by Charles Todd
“It hasn’t been a waste of time,” he answered.
He found Stratton enjoying a late breakfast. Rutledge nodded to the woman serving tables and asked for a cup of tea. Then he joined Stratton at the table by the dining room windows. The sea mist was gone, and sunlight was reflecting from the glass panes of houses across the road.
Stratton was not interested in what charges might or might not be brought when Hamilton regained his memory. “I don’t know these people. The living or the dead. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“That may well be.” His tea arrived and he poured himself a cup. “But you can look at it another way. If Hamilton doesn’t regain his memory, if he’s permanently damaged by the beating he sustained, then he’s not likely to take an interest in writing his memoirs.”
“Yes, it turns out rather well for me, doesn’t it? Not that I’d wish that on anyone. He has a very astute mind. That’s what made him dangerous. He could cut through a mountain of chaff and find the seed of truth. But he wasn’t the sort you got drunk with, if you know what I mean. There his brain was, still clicking away, recording, while everyone else is acting the fool.”
“I don’t know that he collected information to wield it, in the sense of blackmail.”
“Of course he didn’t. But it was there. Written down, you see. And in the back of your mind, it’s always rubbing at you. If it doesn’t matter, why put it down in black and white? Why bother with it at all?”
“Because it was his nature to remember. And he was lonely. The diaries were his companions, he talked to them and confided in them, and he kept them, as he would a friend. He told me you threatened to burn him out, once. Would you have done it?”
Stratton was caught off guard. “God, no! I was very angry with him at the time, and I wanted to make him afraid. It wasn’t as successful as I’d hoped. And I was left feeling a bigger fool than ever.”
“And if you’d tried again on Monday to persuade him to see reason, who’s to say that your anger didn’t get the better of you again? You could very well have killed Mrs. Granville, because it wouldn’t have done for you to be caught in the surgery, looking for a man who’d already taken himself off in the nick of time.”
“Yes, I can see how you might make that case. But I ask you, why should I go into Hamilton’s house and kill his maid?”
“Because she stood between you and your safe exit from the house. And Mallory was armed. You were taking a chance, trying to look for the diaries. He’d have shot you out of hand, if you’d stumbled over him—or she raised the alarm as you were slipping out again.”
Stratton’s eyes were wary. “You’ve built a very good case. Are you telling me that Hamilton believes I’ve tried twice to kill him? He’s truly off his head, if he has.”
“I’m just saying that you’ve made an error in judgment here, because you’ve shown yourself to be obsessively worried about Hamilton’s intentions. You might have been wiser to let sleeping dogs lie and see what developed.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “Think about it, Stratton, you’ve put yourself in an untenable position. If Hamilton tells me you’re his assailant, that he left the surgery because he thought you might walk in at night to kill him, then I’ve got no choice but to take you into custody. It would do very little for your career, to be tried for murder. Even if there is a reasonable doubt and in the end you’re acquitted.”
“I trust you’re a good enough policeman that that won’t happen.”
Rutledge smiled. “If Hamilton points his finger at you, whether or not I’m a good policeman doesn’t enter into it.”
He walked away, out the dining room door.
Hamish was saying, “You’ve made a verra’ bad enemy.”
Stratton sat there watching him go, his face closed with speculation.
Dr. Hester had just returned from delivering a baby. He found Rutledge waiting for him in his office. “What brings you all the way to Middlebury?” He sat in the chair behind his orderly desk and added, “Medicine is an odd business. Bury a man one day; bring a child into the world the next. I’ve never quite got used to seeing a mother’s face as I hand her a healthy child. And this was a bouncing boy, if ever there was one. Ten pounds. She thinks he takes after her father, who was a good six inches over six feet. It makes up, a little, for losing him early to a cancer. The husband is just delighted to have a son to carry on his farm.”
“We see only the dead on my side of the coin.”
“Yes, and speaking of the quick and the dead, I’ve released Mrs. Granville for burial. And I’ll do the same for the maid tomorrow. If you have no objections.”
“None. But I think I might have discovered the weapon used to bring Hamilton down.” He described his search among the boats hauled up for the night.
“I didn’t examine Hamilton, but I should think you’re right. Heavy enough to do the job. Long reach, no footprints close by, not much blood splattered on one’s coat or shirtfront. But I’m curious, why didn’t someone intent on beating Hamilton within an inch of his life simply finish the job while he was about it? At that stage it would have taken only a few more blows, surely?”
