Charles Todd - A False Mirror

In a war mourning had to be done privately. There was never any time for more than a snatched thought, a swift prayer, a curse at what Fate had dealt men too young to die. No ceremony, no flags, no fanfare or trumpets. They were all too busy striving to live one more bloody day.

Hamish was saying, “I do na’ ken why ye’re driving sae far. She couldna’ ha’ come for him. How would he summon her? Wi’ no telephone in the surgery? And she canna’ have killed the doctor’s wife for his sake.”

Rutledge was driving west, toward the city of Exeter. The road followed the sea for a time and then turned away, miles sweeping under his wheels, and a soft wind blowing that smelled, he thought, of plowed earth.

He responded, “It isn’t the surgery I’m thinking about. We can’t be sure she hadn’t had news of him over the years, even if he’d failed to write. For that matter, now that he’s back in England, she could have wanted to see him again. And the meeting on the strand was not what she’d expected. She could have walked away, and then turned back to strike him down.”

“Oh, aye, and what of yon doctor’s wife?”

Rutledge frowned. “There’s the rub. Solve the riddle of the attack by the harbor, and that solution doesn’t fit the murder at the surgery. Explain what might have occurred in the surgery, and it doesn’t clear up what happened by the sea. It’s as if we’ve got two separate crimes, for two entirely different reasons. If Hamilton isn’t dead, it’s very possible he killed Mrs. Granville by mistake.”

Why risk removing Hamilton, when he could have been smothered where he lay with a pillow? If Hamilton had left the surgery of his own volition, why didn’t he go back to Casa Miranda? And even if Hamilton had inadvertently killed Mrs. Granville, he couldn’t have attacked himself on the strand. Stephen Mallory could have tried to kill Hamilton the first time and succeeded the second time. But George Reston had nearly as strong a motive as Mallory. And in his eyes, if no one ever discovered what had become of Hamilton now, it might seem a fitting torment for Henrietta Reston to live with.

They were soon on the outskirts of Exeter, and Rutledge cut his speed.

It was a cloth manufacturing town from Norman times and a trading center that had brought it wealth and sometimes unwelcome attention. William the Conqueror had laid siege to it in person. It sat by the Exe River, and Francis Drake had supped with Walter Raleigh in Mol’s Coffee House here.

The cathedral’s Norman towers were wreathed in clouds as Rutledge came through the city, and the street lamps cast a watery light across its medieval west front. The motorcar’s rain-washed windscreen gave the sculptures a flickering, shadowy life of their own, and Rutledge, glancing up at them, could have sworn they moved.

It was a measure of how tired he was.

He found the police station and asked an overweight sergeant on duty where he could find a Miss Cole who lived with her aunt. The sergeant replied irascibly that until he knew the business of the man in front of him, such information wouldn’t be given out.

Rutledge introduced himself and received a long stare in return as the sergeant wondered aloud what had brought a Scotland Yard inspector to this part of the West Country.

“A personal matter,” Rutledge informed him and waited.

“Indeed, sir. I’ll just call Constable Mercer, and he’ll take you there. Though it’s late to be paying a social call.”

“I’ve had a long drive, Sergeant.”

“Indeed, sir.” He summoned the young constable, and while they waited for him, the sergeant said, “The house isn’t far, sir, it’s a tall one set back from the road, just past the turning where you came into town. Ah, Constable, Mr. Rutledge here is from London, Scotland Yard. Could you show him Miss Miranda’s house and let them know it’s all right to open the door to him.”

Miranda Cole. Casa Miranda…the house of Miranda.

Rutledge caught himself in time, on the point of saying it aloud.

With Constable Mercer seated stiffly beside him, Rutledge drove back to the way he’d come. He soon picked out the iron gates to Tall Trees, which Mercer had told him to watch for, and then three houses to the east of that, saw a small Georgian dwelling with pillars to its portico and a wing to one side.

With the constable in tow, Rutledge went to the door and knocked. It was several minutes before an elderly maid answered his summons, her gaze moving from him to the constable with some alarm.

“Good evening, missus,” Mercer began. “This is Inspector Rutledge from Scotland Yard, to see Miss Miranda. I was asked to bring him here, so you wouldn’t be worrying about strangers at the door at this hour.”

Her gaze returned to Rutledge, sweeping over him as if he’d brought trouble with him. “I should hope it could wait until morning. Miss Cole and Miss Miranda have retired.”

“I’m sure Miss Miranda Cole will see me. Tell her I’m here about Matthew Hamilton.”

The maid’s mouth tightened. “I’ll ask her.”

They stood there for what seemed like five minutes. Finally the maid returned and said to Mercer, “There’s a cup of tea for you in the kitchen, Constable. Mr. Rutledge, if you’ll come with me.”

She ushered him into a room at the back of the house, the curtains drawn against the night and lamps burning on tables by the window and by the hearth. A fair-haired woman stood by a chair across the room, her face showing no interest in him or his business.

The colors of the room were faded, as if no one had given a thought to decorating for many years-the rose paper on the wall now more ashes of roses, and the carpet, in a style more French than English, seemed to have lost interest in life. Yet the room was spotlessly clean, as if to assure godliness if not beauty.

“Miss Cole?” It was a courtesy. She must be the woman he was seeking, the age was right, and something in her face, a strength, a poise, seemed to match the man that Matthew Hamilton had become.

“Yes. I understand you are here about Matthew Hamilton. I’ve been told he’s returned to England, but he has yet to call on me.”

“I’m afraid he’s missing, Miss Cole. We’ve been contacting everyone who may have information about him. In the hope that we’ll be able to find him quickly. You’ll understand when I tell you that he’s been under a doctor’s care for several days, and there is some anxiety about his health.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Matthew Hamilton I remember. He was always a sensible and practical man. Nevertheless, I’m sorry to tell you that you’ve wasted your trip. He isn’t staying with me.”

He had the feeling she was fencing with him, choosing her words to discourage him.

“Miss Cole, Matthew Hamilton is in trouble, and I’d thought he might have turned to you for help.”

“What kind of trouble? The Matthew Hamilton I remember was not likely to be of interest to the police.”

“When did you last see him, Miss Cole?”

Across the room the woman stirred and then was still again. “I’m blind, Inspector. I have been for many years. The last time I met Mr. Hamilton, he was young and so was I. We parted on good terms, and agreed to go our separate ways. He’s not likely to call on me now, and I would be as surprised to see him at my door as I am to see you there. Good day, Inspector. Dedham will see you out.”

Blind…

So that was what Melinda Crawford had not wanted to bring into their conversation.

He realized that there was nothing more to say, nothing to do but leave. A blind woman couldn’t have attacked anyone, not in the way that Hamilton had been injured. And she couldn’t have come for him, even if he’d been able to contact her. Or tried to kill him in Dr. Granville’s surgery. Yet she must have been a greater part of Hamilton’s life than even she knew. Or Felicity…