by Charles Todd
It was a difficult admission to make, that the marriage had had its secrets. But had it been a true bargain? Rutledge wondered. Had her own guilty memories made her believe that Matthew Hamilton was deliberately concealing something from her? His silences might have been no more than a deep and abiding fear of one day losing his wife. By the same token, Felicity Hamilton had no way of judging, young as she was, the breadth of Hamilton’s experiences in foreign ser vice. What secrets he was privy to, what mistakes he had made.
There was anguish in Mallory’s eyes as he watched her cry, and his hands moved once to comfort her, and then drew back.
“Surely there was someone at the wedding, someone who came to call when you were in London—a place for me to start?” Rutledge pressed her.
But she shook her head, and Mallory said protectively, “She’s told you. She can’t help.”
And then he shut the door, as if raising a shield between Felicity Hamilton and the world outside.
It was a tender gesture, in a way, an odd sort of moment between captor and captive.
As he stood there, staring at the brass knocker and the solid wood panels of the door closed in his face, Rutledge found himself thinking that this was more a wretched triangle than what it had seemed in the beginning—Mallory’s desperate effort to stay out of prison.
Over Hamish’s objections, Rutledge drove back to Dr. Granville’s surgery, let himself in quietly through the back garden, and sat down by the bedside of the wounded man.
“You mustna’ do this,” the voice in his head warned him, and he shut it out.
After a time Rutledge began to speak to the unconscious Hamilton. At first about that island in the Mediterranean that had been such a large part of Hamilton’s life, and then of his marriage, and finally, running short of material to fill the gaps in his knowledge of husband or wife, about the war.
Rutledge found himself back in the trenches as he spoke, his body tense and his mind distracted not by fear of dying but by the unbearable fear that he wouldn’t die.
Hamish rumbled in the back of his mind, emotions filling the narrow room and spilling over into silences that grew increasingly longer as Rutledge tried to avoid the personal and keep to an objective view of the war.
Except for what he’d read or been told since, he knew nothing about the peace that had been fought over and turned into punishment for Germany, each participating nation stretching out greedy hands for what they wanted out of the shambles of dead men’s suffering. He’d been locked in his own private hell while Wilson and Lloyd George and Clemenceau created the new world in their own images. The defeated Kaiser was gone, shut in his tiny estate in Holland, and the Tsar, deposed and dragged around Russia like a trophy until he was no longer of any value to anyone, was dead.
Wilson had been fixated on his League of Nations, and he was willing to trade like a tinker for anything of value in return for support. Ill and heartbroken, he’d been defeated in turn, carrying the League home like a dying comrade. And the concept of self-determination had brought Arabs and Slavs and Africans and Indians to the table to plead for their tiny patches.
What did Hamilton know about any of this? Why had he gone to Paris uninvited, and then been sent away as sharply, as if he had overstepped his bounds? If the Foreign Office hadn’t named him to the official delegation, he had no business there, and certainly no right to speak his mind as he had done. Or did the war have nothing to do with Hampton Regis and what had happened on the strand below the Mole?
Rutledge brought himself sharply back to the present and, for want of any other topic, began to talk about the case he’d left behind in London.
Hamish, receding into the shadows only a little, was crowding him now, seeming to block the door and shut out the very air with his ominous presence.
Why were there no windows in this wretched room? Why was there no sunlight to brighten it, or a wind from the sea to refresh it? It smelled of antiseptic and death and pain. Hardly an encouragement to live.
Increasingly claustrophobic and uneasy, wishing himself anywhere but here, Rutledge at first didn’t hear the grunt as Hamilton moved a little on his narrow bed. It was followed by what sounded like a word, garbled and twisted by the bruised lips. Rutledge turned to stare at the bandage-swathed patient beside him.
And this time Hamilton said, quite clearly, “Water.”
