A False Mirror

by Charles Todd

  “It wasn’t a waste of time,” Rutledge said, nodding to the constable under his tree as they turned out of the drive. “After all, this was the most likely place.”

  He drove fast, but with care on the wet roads. Air passing through the car brought a chill with it that cut through the drenched clothes clinging to his body, although the morning appeared to be warming up noticeably.

  They reached the Mole as the last man was getting into a cart, dragging a canvas sack over his head to keep dry.

  Bennett stood up in the wagon in which he was a passenger, thought better of clambering down again, and shouted across to Rutledge, “Where have you been?”

  “To the house—”

  But the inspector wasn’t interested. He called, “There’s been a landslip. To the west of here. A bad one, I’m told. We’re on our way to see the extent of the damage.” He motioned for Rutledge to follow, but the doctor objected angrily.

  “A landslip, is it? Then put me down here,” he said. “In an hour I’ll have a surgery full of patients, and there’s still Hamilton, if—when—you find him. You must tell Bennett what’s happened. I can’t take the time.”

  Rutledge paused to set the doctor down, and the man hurried off without a word, his umbrella bent to the wind, his feet sloshing through the rivulets of water running through the street. Then Rutledge put the car into gear again and hurried to catch up the tag end of the convoy heading west along the Devon road.

  Hamish was vocal, reminding Rutledge of the alarums in the night.

  “What the laddie saw. A man carrying anither man o’er his shoulder?”

  “And heading in the opposite direction from the Hamilton house. Yes, I was just thinking about that. Before the rain came.”

  “Aye. No tracks.”

  “And no tracks the last time. A wily bastard, this one.”

  He followed the convoy along the road that led toward the Devon border, but it wasn’t very long before they stopped and got out in the downpour, moving across a rising green headland that seemed to end in a jagged line across the horizon of the sea.

  Bennett stood there, crutch digging deep into the wet earth. “The cottage is gone,” he was saying. “And a good ten feet this side of it.” He raised his voice to call peremptorily, “Damn it, Tatum, don’t go any closer! There’s no certainty it’s finished falling, and we’d have no way of getting you out.”

  One of the towns people stopped where he was, then gingerly backed away from the edge, nodding. “True,” he said. “If it weren’t for this infernal rain, we could have a better look from the water.” There were cows grazing peacefully nearer the road, but none had ventured as far as the landslip. Seagulls were wheeling overhead, calling to one another and dipping out of sight to where the land had shifted and fallen. “A feast for the likes of them,” Tatum went on.

  The men were strung out in a rough line, staring at the sight. One of them turned to Rutledge and said, “It happens from time to time. In my grandda’s day, three houses and a barn went over. That was a bad one.”

  “You said there was a cottage here?”

  “If you could call it that. A tumbledown ruin, where no one cared to live. And you can see why, can’t you? The last resident there was a brother to Mr. Reston. The black sheep in the family, you might say.” He grinned. “He’ll be glad enough that the cottage is gone now. People will finally forget it existed.”

  “Black sheep?” Rutledge asked, curious. There had been no mention of a brother. “Does he drink?”

  The man shook his head. “Nothing so tame. A general reprobate. Wild for the ladies, if you could call them that. Gambled on whether a fly would land on his dinner. A petty thief and a troublemaker. When Freddy died, brother George must have fallen down on his knees in gratitude.”

  “What happened to him?”

  The man frowned. “Odd, now that you mention it. He drowned on the strand, not a dozen yards from where they found Mr. Hamilton’s body.”

  Bennett was calling to his men. “There’s nothing we can do here after all. Might as well get out of the wet.” He limped heavily toward the vehicle that had brought him out here, then veered as if the prospect of jolting back to town in a wagon wasn’t a welcome one. “Seeing that you’re here, Rutledge, I’ll drive back with you. Save some time.”

  The man who had been talking with Rutledge quietly faded away, as if their conversation had never taken place. Rutledge nodded to him, but there was no return nod.

  Rutledge had left the motor running, and as he climbed in and Bennett swung his muddy crutch into the rear seat, Hamish said, “’Ware!”

