A False Mirror

by Charles Todd

  What did Felicity Hamilton really want? Or to put it another way, which of the two men tied to her emotionally did she love?

  He deliberately changed the direction of the conversation. “You suggested in the nave of your church that I might wish to speak to a Miss Cole. Where do I find her?”

  “I can’t tell you that, I’m afraid. I only know of her because Matthew Hamilton spoke of her that one time. He described her as the most honorable and the most stubborn person he’d ever known. An odd compliment to pay a lady, you’d have thought. It stayed with me, what he’d said. I had the feeling it was very important to him, somehow.”

  The most honorable woman…In what sense? And Felicity Hamilton hadn’t recognized the name.

  “There’s one other possibility,” Rutledge continued. “There’s a cottage just west of here where Reston’s brother Freddy lived for some time.”

  Putnam’s eyebrows flew up. “But that cottage was derelict. And if it went over with the landslip this morning, there will be nothing left but splintered wood.”

  “No one could have foreseen that, could they? And Freddy Reston drowned not far from where Hamilton was discovered on the strand.”

  Putnam clicked his tongue. “As a matter of fact, the finding was that he’d fallen asleep there drunk as a lord, and choked on his own vomit. It’s the family that prefers to tell everyone he drowned.”

  “Freddy Reston’s death could have given someone the idea of leaving Hamilton there by the tideline. And later it could also have occurred to someone that the cottage where Reston had lived stood empty. I’m not overly fond of coincidences.”

  “But surely you aren’t suggesting that George Reston—and what reason could he have? That ridiculous clay figure is hardly grounds for murdering a man.”

  “For all any of us know,” Rutledge told him, smiling ruefully, “Hamilton’s relationship with Reston could have gone far beyond the original disagreement.” He stopped himself from saying anything about Reston’s past history of violence but did add, “George Reston is a man of temper. You’ve seen it, and so have I.”

  “Yes, alas, it’s true. Still, a good man underneath.”

  Was that what he truly felt? Or was it only a priest’s need to believe that no man could be wholly evil?

  As Rutledge started to walk on, Putnam said, “You aren’t going to be foolish enough to take a boat around to the slip in this weather, are you? You’ll be lucky to reach the slip without swamping, much less be able to clamber about what’s left of the cottage.”

  Rutledge stopped and said over his shoulder, “Yes, well, perhaps someone was lucky. The question is, who?”

  “Would you mind if I asked Dr. Granville to come with me to the rectory? I don’t care for the idea of leaving him here, with so many reminders of his wife everywhere he looks. He’ll be better able to cope with them later.”

  Remembering the threat Granville had made against Mallory, Rutledge said, “By all means. I’d ask Bennett as well, if I were you.”

  Putnam smiled. “Indeed,” he said, as if he had felt the tension between the two policemen.

  Bennett, waiting for them in the kitchen, agreed at once to the suggestion, with the caveat that he didn’t think Granville would leave his surgery.

  But the persuasive rector was able to convince Dr. Granville to stay in the rectory for a few days, “away from here. Until you can come to grips with all that’s happened.”

  Granville got to his feet, looking around as if he barely recognized his own kitchen. “It’s raining,” he said. “I’ll need my coat. And my bag.”

  He was less pale now as the nausea faded, but his features were slack with exhaustion, and he had asked twice to Rutledge’s knowledge what had become of his wife’s body, as if he’d failed to take in the answer the first time.

  Indeed, whatever was proposed to him was accepted without question, and Rutledge thought, “If we asked him to walk into the sea, he might well do it.”

  Rutledge found the doctor’s coat and helped him into it, then handed him his hat.

  At that point, the trained medical man came to the fore, and Granville said, frowning, “I have hours this morning. And Will Joyner is quite ill. I intended to look in on him again this afternoon.”

  “Your patients will be taken care of,” Putnam said soothingly. “If there’s anyone in dire need, like Joyner, we can send again for Dr. Hester. I’ll ask Miss Trining to post a note on your door, and people can come to her to be sorted out. She’s very trustworthy.”