Rutledge reached for the carafe standing on the small table next to the bed, and in his haste almost knocked the glass onto the floor. He half filled it and knelt by the cot, holding up Hamilton’s head so that he could try to sip the water.
It was difficult at first, clumsily done, but then Hamilton seemed to find the knack of drinking without hurting his mouth or spilling the contents of the glass down his chest. He was thirsty, but after a time, exhausted by sheer effort, he closed his eyes and lay back again on Rutledge’s arm.
Rutledge lowered him gently back to the pillows and set the glass aside. Hamilton seemed to be breathing quietly, and for a time Rutledge thought he must have lapsed into unconsciousness again.
But then he said, hoarsely, “Felicity?” And after that, “Who’s there?”
Rutledge answered, “I’m from London. I came to investigate what happened to you. Do you remember? Can you remember?”
He groaned again as he moved a little, then touched his bandages lightly, as if not sure what they were or why they covered him. “Do I know this place?”
“You’re in Dr. Granville’s surgery. In Hampton Regis. Someone found you—”
Hamilton interrupted, saying fretfully, “You came all this way from London? But I’ve resigned, you know. It’s finished. I’ve only to close up the house in Valletta.”
And then, as if there was a crack in the confusion, he added roughly, “Felicity? Forgive me!”
Rutledge waited, trying to decide what to say to him about her circumstances, and in the end saying nothing.
But the injured man had tired himself, slipping easily into sleep or into unconsciousness, Rutledge couldn’t tell.
He waited there for another five minutes, but there was no further response. After that, he went in search of Dr. Granville.
The doctor was not impressed by Rutledge’s account of Hamilton’s brief period of apparent wakefulness. Rutledge could also feel the man’s unspoken condemnation for interfering with the welfare of a patient. But he believed he’d done no harm and stood silently beside the doctor, looking down at Hamilton as Granville examined him.
“He made sense, you say?”
“Of a kind, yes. I’ve told you. He was thirsty, drank a little, and twice spoke his wife’s name. He wanted to know who I was, and then there was something more about closing up the house. He touched his bandages but didn’t ask how he’d come by them. He wasn’t rambling. At the same time, he wasn’t fully aware of his circumstances.”
“I wish you’d called me straightaway, so that I could have judged for myself.”
“There wasn’t time.”
Dr. Granville was considering Rutledge as if he’d deliberately delayed in calling for help, in the hope that Hamilton might say something that would shed light on the beating. He turned back to the bed as Hamilton started moving his head from side to side on the pillow in silent distress.
Hamish said softly, “He’s reliving the blows.”
Granville gestured toward his patient. “Look, you can see for yourself he’s at a level of consciousness now where he’s beginning to feel the full force of his pain. I shall have to sedate him, and that’s dangerous. It’s never wise to push head injuries too soon. Leave well enough alone. That’s an order.”
After a moment, Rutledge said, “Still, he should begin to recover now, wouldn’t you think? Having come this far?”
Granville was busy. “He’s warmer than he ought to be. A degree or two of fever, in fact, if I’m not mistaken. Did you upset him, telling him why his wife wasn’t sitting here with him?”
“Most certainly not. I said
nothing about Mrs. Hamilton.”
“And nothing about Mallory?”
“Nothing.”
Granville opened the door and gestured for Rutledge to precede him from the room. “We’ll leave him to rest. If his fever continues to rise, I’ll give him something for it later. And I’ll see that there’s some broth to hand, in the event he wakes again.”
“Someone should be here. You can’t hear him while you’re busy with your other patients,” Rutledge pressed, following Granville down the passage. “Or for that matter, from your house.”
The doctor said, “I’ll have to find someone I can trust.”
“As soon as possible. If I can walk in here without being seen, anyone can. Lock that garden door for starters.”
“I can’t. My wife and I use it regularly.” Granville ushered Rutledge out and went to sit at his desk, his fingers laced on the blotter in front of him. And then after a moment, he got up and went back to where Hamilton lay, silent and vulnerable.