  Turning the motorcar was a dicey proposition, for the ground was saturated and the tires sank deep. Rutledge gave the maneuver the attention it deserved while Bennett took out a handkerchief to dry his face.

  “I saw Dr. Granville with you. One of the women having hysterics? Nan Weekes, most likely. Mrs. Hamilton doesn’t appear to be the sort. But then you never know, especially if Mallory decided to make free with her.”

  Rutledge responded in a neutral voice, “Matthew Hamilton is missing.”

  Bennett swung around so that he could see Rutledge’s face.

  “Missing? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “When Dr. Granville looked in on him this morning, he wasn’t there.”

  “You’re saying he came to his senses and just walked out?”

  “We don’t know. He wasn’t there. I went at once to search the Hamilton house and grounds, but if he’s at Casa Miranda, I can’t find him. Unless he knows some way of concealing himself there. When I saw the gathering on the Mole, I assumed someone had sent for you, to tell you where to look. That this was a search party setting out.”

  Bennett swore, long and feelingly. “Why didn’t Granville come to me, damn it? And what possessed the fool to leave? He’ll take his death in this rain. That blow on the head must have unsettled his mind.”

  “Or someone was afraid he might regain his senses and remember more than was safe.”

  Bennett stared at him again. “You’re saying he didn’t walk away? That someone’s got rid of him?”

  “There was the Cornelius boy’s nightmare. He saw something in the night. His mother told me it was a hunchback walking through the mist.”

  “Pshaw! That’s nonsense.”

  “It might fit. If someone carried Matthew Hamilton over his shoulder.”

  “Then where in hell’s name would he have taken him? And on foot? He’s no lightweight, is Hamilton.”

  “A good question.” Rutledge slowed as he reached the Mole. He didn’t add that there were two motorcars to choose from at Casa Miranda, and a horse. Or that the constable had taken shelter under a tree, where in the heavier downpours, he could hear very little. “Do you want to get down here? I’d like to find a boat willing to take me around to the landslip. Before that I want to speak to Cornelius’s son. In light of what’s happened since last night.”

  “A boat in this weather? And what’s there to see, I ask you? Don’t be a fool, you’re here to attend to Hamilton and his affairs, not to see the sights. Take me to Granville’s surgery, if you will. A child’s nightmare won’t help us forward. There may be something Dr. Granville missed in his panic.”

  Rutledge stopped at the walk to Granville’s surgery door and waited while Bennett got down. Bennett stood for a moment in the rain, as if torn between duties. “You’re not coming?” he asked finally. “Are you insisting on going to the Cornelius house first?”

  The last thing Rutledge wanted was Bennett’s harsh impatience frightening an already frightened child. He compromised. “All right, I’ll come here after I have a chat with young Jeremy.” He glanced at the sky. The clouds had darkened again as another heavy squall approached. Not the best conditions for an open boat, as even Hamish was pointing out.

  “If Hamilton is loose, he’s in that house.” Bennett shifted his umbrella against the shadow of more rain sweeping across behind them. “Wha
t I’m hoping is that Mallory was careless. If he was the one who took Hamilton away.”

  “I’ve told you, I searched the grounds and the house carefully.”

  “Not carefully enough, in my book. What better place to keep an eye on the man and his recovering memory than under your thumb? No one ever said Mallory was a fool.”

  “That’s not something I want to contemplate,” Rutledge replied. “What’s even more worrying is if Hamilton went there under his own power, he could be out for revenge. Do you think he’s that sort? You know him, I don’t.”

  Bennett gave it a moment’s thought. “If I were Mallory, if I didn’t have the man myself, I’d be looking over my shoulder about now.”

  Then he was gone, making his way up the walk to the surgery door.

  Hamish watched him go, saying, “It could be true.”

  Rutledge answered slowly, “He could also have been taken to that cottage that just fell into the sea. In which case, we might never see him again, or find his body.”

  “It’s no’ verra’ likely. A verra’ long way to carry a man’s body withoot being seen.”