  “Yes.” Granville stood there as if unconvinced.

  Bennett said, “Best go with him, sir. At least for the present.”

  When Putnam and Granville had left for the rectory, Bennett turned to Rutledge. “Well, then, what do you expect to do now? We’ve Hamilton missing and Mrs. Granville dead.”

  Rutledge considered taking the boat around the headland, and then dismissed it. The rain was heavier, although the wind, shifting to the south, was considerably warmer.

  He said now, “Is there a gate from the back garden to the street behind the house?”

  “In fact there is. Look, you can just glimpse it where the ash tree overhangs it.” He led Rutledge to the window and pointed. “Ornamental, not meant to keep people out. The Granvilles had a little dog once, I expect that’s why they put in the fence. You can also see that the distance from the surgery door to the gate is not that great.”

  “What’s on the other side?”

  “A lane used to bring horses and carriages round from the stables.”

  Rutledge stood looking out the window, his back half to Bennett. “Apparently Granville didn’t see fit to lock his doors. Which tells me the gate wasn’t locked either.”

  “I don’t think most people lock up, even at night. Why should they?”

  “But Granville knew Hamilton could still be in danger. He should have taken a few precautions.” He remembered what Putnam had said—that there would have been two dead in the surgery, not one. Bennett ought to have posted a constable at the door, but he’d complained of being shorthanded.

  “You can’t blame him more than he’s already blamed himself. There was a nurse, set to come tonight. She was to sleep in the room next to Hamilton’s.” He shook his head. “She was a good woman, Mrs. Granville. You’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who disagreed with that.”

  The wrong place at the wrong time…Rutledge sighed.

  “I’ll drive you wherever you’d like to go. For the moment there’s nothing more we can do here,” he told Bennett. “And I should have put a call in to London an hour ago.”

  “I won’t argue with that. My foot has all the imps of hell pounding it, ever since the doctor kicked it. Give me an hour to rest it, and I’ll be waiting for you to come for me. You’ll do well to get out of those wet clothes, while you can.”

  When he had rid himself of Bennett, instead of returning to the Duke of Monmouth, Rutledge made his way to Mallory’s cottage outside of Hampton Regis.

  It wasn’t very hard to find, just down a short lane off the main road leading inland. There were no near neighbors.

  If anyone had been inside since Mallory left in such haste, there was no sign of it. The rooms were tidy, the bed made with military precision, the kitchen clear of dirty dishes. But there was an empty whiskey bottle on the table by the best chair in the parlor, and a glass beside it with dregs in the bottom. The air still smelled faintly of a long night of drinking. As if Mallory had never gone to bed.

  “Drowning his sorrows,” Hamish said. “Ye ken, there’s no witness to call him a liar.”

  It would be difficult to prove otherwise.

  And this cottage was the perfect place to conceal Hamilton, alive, dead, or about to be killed. Rutledge had been too busy searching the house above the harbor to think of coming here. After that, Mrs. Granville’s death had changed the course of the day.

  If Bennett or one of his men had discovered Hamilton here, it would serve to condemn Mall
ory. By the same token, even the constable outside Casa Miranda would have to swear he hadn’t seen anyone leave the house.

  Hamish said, “It isna’ sae perfect a place, then.”

  Not if the intent was to see Mallory hang.

  Rutledge walked around the outside of the cottage, searching for tracks or indications that anyone had tried to use a shovel in the wet earth. It was only for thoroughness. He knew he’d find nothing.

  He drove next to Miss Esterley’s house. She owed Matthew Hamilton for the care given to her after her accident, and he might have felt he could turn to her.

  Miss Esterley received him in the small parlor, concern on her face. “Gossip is rampant, Inspector. Mr. Hamilton missing, possibly dead. I’m not particularly happy, living here alone with murderers about.”