“He wanted Hamilton to drown. George Reston’s brother drowned in the same place not long ago—in his case too drunk to drag himself away from the water’s edge. I think our killer remembered that and was hoping Hamilton would go into the sea before anyone discovered him. By the time the body came ashore again, it would be so badly battered that no one would suspect he’d been beaten nearly to death first.”
“Interesting point. You said he. You know the killer, then?”
“For want of knowing, he.”
“Quite. Well, I can tell you it wasn’t a boat hook in the surgery. Not enough room to wield one where we found Mrs. Granville,” Hester reminded him. “And she hadn’t been moved from where she fell.”
“But it must have been something equally practical. We searched and came up empty-handed.”
“Because the killer—he or she—took it with him when he carted Hamilton off. And a very wise decision, from his point of view.”
“Then why didn’t he kill Hamilton once he got him out of the surgery?”
“Do I have to do all your thinking for you?” Hester asked with a crooked smile. “If he left a body lying about, you’d know there was a third person in that surgery. As long as it was likely that Hamilton walked out under his own power, you’ve got a complication.”
“And so—speaking hypothetically—our killer left him along the Exeter road, where a lorry driver could find him and save his life a second time.”
“If the killer had learned that Hamilton was not clear on anything and would stay that way, he might decide to leave him alive to take the blame for Mrs. Granville.” His eyes were sharp, his mind leaping ahead. “Did someone find him on the Exeter road?”
“Actually a lorry driver found him there. That’s all I’m making public, but the truth seems to be that Hamilton walked out of the surgery and took refuge in the cottage that went over in the landslip. But he had an inkling it was in danger and hid himself next in the henhouse of a farmer who’d gone off to market. At nightfall, he tried to walk down the road and passed out.”
“My God. Then he killed Mrs. Granville.”
“He’s confessed to it. But it’s possible someone came for Hamilton, discovered he was gone, and before he could get out of there, Mrs. Granville walked into the surgery.”
“Where is Hamilton now?”
“For safety, I’ve put him in his bed at the house, with his wife, Mallory, and Mr. Putnam to guard him.”
“For safety?” Hester frowned. “Aren’t you taking a chance there?”
“I don’t think Mallory tried to kill him. And I don’t think Hamilton killed Mrs. Granville.”
“What can he tell you?”
“Precious little.”
“Well, neither can I. Mrs. Granville died of that blow on the head, delivered with some force, mind you. And Nan Wee
kes was smothered as she slept. There’s nothing new in either case.”
“Hamilton is in a great deal of pain, as you’d expect. This is the sedative Dr. Granville prescribed for him.” Rutledge handed the box of powders to Hester.
“Are you telling me you don’t trust my colleague?” Hester demanded. “You think he’s out for revenge, for what happened to Margaret?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. Hamilton is alive at the moment, and I intend to see that he stays that way. I don’t want to discover too late that someone in the house took liberties with what Dr. Granville prescribed. Are these powders likely to do a great deal of harm if swallowed all at once?”
Hester examined the contents of one of the sleeves of powder. “They’re stronger than the sedative I left for Mrs. Hamilton, when she was upset. Hamilton is dealing with injuries that he’s very likely aggravated by activity. He’ll require more help. I’m satisfied that this medication is safe, but if I were you, I’d make sure no one else had access to it. Dr. Granville told me you’d had to deal with Mrs. Hamilton. I wouldn’t want her to try again and be more successful.”
“I’ll be certain to dole out the powders as needed. Personally.”
“A very wise precaution.” He got up and went to his medical bag. “How has she handled her husband’s return from the dead?”
“Not very well.”
“No, I thought not. Here. Take these pills with you too. If Hamilton is still having trouble with his memory and the powders seem to leave him more confused than he ought to be, or if he seems to be agitated while taking them, it might be best to have a choice. A little more pain, perhaps, but he won’t be raving. And if you were hard-pressed, one of these would calm his wife as well.”
Rutledge stood there, watching him work.
“Inspector?” Dr. Hester was holding out the packet of pills.
“Oh. Yes, thank you. If you come up with any suggestions for a murder weapon used for Mrs. Granville, we’ll offer you the next opening at the Yard.”
“I wouldn’t walk in your shoes for any amount of money. I’m satisfied with my own, thank you very much.”
Rutledge left, driving from Middlebury back to Hampton Regis. He ignored Hamish, who was busy with arguments of his own, and concentrated on the road.