  Rutledge drew up in front of the Cornelius house. “I grant you. But if I were planning to do away with Matthew Hamilton, I’d have carried him as far as I could on foot, well away from Granville’s surgery, and put him somewhere out of sight, until I could come back with some sort of transportation.” It had been a risk, with the constable on duty. The horse, then, not a motorcar. But Jeremy hadn’t seen a horse.

  “Ye ken, Mallory’s cottage is standing empty.”

  “There’s that, as well.”

  When Rutledge presented himself at her door, Mrs. Cornelius was reluctant to let even an inspector from London interview her son this morning. Her manner was polite but firm, her expression cool and distant.

  “He seems to have got over his fright, and I don’t want to remind him.”

  “I shan’t worry him about it,” Rutledge said with a smile. “But I need to have a better feeling for what was out there—if anything. You say the nanny never saw whatever it was?”

  “No one saw it but Jeremy. I expect he was half asleep and hardly knew how to describe what he witnessed, except in terms of monsters. I’ve told you, he’s a child of immense imagination.”

  “And too young to tell anything but the exact truth,” Rutledge reminded her. “I won’t do him any harm. I promise you.”

  In the end he got his way, and the boy was brought down from the nursery to meet him. Well aware that his clothes were too wet to sit on the blue silk that covered the sitting room chairs, Rutledge pulled a wooden one away from the cherry desk under the windows and tried to make himself appear comfortable as he waited.

  In the doorway Mrs. Cornelius stood aside and let her son precede her across the threshold.

  A sturdy six-year-old, with intelligent dark eyes and a rather sensitive face, Rutledge thought as Jeremy walked into the sitting room. He was his father’s son in build, and his mother’s in looks. An only child, and not spoiled.

  Hamish agreed. “No’ a lad to imagine something sae grisly.”

  Rutledge greeted the boy and asked him to sit down for a moment. “Your mother tells me you enjoy looking out your window at night. Do you have an interest in the stars?”

  Jeremy glanced at his mother, and then said, “I like the night. I see the fishermen going out, sometimes, and the stars when there’s no moon.” He smiled broadly. “Mrs. Ingram’s cat digs up Mrs. Witherspoon’s roses. She thinks it’s the Harmon dog.”

  Rutledge laughed, pleased to find the boy so articulate. “I shan’t tell her that.”

  “No. I like the cat. The dog is small and nips at my heels when my mother takes me to visit Mrs. Harmon. She always smells of peppermint, but the dog is always in need of a bath.”

  His mother was about to admonish him, then thought better of it, standing guard at his back with her gaze fixed on Rutledge’s face.

  But it was Jeremy who was more perceptive. “Were you in the war, sir?”

  “Yes, I was. In France.”

  “My uncle died of wounds at Gallipoli. I don’t remember him very well. He was quite brave, my grandfather tells me.”

  “I’m sure he was,” Rutledge answered.

  “Were you brave too?”

  Mrs. Cornelius said, “Jeremy.”

  But Rutledge, his throat tight, said, “I was given a medal.” As if that was a measure of courage. “There were others who deserved it more.” He coughed, then changed the direction of the conversation. “Tell me what you saw in the streets last night? Do you remember?”

  The child nodded gravely, taking courage from his mother’s presence. “I didn’t like it,” he said.

  “Was it shaped like a bear?”

  “There aren’t any bears in Hampton Regis,” the boy answered him scornfully. “And I’ve never been to the zoo in London. Have you?”

  “Many times,” Rutledge informed him. “My parents took me once. I particularly liked the giraffes. They have purple tongues.”

  Jeremy seemed enthralled with the idea. “Truly purple?”

  “Truly. Now tell me about what you saw. If it wasn’t a bear, what was it?”

  “A man without a head,” he said uneasily, moving closer to his mother. “I didn’t like it.”

  “A big man, taller than I am?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Wider than I am?”

  “I couldn’t tell. I didn’t like it that he didn’t have a head.”

  “I expect that’s true. I wouldn’t care for it myself.”

  Mrs. Cornelius was once more on the point of commenting, then fell silent again. But her eyes had grown anxious.