  “I can sympathize,” he answered, taking the chair she indicated across from her. “But there’s nothing I can tell you that will offer comfort.”

  “Which says,” she told him bluntly, “you have no idea who is behind this madness.”

  “I was hoping,” he said, keeping his voice neutral as he glanced toward the cane at her side, “that Matthew Hamilton might have felt he could turn to you in his time of need.” The beautifully wrought silver swan seemed to mock him. The way the head was drawn back, the breast thrust forward under it. It was possible, he thought, but only just.

  She was staring at him. “Are you suggesting that I’m hiding Matthew here, in my house?”

  “I’m suggesting that if he asked you to help him leave Hampton Regis until he’s recovered sufficiently to face his enemy, whoever it might be, you would at least entertain his request.”

  Her face was cold. “I haven’t spoken to him for more than a week. And then only as we left the Sunday-morning ser vice. I can’t imagine why he would turn to me.”

  “He may have thought you were a friend.”

  That stopped her short. For a moment she looked away from him, her gaze finding the titles of books in a shelf along the wall under the windows. “I should have thought he would go straight to his wife.” It was as if the admission cost her dearly.

  “You know he couldn’t. You know he wasn’t a match for Stephen Mallory, not in his condition. If Mallory was the one who attacked him Monday morning, Hamilton would surely wait until he was well enough to challenge the man.”

  When Miss Esterley turned back to him, there were tears in her eyes. “The man I care about would have risked everything for her sake.”

  The shining knight to the rescue of the damsel in distress. He wondered if that was how she really saw Hamilton, or if it was her own disappointment speaking. The fact that he hadn’t come to this house instead.

  “Then you didn’t know him well. It would have been foolhardy.” It was said gently, without condemnation.

  “You’re wrong. I can tell you that if Matthew Hamilton was alive and in his right mind, his only thought would have been Felicity. No matter what the cost. And if he didn’t go to Casa Miranda, to her, then he’s dead.”

  The tears began to fall then, and she wiped them away angrily. “When I heard that Dr. Granville couldn’t find him, my heart turned to stone. I refuse to believe he’s dead, but in my heart I know he must be. Someone came back to stop him from telling what he knows. Knew.”

  “Then why not kill him in his bed, there in the surgery. Why go to the trouble of removing him and taking the chance of being seen doing it?”

  “For the very reason you’re here. You don’t know what has happened to him, and you’ll likely never know.” He handed her his handkerchief and she took it without thanking him, trying to staunch the humiliating flow. “I’m not in love with him, I never was. But I value—valued him—and I never believed I would lose him like this. I thought—I felt he would be there, a friend, for many years. And I was comforted by that belief.”

  Rutledge sat there, his mouth dry, unable to think of words of consolation. She had put the case for Hamilton’s death very succinctly, and he knew that whatever she might say about Felicity and another woman’s husband, she thought of herself as under Hamilton’s protection too.

  She went on relentlessly: “You don’t know what it’s like, living alone for the rest of your life, the man you were intending to marry dead on a battlefield you’ve never seen and will never visit. You don’t know how he died, or when he died, or even why he died. Whether he was screaming in pain, or unconscious, or bleeding badly and left on the wire. You picture it in your mind, night after night, and try to reach out to him, to put an end to not knowing. Trying to tell yourself what you’d have said to him if you could have held him at the end. But there’s nothing left. Only a polite letter from an officer, on the heels of the official notification. And after that silence and emptiness. As if he’d been swallowed up by the sea, and no one knew.” She choked off the rest.

  “I understand…,” he began.

  But Susan Esterley said harshly, “No, you can’t. You couldn’t possibly.”

  Rutledge left soon afterward, and it wasn’t until he was on the street, by the motorcar, that Hamish said, “She’d lie for him if he asked her to.”

  And Rutledge realized that she’d never answered his questions, except with a question of her own.

  He swore as he remembered that he’d also planned to ask her about Miss Cole.

