A False Mirror

by Charles Todd

  The note had said something about Mallory assaulting a police officer, but Rutledge had assumed there had been a brief exchange of blows or a shoving match.

  Such violence put an entirely different complexion on the coming confrontation. And it seemed to underline Mallory’s guilt in attacking Hamilton.

  He’d hoped to wait for daylight, for his own sake as well as to give Mallory time to rethink his position. After all, there had been no set timetable for his arrival, and darkness often put fears and decisions into uncomfortable perspective. Men brooded in the night, and were grateful for sanity in the morning.

  “Are you up to answering questions?” he asked Bennett now. “I’ll need a better picture of events than was available at the Yard. For one thing, has anything changed in Mallory’s situation? Are the women still safe? Has he tried to harm either of them?”

  They walked back to Bennett’s office. Bennett sank into his chair like a man in pain, easing the injured foot out of the way of his single crutch. Rutledge took the only other chair.

  It was a tiny room, hardly wide enough for the desk, the chairs, and the two men. From the scatter of papers across the desktop, Rutledge could see that his counterpart was not a tidy man, more impetuous than organized, and likely to have a temperament to match.

  Bennett shuffled irritably at the papers, turning some, shoving others aside, creating a small avalanche that he caught just before it went over the edge. The near mishap did nothing for his mood.

  Hamish said, “He’ll no’ help you, if he isna’ forced to.”

  “A facade,” Rutledge answered silently. “That’s all I’m expected to be. But we’ll see about that.”

  Bennett was saying, “There’s not much to tell. Matthew Hamilton—you probably know the name, coming as you do from London—was walking on the strand early this morning in a heavy sea mist. Apparently it’s something he does to help him think. That’s what one of the other vestry members told me. Miss Trining, that was. At any rate, someone came up behind him, footsteps no doubt muffled by the incoming tide, and struck him down. While he was still dazed, his attacker hit him repeatedly with something heavy, a stick, a cane, a bit of flotsam—who knows? By the time someone saw him lying there and summoned help, Hamilton’s feet were awash, and all tracks had vanished. If no one had seen him in time, he might well have drowned in another quarter hour.”

  Matthew Hamilton…Rutledge cudgeled his tired wits. His sister had spoken of the man from time to time. Or one of her friends had done. Rutledge had paid scant attention, but he possessed a good memory and he managed to dredge up a few details. Hamilton moved in good circles, but he wasn’t particularly enchanted with London and soon after his marriage he’d disappeared from the social scene. That accounted for the move to Hampton Regis. But why had he chosen to close up his flat as well? London gossips had looked for an answer to that and failed to find it.

  The information Bowles had given Rutledge was lean to the point of skeletal: that Hamilton had been at the Peace Conference in Paris, coming unbidden from his station on Malta, and was sent back there posthaste.

  Wasn’t it this same Hamilton who had been against stiff reparations from Germany? French vengeance he’d called it. And hadn’t he railed against the American president Wilson’s belief in self-determination, publicly branding it foolishness in the extreme? Wilson had been tired, ill, his idealistic pronouncements according to Hamilton failing to take into account the realities of world politics and setting the stage for grave consequences down the road. The British and French delegations had been intent on ignoring the American president, palming him off with his precious League of Nations. Hamilton had tried repeatedly to convince them all that they were sowing the seeds of disaster which another generation would reap in blood. It hadn’t been a popular stance.

  The British had all but disowned him, as they had disowned Lawrence and others with a clearer vision. Rutledge had been in hospital during most of the Peace Conference, his knowledge of it secondhand. But the displeasure of the Foreign Office hadn’t sent a man of Hamilton’s stature to a backwater like Hampton Regis. Small wonder the gossips had been busy.

  Given Hamilton’s history, what scandal or past indiscretion might have caught up with him here? Stephen Mallory had had no role in Hamilton’s diplomatic career. Yet that had covered at least twenty years of Hamilton’s life.

  Bennett was still speaking, his voice sour. “And how is it you’re acquainted with this man Mallory? Does he have friends in high places?”

