounds. One had walked in stumbling circles, screaming. And another had sat with his back against the trench wall talking to his mother, begging her not to lock him in a dark room, unaware that the blackness surrounding him had nothing to do with childhood fears.

He finished his tea and set the cup on the tray. “I’ve also been told that there’s a watch along the coast, in the event Hamilton is washed ashore.”

“Currents are tricky in this part of the world. He may be washed out to sea, then brought in again to the west of us. There’s rocks in Cornwall that trap corpses. But what he’ll look like by that time, that’s another question. We may never discover the true cause of his death.”

Rutledge left, thanking Mrs. Bennett as she led him to the door. Walking out to the motorcar, he couldn’t be sure whether Bennett’s failure to tell him all that the Chief Constable was offering had to do with an interloper on his patch-or a very clear recognition that this was Bennett’s opportunity to show himself a competent and resourceful policeman in his own right. He rather thought that the complacent Bennett had come to the conclusion that with the Chief Constable looking over his shoulder, it behooved him to change his ways. An awakening.

Rutledge went next to the rectory, more than a little worried about Putnam after their last conversation. The rector assured him that food had been delivered without incident. There was the rich scent of frying ham wafting through the door, and Rutledge thought he smelled potatoes and cabbage as well.

“And I spoke with Nan Weekes,” Putnam was saying. “For her own sake, I encouraged her to be less intransigent and more cooperative. The stressful conditions in that house are very worrying to me, and no doubt to you as well.”

“And I don’t see a swift resolution,” Rutledge admitted. “Thank you, Rector.”

“Would I could do more,” he said with a sigh, and closed the door.

Rutledge drove on to Casa Miranda, and found the odors there less appetizing. Someone had burned the meat, acrid smoke greeting him when Mallory finally admitted him to the house.

“I won’t be alive to be hanged,” he said with grim gallows humor. “I’ll starve or be poisoned first. What do you want now?”

“I need to look through Hamilton’s papers. There’s the possibility that something he’d done abroad has come back to haunt him.”

“Those confounded statues ought to haunt the man. I’m tired of staring at them. Felicity-Mrs. Hamilton-must give you permission.”

Mrs. Hamilton, when she came to the study where he’d been left to wait, had a smudge of flour on her nose and an air of hurt resignation. She said to Rutledge, “I don’t know that I should give you leave to go through Matthew’s desk. I don’t see why we can’t wait until he’s awake.”

Mallory had left the two of them together, withdrawing quietly. Rutledge wondered if he were in the kitchen trying to resurrect his dinner.

“We have no other leads, Mrs. Hamilton. Half the village is convinced that Mallory here attacked your husband. The other half holds every opinion gossip can think up, from some past deed following him here from abroad to a boatman telling me that the sea claims its own in time. As if the Mediterranean pursued him to England.” He tried to keep his voice light, but she wasn’t diverted from her concern.

“Well, it’s none of anyone’s business, is it?” she said with asperity.

“London has only so much patience. If they recall me, the next man may not be as willing as I am to search for answers in the past.”

“Oh, very well. The key to the desk is in the lock. But I beg you to put everything back where you found it. I shan’t care to have Matthew unhappy with me.” She crossed to the desk and took the key, holding on to it, as if hoping he might still change his mind about the need for it.

“I’ll be very careful,” he promised.

She sighed, passing it to him. “Inspector Bennett will grow old with gout. Mrs. Bennett’s menu choices would feed ditchdiggers, and I was never fond of parsnips. But you may thank her for her thoughtfulness. I’m learning to be grateful for small things, like warm bathwater and my clothes in order in my closet. No one can make tea the way-” She broke off, looked away from him, and then said, “Will you please tell me how Matthew is feeling? I dreamed last night I was burying him and I couldn’t find his best suit. It was frightful, searching everywhere, and the coffin ready and the mourners in the drive. I woke myself up crying.”