  15

  When Rutledge rang up London from the Duke of Monmouth Inn, it wasn’t to speak to Gibson at the Yard.

  His instinct warned him off, reminding him of the cold reception the last time he’d spoken to the sergeant. And he’d also be obliged to report the fact that Hamilton was missing and that there had been a second attack, this one ending in murder. Just now he needed time to think before Chief Superintendent Bowles summoned him in a blazing fury.

  The call was to his sister.

  Frances was surprised to hear from him. “I thought you’d been sent to Coventry,” she said. “How is the weather along the south coast?”

  “Wretched. But warmer. If the sun comes out, we’ll have a taste of spring.”

  She laughed. “Then bring it back with you. London is as dreary as London can be.”

  “I need information about someone who was in the Foreign Office. He’s retired now to England, but his last posting was to Malta. One Matthew Hamilton—”

  He’d expected her to tell him that the name was familiar, but it would take several hours to track down whatever it was he wanted to learn. Instead she said, “But you must know him as well. He was at that party at Melinda Crawford’s house. The one where you broke out in measles and had to be carried home. Mother was quite upset with you for making her miss a brilliant dinner.”

  “I don’t remember much of that weekend.” He’d been twelve and wretchedly sick. A long time ago…eighteen years?

  “You played croquet with him. And won.”

  It was his turn to laugh. “That was Matthew Hamilton?”

  “Of course it was.”

  “Good God. I thought him quite ancient. I expect he’s only forty-eight, now.”

  “And still an attractive man, I must say. I saw photographs of him when he was at Versailles, they were in the newspapers for all of a week. He looked quite distinguished in that company of ancient men. Even as a girl I envied the women who played tennis with him. But I had my revenge, you know. He took me in to dinner, either because he felt sorry for me, abandoned and alone, or more likely, Melinda put him up to it. I was elated. My dinner companions were generally callow boys with spots, who either refused to speak to me or bored me to tears with their cricket exploits. I quite forgave you the measles.” There was a pause. “Ian. Why are you asking about him? Please don’t tell me he’s dead.”

  “No. A person of interest in the inquiry that brought me here,” he said, evading the question. “His wife is many years younger and can’t tell me very much about his past.”

  “Has he killed someone?” Her voice was tight. “I refuse to believe he could do such a thin
g.”

  “The fact is, he’s gone missing.”

  There was a silence on the other end of the line. Then Frances said, “All right, you’d rather not tell me more. So I won’t pry. What do you want to know? Why he should have disappeared?”

  “More to the point, has there been gossip about him, most especially about his career?”

  “He wasn’t very popular after expressing an opinion about the Peace Conference at Versailles. He’d been on the ambassador’s staff in Turkey before the war, and as I remember, in Germany even earlier than that. The general view was that he should have been consulted but his position wasn’t in accord with the intent of the French at the talks. Rather like that man Lawrence and his Arab connections, Matthew Hamilton had friends in Turkey and in Germany who were pushing for a different outcome. I daresay he was in the right, but no one cared to hear it. And so he chose to retire and return to England.”

  “Not under a cloud?”

  “Not precisely a cloud. But some very important people were not pleased with him, and he knew very well what that would mean to his career. Or perhaps he was disillusioned. Or they threatened him with Paraguay. There are ways of getting even without actually sending him home in disgrace. I don’t think he’d have cared for a South American posting, after Europe. And his interests lay there, of course.”

  “What interests?”

  “He liked to poke about in the old ruins. A way to pass the time, at a guess, and if one lives somewhere long enough, it’s natural to start to wonder what’s outside one’s window, so to speak. Remember Barton Wallace, who got caught up in those strange poles in Canada, and wrote about what the Indians were carving on them?”

  Barton Wallace had been a friend of his father’s, sent to Vancouver to handle the Wallace family’s Pacific trade for their firm. While there, he’d written a treatise on Indian totems, and it proved immensely popular.

  “Yes, Wallace sent Mother a copy of it one Boxing Day.”