Rutledge returned to the inn for a late luncheon, and sat there quietly by himself in a corner of the small dining room. On the walls were photographs of sailing vessels, usually in full rig, sails billowing out and the sea breaking as the bow cleaved it. One was a Chinese junk, another a felucca on the Nile, a third making its way up what appeared to be the Amazon, the rain forest bending out over the river, spreading deep and ominous shadows across the water. The technique was good, and the photographer had had a nice eye for composition, using it subtly and to great effect.
The woman who was serving him was a little flustered, as if this wasn’t her normal duty. She smiled ruefully as his soup spilled onto the plate under the bowl, and said, “Sorry! Becky usually does this, but she’s not been well enough this week. I’m a very poor substitute.”
“Not at all,” he responded politely. “She’s recovering, I hope?”
“Mumps,” she said with a sigh. “And at her age! Dr. Granville tells me that one can have them again, if the first time was long enough ago and quite mild. I look in my mirror every morning, wondering if I’ll come down with them next. The doctor is a good man. He sat with her most of Sunday night, when her fever was so high. And we’re not allowed to visit. One of the maids looks after her.”
“She’s here, in the inn?”
“In the servants’ wing. It’s the only home she has.”
Rutledge tried to remember when he’d had mumps. Bowles would call for his head, if he got them now. Measles had spread through the trenches. That had been nothing compared with the sweep of the influenza epidemic.
When the woman brought his next course, he asked, “Is there anyone living in or near Hampton Regis by the name of Cole? A Miss Cole?”
“No, sorry. I don’t believe there is. Perhaps it would help if you knew her married name?” But he didn’t, and she was off to the kitchen once more.
For once even Hamish was quiet. There were only a handful of people in the room. Two women who looked enough alike to be sisters. Two men having an earnest discussion at a table by the window. Three women nearer the door who cast occasional glances in his direction as if they knew who he was. Their low-voiced conversation had about it the intensity of gossip. But it was one of the men by the window who came across to his table as they were leaving. The shorter one, with graying hair and a scar across his face.
“I’m George Reston,” he said, not holding out his hand. “I serve with Matthew Hamilton on the vestry committee. Is there any improvement in his condition?”
Reston…who held the goddess against Hamilton, or so the rector had told him.
“He’s in guarded condition,” Rutledge responded.
“Such a pity.” But the cold expression in his eyes belied his words.
Hamish’s voice rumbled through Rutledge’s mind. “He’s of the opinion Hamilton came by his just reward.”
Rutledge had to agree with that. Aloud, he said, “Yes, assault usually is.”
Reston stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“He was struck from behind. A cowardly way of settling a score, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”
Reston said only, “We are praying for him.” And he turned on his heel to go.
But Rutledge stopped him, rising to stand looking down at him. “We’re asking everyone in Hampton Regis to tell us where he or she was early Monday morning.”
Reston retorted tightly, “Are you suggesting that I’m a suspect?” His jaw was flexing with his anger.
Rutledge replied blandly, “We’re looking for witnesses. Anyone who might have seen anything, anyone who might have heard something. Perhaps unwittingly able to give us a small piece of information to solve the puzzle of what transpired there on the strand. I’m sure you’ll want to assist us with the inquiry?”
Reston seemed taken aback. “I was probably having breakfast with my wife.”
“When do you have breakfast?”
“When? Er, seven o’clock, I should think.”
“And when do you leave the house—as a rule?”
“I’m in my office at the bank by eight.”
The women at the other table had turned to stare, absorbing every word to repeat later to friends. Reston cast them a dark glance over his shoulder.
“I don’t pass the Mole on my way to the bank,” he went on, collecting himself. “If that’s what interests you.”
“Did you know Matthew Hamilton before he went to his posting in the Mediterranean?”
Something in Reston’s face changed, so swiftly that Rutledge wasn’t sure what it signified. “I’m afraid not. My first contact with him was through correspondence, when he was in search of a house along this stretch of the coast.”
