Charles Todd - A False Mirror

Rutledge said thoughtfully, “Hamilton’s keys went missing with him.”

“So they did,” Bennett answered.

Whoever had taken Hamilton had freedom of the house.

Rutledge interviewed Mrs. Hamilton alone. It took some time to convince her to unlock her door, but when she finally opened it, her face tear-streaked and so pale he thought perhaps she’d been sick, she held on to the frame as if to a lifeline.

“Will you come downstairs and be comfortable?” he asked her gently. “We’ve made tea. It will warm you a little.”

But she shook her head. “I said to him-to Stephen-that I hated her and wanted her dead. Not two days ago. I never thought he would kill her…” Her voice trailed off into tears.

And Rutledge remembered that she hadn’t been told that Hamilton wasn’t in the surgery, under Dr. Granville’s eye.

“He was upset when dinner turned out so badly. I didn’t mean for him to take me literally, I was just torn about Matthew and worried-but it’s no less my fault, is it? I should have been braver, I should have borne with all the trouble and said nothing.”

She began to cry. “I didn’t truly want her to die. But I’m to blame, I’ll have to be judged along with him. He wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me, and I’m so frightened, I think my heart is going to break.”

It took him several minutes to calm her enough to tell her about Hamilton. He left out any reference to Mrs. Granville, and he said nothing about the Reston cottage.

It was cold comfort.

“Oh, my God, are you telling me that it could have been Matthew? That he thought-but surely, he’d have realized that wasn’t Stephen down there? That it must be Nan. Or-or me.”

“We don’t know. We don’t know what state of mind he’s in. We don’t know if he could have survived in the cold rain yesterday morning. Please, you must tell me anything you can that will help us find him. It’s urgent, Mrs. Hamilton-you must tell me whatever you know, however impossible it may sound.”

But she was beyond thinking, and in the end, he brought her tea, told her he would be in the house for another hour or so, and prepared to shut her door.

“Is she-is Nan still downstairs?” She shivered. “I shan’t be able to swallow a bite of food now. I’m so frightened.”

“She must be taken away now, to her family. You needn’t know, you needn’t watch.”

“I must talk to her cousin. I want to tell him that it wasn’t intended, that we were just upset.”

“Let me speak to him on your behalf. I think it might be better just now. Would you care to have us ask for Mr. Putnam? He can offer you comfort.”

She shook her head. “I can’t pray. I’m to blame.”

“I don’t think Mr. Putnam cares about any of that.”

But she shut her door without answering.

“She didna’ know,” Hamish said as Rutledge went down the stairs. “It wasna’ her doing.”

“Not directly,” Rutledge replied.

Bennett went out to his constable and sent for Dr. Hester.

He came at length, but before he could reach the house, Nan Weekes’s cousin arrived, in a fury that was loud and uncontrolled.

“Where is she, then?” Constable Coxe roared from the drive. “And where’s the bastard who’s been hiding behind her skirts? I’ll see him hang, that I will. Come out, you bloody coward and talk to me. Tell me how a poor woman died doing her duty.”

Rutledge, on his way to speak to Coxe, had first to deal with Mallory. His face red with a mixture of feelings, his eyes wild, he was about to confront the man outside, his pent-up emotions badly in need of an outlet. “I’m not standing for this, he has no right-”

“No, don’t be a fool, Mallory. He wants to draw you out there. Are you ready to leave this house and face being locked up in the station?”

“Little good it’s doing me to stay here. Nothing has gone as I’d expected, I ought to step into the garden and end it. But that’s an admission of guilt, and I won’t make it. I tell you, whether you want to hear it or not, Matthew Hamilton is alive and on a rampage. It’s the only logical explanation. I’m certain he meant to kill Felicity when he killed Mrs. Granville. And when he got it wrong, he came here looking for her. He thinks-God knows what he thinks. But he found that poor woman instead. What will he do when he realizes this is his second mistake?”

“Why would Hamilton want to kill his wife, and not you? Are you saying he believes she attacked him on the strand?”

“Use your wits, Rutledge. The Hamilton’s man of business isn’t likely to be here in Hampton Regis after Felicity. If he’s the one who finished Hamilton, he knows his client is dead, and is back in London busily covering his tracks. He doesn’t need to muddy the waters by killing Felicity. He’s hoping I’ll do it for him.” The shouting beyond the door was growing more abusive. “All right, go out and shut up that fool before I’m tempted to shoot him. They can only hang me once.” He moved out of Rutledge’s way.

Rutledge opened the door and stepped out.

Coxe was a burly man, his face lined with years in the sun and his eyes, used to staring out to sea, hooded under heavy lids.

“Mallory isn’t coming out, Coxe. You might as well stop making a spectacle of your grief and go home. We’ll bring your cousin to you as soon as may be. She’ll need you then.”

“You can’t protect him, Rutledge. I didn’t believe Inspector Bennett when he told us you were, but I believe it now. That man in there is a murderer. Give him up and let him face charges.”

“We have no proof that he’s killed anyone.”

“He’s locked in a house with two women, and one of them is dead. It doesn’t take a London policeman to know what must have happened. When she wouldn’t let him have his way with her, he killed her to shut her up.”

“She was smothered in her sleep, not interfered with. Go home. Or I’ll have you locked in the police station and forget where I put the key.”

Coxe examined Rutledge, looking him up and down without insolence but with judgment.

“I’m not afraid of Scotland Yard. This is my flesh and blood, lying there dead.”

Rutledge said nothing, standing between Coxe and the house with the authority of a man used to command. It was a presence that had served him well in the trenches. He had learned it over the years, dealing with everything from drunken men outside pubs to riotous fans at football matches. One man, unarmed, several stone lighter than the heavy-shouldered, angry constable in front of him, wrapped in the certainty that he would be obeyed.

Coxe tried to stare him down and failed. In the end, suddenly mindful of his own career, he blustered, “I didn’t say good-bye. I sent her to work that day, telling her I’d not eat what she spoke of making for our dinner. I told her I was tired of a pasty made from what was left of Sunday’s roast. That I worked hard and didn’t need to cut corners to save for my old age.”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I spoke out of turn. And I never had the chance to make amends. She’s dead, and there’s an end to it. But not for me. He took that from me, that bastard behind the door listening to me.”

Rutledge waited.

“All right, I’m going. I owe no apology to the house, save to Mrs. Hamilton. I’ll pray for her. Odds are, she’ll be dead in another day or two.”

And with that he turned on his heel and walked away.

Rutledge saw him out of sight.

Not five minutes later, Dr. Hester arrived and, following instructions, brought Mr. Putnam with him. The rector was shown up to Mrs. Hamilton’s room and Bennett went to find the constable who had been on night duty at the house. Rutledge took Hester to the servants’ hall.