Charles Todd - A False Mirror

That left one man to return to guarding the house on the hill.

When that had been done, Rutledge set up a room for himself in the back of the station, using what had been storage space until 1914, when it was enlarged to stockpile gear for rescuing men washed ashore in U-boat attacks.

It was a bare room, painted an ugly brown, no windows, and a deal table for his desk. But it gave the newcomers ready access to him, and it kept them out of Bennett’s way.

He was just sitting down gingerly in the chair someone had brought him, testing it for a wobble on the uneven flooring, when the outer door of the station was flung open and someone shouted his name.

Rutledge came on the run and found himself face-to-face with the young constable who had been at the surgery with Bennett the previous morning. He was out of breath and in some agitation.

“They’re shouting for you at the house, sir,” Jordan blurted out. “I don’t know what it’s all about, but I could hear him, that Mr. Mallory, sir, yelling for me to pay attention, damn it-begging your pardon, sir-and finally I stepped out to the gate to see what the uproar was. I’m to bring you back with me, sir.”

“My motorcar is around the corner. Come along.”

Bennett had peered out of his office to listen. “Here!” he said, reaching for his crutch. “Wait, I’m coming as well.”

Rutledge had the engine cranked and was behind the wheel when Bennett caught them up. He got in, careful of his foot, and had barely slammed the door when Rutledge was moving.

It was no distance to the house, but to Rutledge the road seemed cluttered with marketgoers and lorries passing through to the west. He threaded his way among them, reached the turning up the hill and gunned the motorcar into a leap forward.

Hamish, in the back of his mind, was a low, familiar rumble, like the guns in France.

They reached the front door of the house, and Rutledge said to the constable, “Take up your station again. I’ll call if I need you.”

Jordan hurried down to the gates as Bennett, already out, pounded on the front door.

It was opened by Mallory, his face pale and so lined with worry that he seemed to have aged overnight.

“I sent for Rutledge,” he snapped at Bennett.

“It makes no difference. What’s happened? Did Hamilton show up in the night?”

They hadn’t speculated in the short ride from the police station, but it had been in all their minds. Rutledge waited for Mallory to answer.

“He was here. There’s no other explanation. And he’s killed Nan Weekes!”

They stood there staring at him, their faces blank with astonishment.

Rutledge, the first to recover, said, “How did he get in?”

“I don’t know. I’ve only just found her. If you’ll give me your word that I’m safe with you in the house, I’ll let you both inside. If not, it’s Rutledge only.” He moved slightly, and they could see the revolver in his right hand, half hidden by the doorjamb.

“Where’s Mrs. Hamilton?”

“In her room. She’s going to need something. I’ve never seen her so distraught.”

“That can wait. All right, then. My word,” Bennett told him.

“And mine,” Rutledge assured him.

The door opened wider and Mallory let them pass by him. He nodded to the door behind the staircase that led down to the kitchen passages. “That way.”

They walked briskly down to the kitchen, and to the small room that had been the maid’s prison.

Hamish, behind him, seemed to be telling him something, but Rutledge couldn’t make out the words for the thunder in his head.

She was in her bed, one arm dangling over the edge, the other flung awkwardly above her head. A pillow lay on the floor.

“Suffocated,” Bennett said, bending over her. “We’ll need the doctor to come and have a look.”

Rutledge, at his shoulder, remembered Chief Superintendent Bowles’s voice on the telephone: “That’s two murders…and I don’t want to be hearing of another.”

“Have you touched her?” he asked Mallory, who was waiting by the door, leaving the room to them.

“I called to her. When she didn’t wake up, I came in and snatched up the pillow, thinking she was playing at something. Pretending to be ill. She’s dead, I know the dead when I see them. You don’t need Granville to tell you.”

“Was the door to this room locked?”

“Yes. But the key’s on the outside. Anyone could have used it and still locked it behind him.”

“When did you last see her?”

“About eleven o’clock last night. I came to ask if she needed anything before I went to-where I spend the night. As I always asked, mind you. She was not feeling well, she said. Dinner hadn’t agreed with her. I told her, it’s the best we can do. But she thought the meat had gone off. She said the butcher hadn’t given us the best cut.”

Bennett, straightening up, turned to look at him. “My wife ordered that food. She’d not have sent bad beef.”

Mallory said wearily, “I don’t know whether it was good or bad. I was very tired, I told her we’d deal with it in the morning. And in my view, she’d eaten enough for two, it was probably nothing more than indigestion. I think I may have said as much, and she called me callous. I told her that if she’d agreed to cook it for us, we’d have all been better served.”

“So you were quarreling?” Rutledge asked.

“Not quarreling, it was no more than the long-running tongue-lashing we were greeted with, morning and night. But she surprised me then, telling me that she’d spoken to the rector while he was here, and if I’d call her in the morning, she’d be willing to prepare breakfast. I told her I’d have to watch her like a hawk and wasn’t sure if it was worth the trouble. And she answered that as long as Mrs. Hamilton was here, she wasn’t leaving.”

“That was an about-face,” Rutledge commented.

“Yes. I didn’t know if it was a trick or not. I didn’t care. I said I’d consider it, and I made sure she had water for the night. And then I shut the door and turned the key.”

“And she didn’t pound on the door or scream or cause any other disruption during the night?”

“If she did, I didn’t hear it. We’ve learned to shut it out, actually.”

“Has Mrs. Hamilton seen her?”

“To my sorrow, yes. She heard me shouting for the constable out there. And she came at once to ask what was wrong. Before I could stop her, she’d run down here. I heard her scream, and then she was up the back stairs into her room and wouldn’t open her door.” It was there in his eyes. She thinks I’ve done this.

“We’ll need to speak to her in good time,” Rutledge told him. “If it was Hamilton, how did he get in?”

“It wasn’t I. And it wasn’t Felicity. Who else could it have been?”

“Let’s have a look at the doors and windows, then,” Bennett said. “If Hamilton got this far and killed the maid, why didn’t he hunt you down as well?”

“Because he couldn’t find me, I expect. I’ve told you, I have found a way to sleep. He may know the house better than I do, but I wasn’t where he looked.”

“And you heard nothing in the night?” Rutledge persisted.

“Nothing.” It was curt.

“Did Mrs. Hamilton hear anything?”

“She says she didn’t. I asked her.”

They moved away from the bed, came to the door, and passed through as Mallory backed away.

It would have been easy, then, to overpower him, word given or not. Two men against one. But he still held the revolver, and in the passage outside the servants’ hall door, any shots fired would ricochet, even if they missed their intended target.

They made the rounds of the house. None of the doors had been built to keep murderers out. Their locks were old, heavy, the bolts fitting into worn wood. But nothing was broken, and the windows were properly latched.