Charles Todd - A False Mirror

“Then why did we find bandages in the ruin of the cottage?” Rutledge reminded him. “You can’t convince me they belonged to anyone else but Hamilton. If he had the strength to make it as far as the cottage, I don’t think he could have walked all the way back into Hampton Regis.”

“How do you know it was Hamilton who left that bandage out there?” Mallory interjected. “Someone could have done it for him, to throw you off his scent. Then the question becomes, who would help him, knowing he’d killed Mrs. Granville and now Nan Weekes?”

Hamish said only, Mrs. Reston.

Rutledge took a deep breath. “It all comes down to the fact that if Hamilton’s dead, whoever killed him is still out there. Which brings us to the next problem. Why isn’t he satisfied now?”

Mallory’s tiredness dropped from him. “I hope you aren’t suggesting that he’s after Felicity? In God’s name, why? And why kill me? I’m the one who will hang, for Hamilton, for Mrs. Granville, and now for Nan. Kill me and the police will know I’m not guilty of any of this.” He looked from Bennett to Rutledge. “What worries me most is that Hamilton is on the loose and half demented. And if that’s the case, he’s a very dangerous man. I can tell you I’m not looking forward to nightfall, if that’s the case.”

“What about his injuries?” Bennett said. “And who was it attacked him on the strand?”

“He might not have been as badly injured as Dr. Granville thought,” Rutledge said, slowly. “But there’s someone who might have struck Hamilton down by the Mole, who might have come back to get rid of him after learning he wasn’t dead, and who could have a very good reason for wanting to get into this house.”

He told them about Stratton and the diaries.

But Bennett shook his head. “I can see this Stratton arguing with Mr. Hamilton Monday morning, and anger getting the best of him then. I don’t see him killing two other people over a book that’s not been written. And how did he get in and out of Hampton Regis that day without anyone seeing him? I don’t think that’s possible.” He turned back to Mallory. “As for tonight, there’s the safety of the station for you, Mr. Mallory,” Bennett offered. “Safe as houses. And as for Mrs. Hamilton, we’ll put her up in my spare bedroom until this is finished. No one will touch her there.”

Mallory shook his head. “I’ve told you from the start, to turn myself in is an admission of guilt.”

“You’re helping us with our inquiries,” Bennett pointed out.

“And Hamilton, if that’s who is behind these killings, vanishes abroad and I’m left holding the bag. I’ve got the revolver. I don’t want to kill him, but I can damned well knock him down. I’m a decent enough shot for that.”

“Here, there’s going to be no gunfire in this house, tonight or any other time,” Bennett corrected him.

“Yes, well, we’ll see what the night brings.”

“Let Putnam take Felicity with him. I’ll stay in her place and together we’ll keep watch,” Rutledge said to stop their bickering.

“She’s no safer in that rambling warren of rooms in the rectory than she is here. Can you picture Putnam defending her? No, she’ll remain in the house, even if I have to sleep across her threshold.”

“Think about it,” Rutledge urged him. “You’re out on your feet, man. And you’ve got my word that I won’t take any steps against you. But another pair of eyes and ears could be very welcome at three o’clock in the morning. The wind is rising out there. You’ll be wishing by then that you’d agreed.”

“I’m armed, and Hamilton isn’t,” Mallory retorted, stung by Rutledge’s suggestion.

“Yes, but remember that old children’s riddle about transporting geese from one side of the river to another, while making certain the fox isn’t left with the flock on either bank? If I’m here and it comes to shooting anyone, I’ll be your witness. Otherwise it’s your word against a dead man’s. A man you’re already accused of beating until he was unconscious.”

It was unarguable. And Rutledge could see that Mallory was torn. In the end, he went up the stairs to speak to Mrs. Hamilton and the rector.

When he returned, he said only, “She wants you to stay. The rector offered, but I’d as soon have another soldier at my back tonight. Now if you’ve finished here, I’ll thank you to be on your way.”

“I’ll be here before dark,” Rutledge told him. “You can search my case for a weapon, but there won’t be one.”

Rutledge had given his word, but he made his plans with the care of a seasoned campaigner.

He set his men to guard the house, concealing them well out of sight. One stood in his room at the Duke of Monmouth, field glasses at the ready. Two others watched the roads to the headlands on either side of the Mole. And one was in the church tower, with its sweeping view of the town. They went early to their positions, armed with hot tea in thermoses and sandwiches put up by Mrs. Bennett. Constable Jordan was relieved in due course by his usual replacement. And another man kept an eye on Constable Coxe, as a precaution. Rutledge had also asked one of the men sent from another village to observe the Reston house, placing him where he could see it clearly, in the Cornelius family attic.

Mrs. Cornelius, a little anxious, had not wished to have a policeman spending the night in her attic, but Rutledge had assured her that it was to watch the same route that her son’s monster had taken two nights before. Not precisely the whole truth, unless the headless man had been Reston himself, but it served to allay her suspicions. He didn’t want gossip flying about the town before morning.

“But why should he come again? I’d nearly convinced myself it was Jeremy’s imagination, Mr. Rutledge, though I was reluctant to believe it at the time.”

“Your son’s imagination made a monster out of an ordinary event. What I’d like to discover is what he actually saw. It will clear up any remaining questions I might have now.”

“I must say, I’ve not really recovered from the news that Mrs. Granville is dead. And now poor Nan Weekes. We’ve never had anything of this sort happen in Hampton Regis before. And you’re quite sure that you aren’t trying to comfort me by telling me my family is in no danger?”

“If I thought you were, Mrs. Cornelius, the constable would be guarding your door, not standing at an attic window.”

Later, Mr. Putnam, concerned for the safety of everyone involved, asked Rutledge if it was wise to lay a trap with human beings as bait.

“Do you know of another way to catch this killer? He’s cold-blooded, he’s clever, and he’s not about to offer himself up to us without a fight,” Rutledge pointed out.

“Yes, well, you know where to find Dr. Granville if there’s any trouble.”

“Pray that it doesn’t come to that.”

Before leaving the station to pack a small case with what he needed, Rutledge spent an hour reading the reports of his men from the day’s monotonous rounds of questioning. He paid particular attention to the reports from the road where the cottage had stood. The only small flutter of excitement there had been a fox in the henhouse of the small farm where Mallory sometimes bought eggs.

A waste of time, Bennett told him. “But then, most police work comes to nothing. It has to be done, and we do it, else we’re slack. Mountains of paper and ink for one small grain of truth.”

Rutledge thought of all Inspector Phipps’s preparations to guard Green Park in London and a man who had watched them with interest from a nearby street lamp.

He had reported Nan Weekes’s death to Chief Superintendent Bowles.