by Charles Todd
“It’s well after midnight, man. You can’t go dragging the doctor out of his bed at this hour.”
“I doubt he’s in his bed.”
“Oh, very well.” Bennett gestured toward the first turning as they reached the Mole. “Down that street to the next corner. The house with the delicate iron fencing along the back garden.”
But the doctor’s house was dark, and although Rutledge went to tap lightly on the surgery door, no one came to answer his summons. He tested the handle, and it turned in his hand. Did no one in the country lock their doors?
He stood in the opening, listening intently. But the dark passage before him was silent, and he could feel Inspector Bennett’s eyes boring into the back of his head.
If the doctor wasn’t sitting up with his patient, it was very likely a good sign that he was not expected to die this night.
They drove back to the Mole, where the sea beyond the harbor wall was a black presence, restless and whispering as the wind picked up. There they took the second turning, and Bennett pointed out a small inn set back from the street, a black and white Elizabethan building with a slate roof where once there must have been thatch, and outbuildings in the yard behind it. A small garden had replaced the yard in front, and daffodils were already in bloom in sheltered patches. This morning would be the first day of March, Rutledge reminded himself. The winter had seemed endless, unrelenting.
“That’s the Duke of Monmouth Inn,” Bennett told Rutledge. “I’ve taken the liberty of putting you up there. But I’d be obliged if you’ll drive me as far as my house, which is down the end of the street and on the next corner. Damned foot!”
Rutledge went past the inn and on down the street. “You believe that Mallory ran from you because he’s guilty. Why didn’t he keep going, either into Devon or toward the port towns? It would have been a smarter move on his part.”
Bennett said, “I told you, it was a matter of jealousy. What’s the sense in killing the husband if you don’t succeed in getting the wife to yourself?”
“Hardly to himself, if the hangman’s knocking at the door.”
“Yes, well, I don’t suppose he’d expected to find himself the prime suspect so quickly. Nor her so hesitant about running off with him while her husband was still alive. If the sea had taken the body, it’ud been a different story.” Bennett hesitated and then added, “I’d led Mallory to believe Hamilton was dead. It seemed best at the time. He must have been shocked when he learned his victim was still with us.”
“And that’s my point,” Rutledge countered, pulling up before the small house that Bennett was indicating. “You’re looking at the connection between Mallory and Mrs. Hamilton as a strong motive. Instead, Mallory might have gone to her for fear he would be blamed. You’ve told me of no direct evidence linking him to what happened.”
“Except that he ran,” Bennett answered simply, reaching into the back of the motorcar for his crutch. “Add to that, he had no compunction about killing me as well. And now he’s holding those two women at the point of a gun. Does that cry innocence to you?”
Rutledge found he was holding his breath. The rear seat of the motorcar belonged to Hamish—
But Bennett’s fumbling was successful, and he retrieved the crutch, nearly striking Rutledge in the face with the rubber tip.
“I’d not heard it myself,” Bennett repeated, swinging the crutch out into the road and gingerly lowering his bad foot after it. “The worst of the gossip, I mean. But one of my men, Coxe by name, brought it to my attention. He’s cousin to the housemaid, Nan Weekes. Just as well he told me. That gave me a jump on Mallory, or so I’d thought. Nearly had the bastard. But I’ll have him yet.”
With that he hobbled up to his door and went in without looking back.
Rutledge waited to see Bennett safely inside, and then, easing his stiff shoulders, he turned the motorcar toward the hotel. Even Hamish was ready to call it a night, his presence heavily silent in the rear seat.
The Duke of Monmouth Inn was named for the illegitimate but favored son of Charles II, and there had been many people when Charles died who preferred him over the Catholic Prince James, the king’s younger brother. A short but bloody rebellion centered mostly in the West Country had come to grief on the scaffold at the hands of Bloody Jeffreys, the hanging judge of the Bloody Assizes, and that was the end of the duke.
