Charles Todd - A False Mirror

But she couldn’t distinguish, for instance, the shabbiness of her surroundings. How the colors had faded, and how alive she looked among them, her fair hair and the dark blue sweater and string of fine pearls setting her apart, as if she’d wandered here by mistake.

She lifted her hand to her face as he described Hamilton’s injuries, and said, “He must have been in great pain.”

“The doctor took every care of him,” he assured her.

As he told her about Mallory’s race to speak to Felicity, and the subsequent decision to hold her against her will until Rutledge arrived from London, she said, “You know this man, don’t you? From the war, was it? I can hear the difference in your voice as you describe him.”

He hadn’t been aware that he was betraying himself as well.

Hamish, his own voice soft in Rutledge’s ear, said, “She has lived wi’ blindness a verra’ long time.”

“We served in France together,” he conceded, and left it at that.

The rest of the story unwound like wire from a spool, tangled sometimes because she didn’t know all the players. And at other times, she would interject a question or comment that was remarkably astute.

She was interested in Miss Esterley, who had become friends with Hamilton after her accident. “He had a way of making it seem that you had his entire attention,” she commented, her first personal remark. “It isn’t surprising that someone alone at such a trying time might feel comforted.”

“I’ve not had the good fortune to know him at his best,” Rutledge said. “But yes, he was kind to her, and it was valued.”

When he reached his account of Hamilton’s disappearance, she was tense in her chair, her hands tightening and her body braced.

But she stirred as he once more described Mrs. Granville’s death, almost as if she were hearing it for the first time.

The sun had gone in, and darkness was coming down. She said, as if to gain a little time, “Could you light the lamps, please, Inspector Rutledge? And hand me my shawl? It should be there on the table by the door where you came into the room.”

He saw to the lamps and found the shawl where she’d told him to look. By the time he’d returned to his seat, she had herself under control again.

Nan Weekes’s death shook her to the core.

“How did anyone get into the house? Surely it must have been this man Mallory. What has become of Matthew’s keys? Have you thought to look for them?”

“His clothing was taken from the surgery the night he disappeared. If he’s alive, he must have the keys as well. Another reason why it’s imperative to know who may have them if he doesn’t.”

“But I don’t understand. If he was attacked, then he’s a victim.”

“Of the assault, yes.”

“I think your Inspector Bennett may be right, that this Lieutenant Mallory is behind everything that’s happened. Mrs. Granville’s death and the maid’s death,” she said, grasping for straws to build her case. “And Matthew has been made to look like the scapegoat.”

“I’m beginning to think Mallory was intended to take the blame. For that death and Mrs. Granville’s.”

“Well, there you are, then. Matthew had nothing to do with it.”

“Then where is he? Why hasn’t he come forward? And who besides Hamilton cares whether Mallory is hanged or not?”

“Surely there are other suspects?”

“A very short list. Perhaps you’re willing to help me add to it. Or take one away by telling me Hamilton is dead.”

She shivered. “Believe me, I wish I could help you.”

“Mallory may be innocent. If he is, he’s already suffered more than enough. There’s that to consider as well.” He waited. “I’ve come because Inspector Cubbins tells me you have something to say to me. I hope it’s true. Or I’ve wasted my time.”

She sat there for a time, a frown on her face, her eyes downcast. Finally she picked up the bell at her elbow and rang it.

Dedham came to the door, clearly expecting to see Rutledge off the premises. Instead Miss Cole said, “Could you bring us fresh tea, please, Dedham? I think we rather need it.”

She added as the door closed again, “You place me in a very awkward situation, Inspector Rutledge. But I can tell you frankly that Matthew Hamilton, when I knew him, was incapable of killing anyone. A good man, a fair man, a caring man. I don’t want to believe that he’s changed since then.” She looked toward the window, where the light had all but faded. But it was another light she searched for. “I’ve never been connected to murder before. It’s unspeakably frightful.”

“None of us can say with certainty that we won’t kill, if driven to it. I have killed men in the war. They were no better and no worse than I was. But because of the uniform they wore, they had to die in my place. And because of the uniform my own men wore, I had to send them out to shoot strangers.”

“Yes, that’s what happens in war, people are killed. It isn’t personal, is it? Like this.”

“When you watch the living force go out of a man’s face as you fire your weapon into his unprotected body, it is very personal,” he told her grimly.

That gave her pause. “I begin to see. I’m sorry.”

The tea came soon afterward, and Dedham had added sandwiches to it, and cakes iced in pale green, as if intended for a celebration that hadn’t taken place.

Rutledge poured, so that the maid could be dismissed. Miss Cole took her cup, drank deeply as if the tea were a lifeline, and then set it aside.

“If Matthew Hamilton is dead, you’ll have no answers in the end,” she warned him.

“I can’t help but pray that he’s still alive. We need to close this case. It has done great damage to too many people. Dr. Granville, the maid’s cousin. Mrs. Hamilton and even Stephen Mallory. Others have been dragged into it as well. It would be unkind to let them all go on suffering.”

“But what will you do, if you find him? Carry him off in custody, like a common felon while you sort this out?”

“Hardly that, unless we caught him with a weapon in his hand, trying to kill someone. My first question would have been, ‘What happened on your last walk?’ And my second, ‘What happened in that surgery?’”

“If he can’t tell you, what then?”

Rutledge set his own cup aside. He answered her honestly, weariness infusing the words with what sounded very like despair. “I don’t know.”

She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the back of the chair.

“Do you believe me, that he was incapable of murder, when I knew him all those years ago?”

He took a chance, over Hamish’s fierce objections.

“I’ll try, once you’ve told me why it was you wouldn’t marry him.”

Her eyes flew open, her head coming up with a snap. “You have no right!”

“There are two people dead, Miss Cole. Women who never harmed anyone to my knowledge. But they died because of Hamilton, one way or another. You owe them something.”

“I don’t owe anyone anything,” she cried, the pain in her voice so deep it sounded even to her own ears like someone else’s.

“You have lived here in shabby gentility, shut away from the world, punishing yourself because something happened to your sight and you believed that you had no right to inflict your suffering on someone else. He called you the most honorable woman he’d ever met, Miss Cole. I have it on good authority.”

“I couldn’t entertain for him. I couldn’t recognize faces and remember them the next time we met. I couldn’t live in a strange world where I couldn’t see my surroundings or find my way without someone there to help me. It would have been a burden at the very start of his career, and I couldn’t bear to hear him make excuses for being overlooked for promotion or for assignments where a suitable hostess was imperative.”