  “Hardly high places. I expect the Yard was more concerned about the Hamiltons and their maid than any connection I might have with your suspect.”

  “Then you won’t mind telling me how it was you came to know him.”

  “In the war,” Rutledge answered him, and changed the subject, though he knew Bennett wasn’t satisfied. “Any improvement in Hamilton’s condition?”

  “Not according to the doctor.” Bennett grimaced as he shifted his foot again. “He’s been close to consciousness a time or two, but he never quite wakes up. That doesn’t bode well for his ability to recall who attacked him.”

  “Yes, I see that. What happened next?”

  “I sent my constable, Jordan, to the Hamilton house to fetch Mrs. Hamilton to him, and I went to Mallory’s cottage myself. It lies inland, a few miles up the Hampton River. My intent was to question him about where he’d been that morning, but he lost his head and went directly to find Mrs. Hamilton. She was at Dr. Granville’s surgery. He waited until she came home, and took both Mrs. Hamilton and her maid hostage. When we went to try and talk him into surrendering, he threatened to kill both women if we didn’t summon you directly.”

  “Since then, you haven’t tried to—er—persuade him to surrender?”

  “I had myself driven up to the house shortly before nightfall, and called to Mrs. Hamilton. Mallory answered for her and reminded me that their safety depended on you coming down from London.” He considered Rutledge, his eyes hostile. “I still can’t see why he should have sent for you by name. There must be more to it.” His posture was insistent, as if he were determined to get to the bottom of the connection.

  “I’ve told you. We served together in France, and I expect I’m the only policeman he knows.”

  Bennett took out his watch. “I’ve posted two men near the house, out of sight but where they could hear the women scream or a shot fired. It’s time to relieve them. I expect you’ll want to come along. You can speak to Mallory yourself.”

  They went out to the motorcar, and Bennett beckoned to two constables who had just arrived at the station to accompany him. They nodded to Rutledge and stepped into the rear seat, where Hamish usually sat. The familiar Scots voice rumbled with irritation.

  All the while, Bennett was still pressing, eager to wrap up the inquiry. For him, the matter was very simple. Rutledge was here, therefore Mallory ought to surrender himself to the police. It needn’t drag on any longer.

  Rutledge didn’t interrupt, understanding the pent-up frustration that drove the man. But the harangue also served to fix his own actions. Bennett was using the listening constables behind him to make certain that the man from London couldn’t avoid doing his duty.

  Fate was never kind.

  He wasn’t prepared tonight. No more than he expected Mallory to be prepared. His mind needed to be fresh, and in the dark, Mallory would be on edge, expecting trickery.

  Hamish spoke just behind his shoulder. The voice seemed much nearer, as if the Scot had leaned forward to whisper. “Mayhap he willna’ open the door.”

  And Rutledge answered silently, “He’ll want to see what I’ve become.”

  Hampton Regis was fitted inside the curve of its tiny bay with the snugness of centuries. Houses along the Mole—the ancient harbor—were timeless, their facades much the same, Rutledge thought as he turned the motorcar, since the days of Drake and the Duke of Monmouth. The later houses—and they were barely later than the last century—had
been built along streets set perpendicular to the waterfront, like newcomers handed second best.

  Bennett, suddenly aware that he’d lost Rutledge’s attention with his barrage of advice, dropped the subject of Mallory and nodded toward the western end of the Mole disappearing behind them. “The river was broader once, and the shipyards and fishing industry lined its banks. Once the river silted up, Victorian money leveled the ground and built there. Now the Hampton’s hardly more than a little stream passing under a stone bridge.” Then he added with the satisfaction of the working-class man, “My grandfather always said fish scales make the slopes of social climbing rather a slippery business.”

  He waited for Rutledge to smile at his grandfather’s plebeian sense of humor, but the man seemed to be intent on his driving, as if feeling the miles he’d already come.

  Instead, Rutledge was struggling to marshal his thoughts, wondering in another part of his mind if anything remained of the authority he had once exercised over the lieutenant under his command in France. And whether he could wield it now.