And so history had taken a different turn. The intolerant James had assumed the crown, only to face his own trouble in less than three years. That had swept in his daughter Mary and her Dutch husband, William. There were not many inns named for him, Rutledge thought, making the turning.
The building appeared to have been a coaching inn during the early 1800s, hardly the duke’s era. Still, there was a portrait of him in velvets, a wig, and a plumed hat on the sign hanging from an iron frame above the door. If the artist was to be believed, Monmouth had been a rather handsome young man who bore no resemblance to the long-faced Stuarts.
The sign creaked on its hinges as Rutledge walked around to the door after leaving his motorcar in the yard behind the inn. He could feel the sea’s breath, salty and damp, as he lifted the latch and stepped into the dark lobby.
A lamp bloomed from the door into the office, and a sleepy night porter stepped out, wary but curious.
“Inspector Rutledge,” he said to the man, setting down his valise and moving to the desk. “Inspector Bennett has taken a room for me.”
The night porter reached inside a drawer and handed him a key. “First floor, to your left. Number fifteen.”
Rutledge took the key, retrieved his case, and went up the shadowy stairs.
Hamish said, as they made their way down an even darker passage, “I wouldna’ be astonished to see a ghost outside yon door.”
“As long as he doesn’t rattle chains as I sleep, I’ve no quarrel with him.”
Hamish chuckled derisively. There were other things Rutledge feared in his dreams. The rattle of machine-gun fire…
He opened the door to number 15, and discovered that it was large enough and pleasant enough, with a view toward the sea through rows of chimney pots. But standing at the glass, careful not to place himself where he could see his own reflection—or Hamish’s behind him—he could just make out the rooftop of Hamilton’s house on its gentle rise above the harbor and the sweep of the drive as it reached the gates and turned in.
And it intrigued him that the house, sheltered in its garden, was so visible from this angle. It would be easy to wait here and watch the comings and goings to the door. He made a mental note tomorrow to look in the other rooms on this side of the inn, to see if the view was as clear.
8
After conferring with the desk clerk after breakfast, Rutledge learned that the rooms to either side of his were not presently occupied, and he took the opportunity to look out their windows. But the inn’s chimneys blocked any view from the room to his right, while to the left a clump of trees in the rear garden of a house across the way broke up his line of sight sufficiently to shield most activity at the Hamilton home.
Number 15 offered the clearest view.
“Aye, but to what end?” Hamish asked him bluntly.
“Someone must have watched Hamilton leave his house on the morning he was attacked. Without necessarily being seen. As far as I can tell, other than the church tower the inn offers the best vantage point.”
The night desk clerk slept in his little room behind Reception. Anyone could step quietly through the inn door without waking him. And the stairs are only a stone’s throw away, carpeted and dark as pitch.
Rutledge decided to walk to the Hamilton residence this morning, a quieter approach than arriving by motorcar. The air was damp and cloudy, the sea a wintry gray and the tang of salt strong on the wind, mixed with the reek of the tideline. Gulls wheeled, dipping and calling raucously where a man sat cleaning his catch over the gunwale of his boat.
As he climbed the road, Rutledge turned to look at the headland across the b
ay. The woman waiting tables at breakfast had told him there had been landslips there in living memory. It no doubt explained why no one had built there, but five minutes later showed him the stone foundation of what appeared to be an ecclesiastical building rather than a house.
Hamish said, belligerent this morning, “You canna’ be sure.”
But he thought he could. The pattern of the stones seemed to indicate a round small chapel, perhaps once called St. Peter’s after the Fisherman, its tower a beacon to returning ships. Or dedicated to St. Michael, since that militant saint seemed to fancy the high ground.
And then the other side of the bay was cut off from view, and he could look down into the harbor and far out to sea. A fishing boat bobbed in the near distance, taking the weather in stride, but a man in a rowboat, coming around the cliff face and pulling for the Mole, was battling stiff currents.
Rutledge reached the Hamilton gate, nodding to the damp constable huddled under his cape beside a cedar that seemed to drip constantly, its own waterfall.