  “You were quite a brave boy to tell your mother what you saw. I expect it was a fisherman with a heavy net over his shoulders. You weren’t likely to see his head then, were you?”

  The boy was suddenly still. “You think so?”

  “It could be,” Rutledge answered. “But I wasn’t there, and I didn’t see him.”

  Jeremy appeared to be replaying the scene in his mind. “But I don’t think it was,” he finally said. “He stumbled as he walked. As if he couldn’t see.”

  “Was it two men, do you think? One with another over his shoulders? Carrying him because his friend couldn’t walk far?”

  The boy seemed to relax. “Yes, I hadn’t thought of that.” He smiled. “That was a nice thing to do, although I shouldn’t like to be carried with my head hanging down. It would hurt after a while, wouldn’t it?”

  “Perhaps they didn’t have far to go.” Over the boy’s head, his eyes met Mrs. Cornelius’s.

  And then Jeremy said, out of the blue, “I saw Mr. Harmon bring his son home that way one night. After he’d stayed late at The Merry Tinker. He was walking beside his father, and then didn’t seem to be able to find his legs. They went in different directions. And his father put him across his shoulder for the rest of the way.”

  “Did Mr. Harmon have a head?”

  “No. I couldn’t see it for Lawrence.”

  “Well, there you are. You’ve been a very great help, Jeremy. Your mother must be proud of you.” Rutledge rose to leave.

  “Yes, very proud,” Mrs. Cornelius replied.

  But Jeremy was still thinking about other matters, and he said as Rutledge reached the sitting room door, “It wasn’t quite the same, you know, as Mr. Harmon. Somehow. I didn’t like it.”

  On the street in front of the Cornelius house, Rutledge was met by an out-of-breath constable who nearly collided with him before he could slow his pace.

  “Mr. Rutledge, sir!” He leaned one hand against the wing of the motorcar, fighting to get the words out. “Mr. Bennett says—come at once!”

  Rutledge turned the crank and stepped behind the wheel. “What’s happened?”

  The constable shook his head. “I’m not to say, sir—only, come at once.” He hauled himself into the passenger seat and pointed toward the Mole.

/>   The sea had yielded its secret, then.

  But as Rutledge reached the Mole and realized that no crowd was gathered there, the constable gestured east and added, “Dr. Granville’s surgery.”

  “They’ve found Hamilton,” Rutledge said to Hamish. “Alive or dead?”

  He wasn’t aware that he’d spoken the words aloud.

  The constable stirred uneasily. “I don’t know, sir. Truly.”

  It was a grim-faced Bennett who met him at the surgery. Leaving the constable to take up his station on the front walk, he ushered Rutledge down the passage to the door that led to the doctor’s consulting room.

  Granville was seated in a chair usually reserved for patients, looking drained and ill. There was a whiskey glass in one hand, but it was shaking with such force that the man couldn’t even bring it to his lips.

  Bennett, on Rutledge’s heels, said, “Look behind the desk.”

  Rutledge went to the massive desk and leaned over it.

  He had been prepared to see Hamilton lying there dead. But it wasn’t Hamilton on the floor, just out of sight from the doorway. It was a woman, facedown, the hair on the back of her head matted with blood, her legs crumpled under her.

  He knew her at once. Mrs. Granville.

  Rutledge glanced at Bennett, then knelt to touch the side of her throat. The flesh was cool, and there was no pulse.

  He straightened up and stepped away. Looking down at the body, he could picture her coming into the room and crossing to the desk, perhaps to leave a note for her husband. If there had been someone behind her, she hadn’t feared him. Or perhaps if the room was dark, she hadn’t even realized anyone was there. And as she reached the side of the desk, whoever it was had struck her hard enough to kill her. He noted that she was wearing a nightdress with a matching blue silk robe over it, her bare feet encased in incongruously plain woolly slippers. She hadn’t expected to find a murderer here. A woman with no defenses, and no need to die, surely. A doctor’s wife, used to tending patients, unprepared for violence.

  He felt a wash of pity. She would not have cared to be seen by so many men while in her nightdress.

  Hamish said, “She couldna’ be mistaken for the doctor. Even in the dark.”