  The Hamiltons lived out on the road he’d come down from London, the one that ran in a gentle bend down into the town, traced its way along the water, and then rose softly to the far headland, following the coast for miles before vanishing into Devon. Bennett was telling him now that the western stretch of cliffs was prone to landslips, and from time to time over the centuries had sent houses and farms and churchyards down into the sea. Matthew Hamilton on the other hand had chosen the more stable eastern heights, living in one of the larger houses there on the seaward side, with sufficient property around them to give them privacy.

  The view of the water as the motorcar climbed was stippled with faint moonlight, like a tarnished mirror. Bennett pointed and Rutledge paused to drop off the pair of constables. Then he turned through gates into a trim garden. The drive made a loop through the flower beds, ending at the steps.

  Time had run out. What was he to say to Mallory?

  He looked up at the house, wondering what emotions ran rampant behind that late Georgian front, upright and gracious, its weathered brick surely a lovely rose in the daylight. Very much the sort of classic design a career foreign ser vice officer might have yearned for in his long exile abroad in the heat of some godforsaken island or busy, overcrowded capital. An England that existed now only in homesick dreams. The war had changed all that.

  There were no lights that Rutledge could see. He hoped the household had gone to bed, where he wished he was now. But it would not be a peaceful sleep for the two women imprisoned there with a possible killer. And he was their only hope.

  He tried to picture Mallory creeping up behind Hamilton as he walked along the strand, and striking him hard across the back of the head. He wanted to believe it was impossible that a man he’d known in the trenches could do such a thing. But then they’d been taught to kill by masters, and what was one more life in the long rolls of the dead? Bennett had been treated with equal callousness. There had to be a reason. And why, if he’d had the chance to run, had Mallory come here instead?

  And that brought Rutledge to Hamilton’s wife. What was her relationship to Mallory? Or his to her?

  Without warning Hamish said, “You should ken how he feels.”

  Rutledge caught his breath on the realization. In spite of the promises they’d made to each other at the start of the war, Jean had left him, to marry a diplomat serving now in Canada.

  Had Mallory been Mrs. Hamilton’s lover once? Was that the key?

  Bennett was staring at him, waiting for him to act.

  Rutledge forced himself back to the present.

  “Stay here,” he said to Bennett, and left the motor turning over quietly as he went to lift the knocker.

  After a time a male voice called warily, “Who’s there?”

  He didn’t recognize it.

  “Rutledge, from Scotland Yard,” he answered carefully. “It’s very late, I’m aware of that. I drove straight through, after the summons. I wanted you to know I’m here.”

  “Stand in your headlamps, so that I can see you.”

  Rutledge turned and did as he was asked. After nearly a minute, a curtain twitched in an upstairs room.

  Then the voice was back at the door, calling, “You’ve changed. But then so have I. Come back in the morning. Alone. Keep Bennett out of this.” The tension behind the words was clear even through the door’s wooden panels.

  “I told you,” Bennett jeered. “Wound like a spring.”

  “I won’t leave until I’m certain the women are safe,” Rutledge responded, returning to the door himself to listen for whatever sounds he could hear from inside.

  Someone had a candle, its brightness wavering as if in an unsteady hand. Had Mallory been drinking? That was a bad sign. Rutledge tried to recall what they’d talked about in the lines, and what the man’s weaknesses were. The problem was, they hadn’t been close. Mallory, like Rutledge himself, had had other things on his mind. Rutledge had had more in common with Hamish, though they had come from vastly different backgrounds. Both had possessed an instinctive understanding of tactics and strategy, and that had drawn them together.

  Over his head the fanlight was elegant, reminding him of Georgian houses in London. It had been crafted, he thought, by a master hand. But all the candle’s golden light showed him was a shadowy flight of stairs and the lamp hanging in the hall. Venetian, he thought in one corner of his mind.

  Hamish was saying, “He broke, Mallory did. Only you didna’ shoot him.” And that summed up more than Rutledge was prepared to deal with tonight.