The tiled plate announcing Casa Miranda caught his attention. An exotic name for a stately Georgian house. But Hamilton might have wanted a nostalgic reminder of another life.
Rutledge went directly to the door and lifted the brass knocker, letting it fall heavily, like the stroke of doom.
It was daylight now, he thought. Such as it was. He prayed the ghosts would stand more easily at bay.
After a moment a weary male voice called, “Who’s there?”
“Rutledge. I’m alone.”
“Give me five minutes to be sure of that.”
Finally satisfied, Mallory let him inside but kept the door between himself and the gardens beyond, as if expecting a sniper waiting to pick him off.
“He’s haggard,” Hamish said, not without satisfaction as Rutledge and Mallory confronted each other in silence, both taking note of changes since they had fought together in France. Both searching for a middle ground that had nothing to do with France.
Mallory, looking at Rutledge, could see more clearly the toll the war had taken and the peace had not replaced.
Rutledge could read all too well the long lines of pain in the other man’s face, the dark circles of sleeplessness and strain under the eyes. How much of it had been put there by the past few days, Rutledge could only guess. But Mallory was tall and English fair and still handsome, and it was easy to see that he might be very attractive to women.
Hamish, reminding Rutledge, added, “The men didna’ like him.”
Crossing Hamish’s words, Mallory was saying, “Neither of us has prospered since France, it would seem.”
After a moment Rutledge said, “No. Few of us did.”
It was as if the empty words summed up four years of war for both men, neither willing to admit to the personal shadows that dwelled under the surface of the mind, neither wanting to bring any of it back. And yet the very act of standing here opened the nightmare in ways neither had foreseen.
For Rutledge it was the sound of a firing squad slamming a round home with nervous, ragged precision. And the memory of men lifting wooden stocks to their shoulders, sighting down the steel barrels at one of their own.
All for nothing—all for nothing.
For Mallory it was the voice of Dr. Beatie shouting at him, urging him to do what had to be done to end his suffering. Driving him to kill.
The awkward silence lengthened, and Mallory was the first to turn away, abruptly gesturing toward the drawing room. “In there. Where we won’t be overheard.”
His voice cracked on the words, and he cast a backward glance toward the stairs, as if expecting to see someone standing at the top of the flight.
Rutledge reminded himself of the task he’d been sent to accomplish. “Where is Mrs. Hamilton?” he asked, not leaving the hall. “And her maid? I shan’t bargain with you until I’m certain they’re safe.”
Mallory grimaced. “Damn it, they’re well enough. Felicity—Mrs. Hamilton—is still asleep. The maid—her name is Nan Weekes—is threatening me with God’s curse if I touch her. She might well be the best cleaning woman in Dorset, but she’s safe enough from rape, even in the dark. A few more days of the rough side of her tongue, and she’ll stand in greater danger of murder.” He’d meant it facetiously, but it hung in the air like a threat and he cursed himself for a fool.
“Mrs. Hamilton has made no effort to escape?” Rutledge asked, listening to the undercurrents in the quiet voice. For signs of instability, building forces that could end in murder-suicide.
“And leave Nan to my tender mercies? She’s not that sort. Are you coming into the drawing room or not?”
Rutledge followed him into the pretty room facing the gardens and the road, its walls covered in a shell-colored silk, the drapes and chairs a pale green striped with a soft shade of lavender. But the room’s feminine air didn’t detract from its ornaments, which appeared to reflect Hamilton’s years abroad in the Foreign Ser vice. Olive and other Mediterranean woods framed pen-and-ink sketches of places Hamilton must have visited on his travels, and on a table by the window there were tiny figures that looked to be Greek or Roman, many of them wearing masks and each of them elegantly made, reminding Rutledge of stage sets. African carvings in ebony, Hellenic gods in marble, and other exotic statuettes in clay and stone and wood were set out on the top of a cabinet containing two shelves of small ornate boxes in every imaginable material. Together these objects gave the room its masculine character. One figure, taking pride of place, was a fat woman with pendulous breasts and enormous thighs—but no head.