“Thank you, Mr. Reston. I appreciate your cooperation.” Rutledge retrieved his serviette and sat down again, ending the conversation.
It was on the tip of Reston’s tongue to say something more, but he stopped himself and this time took his leave. His companion for lunch had already gone out, and Reston seemed annoyed when the woman serving tables told him as much.
Rutledge went back to his meal and made a point not to look at the three women who had been eavesdropping. After a time, they resumed their low-voiced conversation.
Hamish said, “Will ye speak to them as well?”
“Not now,” Rutledge answered. “I don’t think one of them could have overpowered Hamilton. Someone took a chance, striking him from behind. The first blow might not have been enough to stop him. But I’d wager whoever it was was prepared to finish what he’d started, if Hamilton did turn.”
“The youngest lass has a cane.” It was an observation that Rutledge had failed to make.
He quietly examined the woman more closely. She was indeed younger than her companions, perhaps in her early thirties. And taller. That was food for thought. He nodded to the woman serving, settled his reckoning, and went out to the desk in the lobby.
The middle-aged clerk was still there, reading a book that he hastily closed and put away when he saw that Rutledge was coming toward him.
“Can you give me the names of the three women seated together in the dining room?”
The clerk was surprised. He repeated, “The three women?”
“Yes,” Rutledge answered impatiently. The clerk took a sheet of paper from a drawer behind the desk and carefully printed out three names.
“How do I tell them apart?” Rutledge asked.
“Mrs. Jordan is in black. She’s a widow. Mrs. Tibbet is in blue, the one with the graying hair. Miss Esterley uses a cane since her accident.”
“Accident?”
“Yes. Mr. Hamilton struck her bicycle one night during a rainstorm, as he was coming down from London.”
“I see. Could you give me her direction?”
The clerk stared at him. “She’s still in the dining room, if you’d care to speak with her.”
Rutledge smiled. “In front of her friends? I think not.”
He was waiting by the gate to Miss E
sterley’s front garden when she walked around the corner on her way home. She hesitated. Then, after a moment’s consideration, she continued in his direction, and as she came up with him, she said, “I’m to be favored by a visit from the man from London. I wonder why?”
Rutledge smiled and gave his name.
“Yes, yes, everyone knows who you are. Come in. There’ll be gossip enough as it is. We might as well sit and be comfortable.”
He followed her up the walk and into the house. It was small, comfortable, and nicely set up. The parlor, to the right of the door, was uncluttered, and a gray cat was curled up on a mat by the small fire in the hearth.
Rutledge had noted her stride. She seemed to manage quite well, and he found himself wondering if the cane was now an affectation. It was of rosewood, with a silver figure for a handle. A swan, he thought, although it was mostly hidden by her gloved hand. Feminine, and very elegant.
She ushered him into the parlor as a maid appeared from the back of the house and took Miss Esterley’s coat and gloves.
“That will be all, Nell,” she said, dismissing the girl. “Now, Inspector, why should you be standing at my gate? Has someone told you that Matthew Hamilton put me in hospital for three months? I hardly think that’s cause to batter him to death. But you may look at my cane, if you wish.”
He met her smile with one of his own. “I’m interested in anyone who has a connection with him. How did the accident happen?”
“It was my fault, actually. I’d stayed late with a friend who was ill. Reading to her. The storm came up rather suddenly, and I made a dash for it. Unfortunately, I didn’t dash soon enough, and the rain caught me halfway home. It was dark as pitch, wind lashing the trees, and I should have stopped. But I thought, Only a little farther, and I’m safe. His motor came around the next bend and struck me before he even knew I was there. I’d seen his lights but thought I had time to pull across the road and into the shelter of some trees. Ridiculous to be worried about being splashed, I was already as wet as I could ever be. But you don’t always think rationally, do you, on the spur of the moment?”