  The voice inside the house went on, “They’re safe. I had promised as much, if Bennett sent for you. They’ll be safe until the morning. I swear it.”

  “I want to speak to Mrs. Hamilton myself.”

  “Damn it, man, she’s asleep.”

  “Nevertheless. I’ve kept my half of the bargain.”

  There was a silence broken only by Bennett’s grumbling from the motorcar.

  Finally a woman’s voice, nervous and uncertain, called, “Inspector? He hasn’t harmed us. Please do as he asks. We’ll be all right tonight.”

  “Mrs. Hamilton?”

  “Yes. Have you news of my husband? I’ve been so worried about him.”

  “He’s resting, Mrs. Hamilton. So I’m told. But you need to be with him. If Mr. Mallory will allow it, I’ll take you to the surgery myself, so that you can be reassured your husband is going to live.”

  From the motorcar Bennett called, “It’s not her we want out of there, it’s him.” Rutledge ignored him.

  “I—I can’t leave,” she answered. “I—in the morning, perhaps?”

  “Mallory? Surely you’ll relent for Mrs. Hamilton’s sake?”

  But there was only silence from the other side of the door. After a time, Rutledge returned to the motorcar and climbed into his seat. He could feel the tension of the last few minutes smothering him, until his head seemed to thunder with it.

  “You should have pressed him,” Bennett told him in no uncertain terms. “While you had the chance. God knows what state those women will be in, come morning.”

  Rutledge said, “Mallory is tired. He won’t be thinking very clearly. Anything that strikes him now as interference on our part will only make their situation worse. I can’t believe he’ll harm them tonight. Not after he’d got what he wanted. We’ll leave him to wonder about tomorrow and how he’s to explain himself.”

  “That’s foolishness,” Bennett retorted. “You’re coddling a murderer.”

  Hamish said, making clear his opinion of Bennett, “He’s no’ thinking sae verra’ clearly himsel’. He hasna’ considered that yon lieutenant would gladly see ye deid.”

  “Why do you so firmly believe Mallory attacked Hamilton?” Rutledge asked the fuming inspector beside him as they drove out of the gates. He could see that a new face had replaced the watcher he’d glimpsed earlier in the shadows of a large tree. He presumed that while
he was speaking to Mallory, distracting him, there had been a swift changing of the guard and the other constables had already walked back into Hampton Regis.

  “Jealousy,” Bennett said baldly.

  “Mallory was involved with Hamilton’s wife?” He considered the ramification of this. “Or only infatuated with her?”

  Hamish, derisive in his mind, demanded, “Does it make any difference?”

  “I can’t say,” Bennett added grudgingly, “how much involvement there has been. If gossip is to be believed, certainly on Mallory’s part there was the desire to step into Matthew Hamilton’s shoes. Or bed. How Mrs. Hamilton felt about it, no one seems to know.”

  “What else do the gossips whisper?”

  “There’s a difference in age between Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton. Twenty years, at a guess. Mallory on the other hand can’t be more than three or four years older than Mrs. Hamilton. The rest is plain as the nose on your face, isn’t it? She wouldn’t be the first woman to see a young sweetheart off to war, and then have second thoughts about waiting for him. Especially when her head’s turned by the attentions of someone of Hamilton’s standing. It explains why, when young Mallory is mustered out, he comes straight to Hampton Regis to live, not all that long after the Hamiltons take Casa Miranda. He’s got no family here, nor any connections that we know of. What else could have brought him?”

  “Mallory returned to England in 1916.”

  “Did he, now? Then where’s he been since then?” Bennett shook his head. “I don’t see how it matters either way. He’s in love with her, that’s clear enough, whenever it was he came to know her. Why else was he in such a hurry to see her, once he knew he was caught out?”

  “Why, indeed?”

  “Where there’s smoke, there’s bound to be fire.”

  The road was quiet, the town dark, asleep.

  “And so Hamilton was struck down, beaten, and left to drown. But no one saw the attack.”

  “No one has stepped forward.”

  “I’d like to look in on Matthew Hamilton,” Rutledge said.