Mallory sat down heavily, as if he were on the verge of falling asleep where he stood. If he was armed, Rutledge could see no sign of it. But then it would be wise not to have a weapon where it could be taken away in a surprise move to disarm him.
“I heard about Corporal MacLeod’s death,” Mallory said into the silence. “Long afterward. I wish it had been me killed in that attack. But I wasn’t there, was I? I was behind the lines in that bloody hospital tent, trying to remember where I was and why I was strapped to my stretcher. You never told me how you’d survived.”
You weren’t there to tell—
Rutledge, caught unprepared, nearly spoke the thought aloud, but managed to say without inflection of any kind, “I’m not sure I did.”
Mallory nodded. “I hated you, you know. You kept going, no matter what happened. Like a dead man who hadn’t got the word. I hated that discipline. I hated your courage. I felt diminished by it.”
Rutledge found he couldn’t answer. If you only knew— After a moment, when he could trust his voice, he said, “It wasn’t courage, it was necessity.”
“Yes. Well.” Mallory looked at him for a moment and then said again, “I hated you. The only way I could get a grip on my own sanity was to face that.”
“I didn’t come here to talk about the war.”
Mallory ignored him. “I didn’t leave France by my own choice. You must know that. My uncle, the bishop, had influence in high places. He pulled me out when my father died. Compassionate leave. Then he saw to it that I stayed in England. He was my mother’s brother, he must have believed he was doing the right thing. She could have got on very well without me, but there you are. I didn’t handle it very well. I wasn’t very good at teaching bumbling tenant farmers and green shop clerks how to kill. I kept dreaming about them torn and dying, and you standing over them, blaming me for failing them and you. I wanted one of them to kill you. In the end, I had to do that for myself.”
“I don’t want to hear your confession. I have no right to hear it.”
“You heard our confessions often enough in the trenches,” Mallory retorted, his voice tight. “But I didn’t desert. I didn’t desert.”
Hamish growled deep in Rutledge’s mind, a wordless rejection of Mallory’s denial.
Rutledge stood there with nothing to say, and in some far corner of his being, he could hear the guns again, a perfect morning for gas, and he had t
o stop himself from putting up a hand to test the direction of the wind.
He couldn’t think of a way to deflect Mallory’s need to exonerate himself, and tried to shut it out, withdrawing from the insistent voice almost as he found himself withdrawing from the man.
“I just wanted to make it clear that I’m expecting no favors,” Mallory finished. “Spare me your pity, or whatever it is you feel toward me. Understand this. The only reason I sent for you is that stubborn bastard, Bennett. He wants my blood. And he’d have had it, if I hadn’t fended for myself.”
“You ran him down,” Rutledge pointed out, grateful for the shift in subject. He sat down on the other side of the room. “His foot is probably broken.”
Mallory sat up. “Did he tell you that?” He laughed harshly, without humor. “Yes, well, he would, wouldn’t he? The truth is, he was clinging to the motorcar, wouldn’t let go. When he fell off the door, it was bad luck that his foot was in the wrong place. It wasn’t intentional, and don’t you let him tell you it was.”
“Nevertheless—”
“No. Listen to me. I don’t know why he came to arrest me without any physical evidence and no eyewitness to put me at the scene. But he did. Someone must have told him I was once engaged to Mrs. Hamilton and would have been glad to see her husband out of the way.”
“It looks now to be the truth.”
“No, I tell you. I had nothing to do with the assault on Hamilton. The first I knew of it was Bennett standing in my doorway going on about a body found on the strand and asking me to come with him.” His voice was earnest as he leaned forward in his chair. “I didn’t even understand that it was Matthew he was talking about until he began insisting that I go with him. And then all I could think of was Felicity—Mrs. Hamilton. I had to see her, to tell her I hadn’t harmed Matthew. If Bennett believed it, he’d try to convince her as well. You weren’t there, you weren’t in my shoes—he’d already made up his mind, he had no intention of looking anywhere else. Once I was in custody, I’d be facing trial.”