Charles Todd - A False Mirror

“You have no way of proving that,” Granville retorted sharply.

“Mr. Rutledge put in a call to your foster father, who spoke to your bankers. On the other hand, Miss Esterley is rather well-to-do. And much prettier than Margaret. The only trouble was, she was fonder of Matthew Hamilton than she ever was of you. I’m not surprised that you were sorely tempted to put an end to him.”

So far, Rutledge thought, stifling an urge to announce his presence, the rector’s keeping to the script we’d discussed.

Granville said, “In the beginning I was set on Miss Esterley. Then I heard George Reston saying that Mrs. Hamilton would be a very rich widow. But Hamilton refused to die of his injuries, stubborn bastard that he is. I was on the point of quietly helping him to that end when he disappeared. When we couldn’t find him that morning, Rutledge and I, I saw my chance, went back to the surgery and killed Margaret.”

“Rutledge thought Hamilton’s wounds were more grievous than they were. That was clever of you, a chance to keep him sedated and silent.”

“Did Rutledge put you up to this? Are there witnesses back in the shadows?” Granville shielded his eyes with his hand and peered into the darkness. “Rutledge, are you there?”

“You’re quite wrong,” the rector answered him. “I’ve come here because I want to help you.”

Rutledge had been on the point of showing himself just as Putnam deviated from the script. He cursed the man roundly-instead of distancing himself from Granville, Putnam was letting the doctor approach him. Closer than was safe, already. Before Rutledge could possibly reach either of them, Granville could make the decision to kill again.

What weapon did the man have with him?

“A knife,” Hamish said. “It’s what he kens best.”

“Let me listen to your confession, Granville. It’s the least I can do. Your soul is in jeopardy, man, and you will surely hang. Will you not stop now and give a thought to what is waiting for you at God’s hands?”

Granville gave up searching the shadows. He stood there, a frown on his face, then walked forward. “I’m not sure I believe in God,” he said slowly, as if considering the matter.

“But he cares for you,” Mr. Putnam pointed out. “Inspector Rutledge will have you in custody by tomorrow morning. He knows you hid the hammer in your bag until you could leave it in my house. Make your peace now of your own free will. It will see you through the long and frightening days to come.”

“You can’t stop me from leaving.”

“Wherever you go, you take yourself with you. And the ghosts of two women will follow you.”

To Rutledge’s surprise but not Mr. Putnam’s, Granville said with what sounded like sincere regret, “Yes, I’ve already seen them at my heels.” He hesitated, finally giving in to Putnam’s persuasion. “All right then. Pray for me, Rector.”

He fell to his knees, contrition in every line.

Putnam went down more stiffly, and reached a hand for Granville’s shoulder to steady himself or to offer comfort. Rutledge never knew which.

The rector closed his eyes, lowered his head, and began an earnest prayer. Granville, on his knees, looked upward, as if to find atonement in the air above his head. Or to see if his prayers, like the King’s in Hamlet, had failed to rise with Putnam’s.

Then without any warning, he sprang again to his feet, and with an arm outflung, swept the two lamps off the table onto the floor, spilling hot oil and sending a spray of fire racing toward the back wall. Before Rutledge could move or Putnam could even cry out in alarm, Granville lifted his leg and with the flat sole of his shoe, shoved the unresisting man of God into the flames.

The harsh smell of burning oil and charring wool had enveloped the room and was fast reaching into the passage beyond.

Rutledge came out of the darkness with a roar of rage, his shoulder catching Dr. Granville hard in the chest before he could stumble through the door and out of reach of the inferno behind him.

Granville went backward, tripped over Mr. Putnam’s sprawled feet, and fell heavily, one arm twisted behind him. As his left hand brushed the flames, he cried out and rebounded like a spring.

Rutledge didn’t hesitate. He did as Granville himself had done, drawing back his knee and then delivering a blow with his stocking foot directly into Granville’s sternum, pushing him backward and knocking the wind out of him. Gasping for air, Granville went down beside the struggling rector.

Catching up the blankets from Nan’s narrow cot, Rutledge dragged them over the rector, smothering the fire already taking hold in the shoulder and back of his coat. Then he pulled the rector to his feet and with all the strength he possessed shoved him bodily, still smoking and retching, out into the passage. Putnam bit off a scream as his burning shoulder hit the far wall hard, and he fought to keep his feet even as he tried to beat at the smoldering ruins of his coat.

Then in a shambling run, he went down the passage toward the dining room, leaving Rutledge alone with Granville and the leaping blue-gold tongues of a strengthening conflagration.

Rutledge reached down for the doctor, dodging a fist wildly thrown in his direction. With a firm grasp on Granville’s collar and shirtfront, he hauled him out of the room and into the passage, slamming him into the opposite wall. While Granville cursed him, he wheeled and swung the door shut on the unbearable heat.

The fire would blow out the glass in a matter of minutes. But just now he had Granville to deal with.

Hamish said, “You mustna’ harm him!” As if he recognized the fury that was driving Rutledge.

In the distance, Rutledge could hear shouting somewhere, and then other voices.

Breathing hard from the smoke and his anger, he turned on the doctor. “It’s over, do you understand me? Give Hamilton or Mallory half an excuse and they’ll kill you with their bare hands.”

He reached for the man’s belt, turned him roughly, and secured his wrists behind his back. “Hamilton would like a private half hour with you. Make no mistake, he’s still capable of doing considerable damage. Don’t tempt him.”

It was a warning he hoped the doctor would take to heart.

Feet were racing toward him, and in the light of the blazing walls behind him, he could see Mallory, with Putnam not far behind him, and Hamilton struggling to keep up. The constable on watch was trying to pass all three of the men. And in the rear, Felicity stopped short, eyes bright with the fire’s reflection and her own fury.

They organized a rough water brigade and did what they could to stop the flames. Putnam found more blankets somewhere, and cloths for the table. They beat at the fire, beginning to make headway.

Suddenly they heard the roar of a revolver in the confined space of the passage behind them. It was deafening, stopping them in their tracks with the shock of the report.

When they turned nearly as one man to look, Dr. Granville was cowering on the floor, and Felicity Hamilton stood ten feet from him with her husband’s revolver clenched tightly in both hands.

“There are five more shots,” she told him shrilly. “The next one won’t miss.”

But he lay there, not moving, his face buried in his shoulder.

More people were coming now, Bennett leading the charge.

Ten minutes later the fire was out, though smoke still filled the kitchen quarters, and sooty faces paused long enough to catch a breath. Several of them coughed heavily before grinning at one another in satisfaction. Hamilton, exhausted, stood with both hands on his knees, head down.

Putnam was lying against the wall, his face gray with pain. Felicity had helped him take off what was left of his coat and the clerical shirt beneath it. The flesh was raw and wet, burned deeply. Putnam tried for a wan smile, saying to Rutledge, “I’ll have one of those powders you gave Hamilton. It will be awhile before Dr. Hester is here. Bennett has sent young Jordan for him.”