The glimmer of an answer that had struck him there in Hester’s office had nothing to support it.
Intuition, he reminded himself, was a very unreliable gift. A burst of brilliance that showered light on one single corner of the darkness surrounding it and left the rest impenetrable.
But in the hands of an experienced policeman, intuition could sometimes lead to proof. Given a little luck.
Rutledge made good time to Hampton Regis, considered his options, and in the end went to the telephone closet at the Duke of Monmouth Inn and put through a call to London.
He had to wait more than an hour in that stuffy little room, shut in with Hamish and his own thoughts, before the call was returned.
After a while, Rutledge put in another call to London as well. This time to Inspector Phipps.
When the man came on the phone, Rutledge said, “I’m told you’ve found the Green Park killer.”
Phipps answered, “Indeed, yes. A man named Berenson and his wife. She lured the victims there because they didn’t know her, and he strangled them. Revenge, as it happened. They’d swindled him in a financial scheme and he wanted revenge.”
“Berenson?” He didn’t recognize the name.
“That man Fields, the one you’d had watched—he told us his sister’s husband wasn’t the only one cheated by the dead men. There were four others in on it, Berenson being only one of them. Fields had been of two minds about helping us with our inquiries. In the end, glad as he was to see rough justice done, he realized it would have been a better lesson if both men had lived to be clapped up in prison. I tried to make the Chief Superintendent aware of your role in turning up Fields, but he didn’t like the man and would have gladly seen him taken up instead.” He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Berenson is quite—pretty. And convincing.”
“You’re certain of your facts?”
“Oh, yes. We found the garrote amongst her knitting.”
“And Constable Waddington?”
“He received a commendation for his part in the arrests. A good man, that. Chief Superintendent Bowles is impressed with him.”
Rutledge said nothing. As he’d thought, Waddington had been eager to protect himself.
Phipps went on. “I’m to appear in court in fifteen minutes. Is there anything else?”
Rutledge thanked him and put up the receiver.
Bringing his attention back to Hampton Regis, he went over everything he knew, and still there was no single motive to explain both the attack on Hamilton and the two subsequent deaths. Murderers killed for a reason—out of fear, greed, jealousy, love, envy, or even sheer hatred. And none of these seemed to fit here. Unless he was completely wrong about Stephen Mallory.
Hamish reminded him, “Ye canna’ judge him on the way he was in France.”
“I’m not convinced he’s clever enough—”
The telephone rang at last, making him jump at the loud jangle that seemed to echo around the tiny room, deafening him. He swore.
The voice on the other end of the line, apologetic for taking so long to find the information he needed, made Rutledge sit up in the narrow-seated chair and listen with concentration.
Gibson had paid a visit to the person Rutledge had named, and that led to a bank in Leadenhall Street. What he had to report was enlightening.
It came down to money, as it so often did.
But not quite in the way he’d expected.
29
Rutledge walked up the hill to Casa Miranda. The sun was strong now, and he thought he heard a blackbird singing somewhere in the distance.
“Wishful thinking,” Hamish told him sourly. Yet spring came in this part of England long before it touched the Highlands, and in the air today was the scent of warm earth, mixed with the salty cast of the sea.
When he climbed the stairs to the room Hamilton was using, he found the man awake, propped with pillows. Lines of pain etched his face, but he said briskly, “On Malta the heat is already building. There’s so much white stone, you see. It holds in the warmth. Even the soil is white in the summer. Limestone.”
“Do you miss it?”
“In the way you miss anywhere you’ve put down roots, no matter how temporary they may be. It was a lovely house too. A marquis had let it to me, while he was in England. There was a porch, glass enclosed, where I took most of my meals. I could look out across the rooftops toward the Co-Cathedral and the Grandmaster’s Palace.” He sighed. “But you haven’t come, I think, to hear me praise Malta.”
“Where is Mrs. Hamilton?”
“In her bed. It’s all been rather much for her. But she’s young, she’ll recover her balance. I’m just afraid of what’s been lost. An innocence that was her greatest charm, and a sense of self that was absolutely absorbing to me. I could—almost—recapture my own youth, watching her.”
“And Mr. Putnam?”
“He excused himself for a quarter of an hour to return to the rectory for a change of clothes.”
“Has Bennett come to see you?”
“Mallory brought him up while Putnam was still here. He wanted to know about Exeter. I told him that my memory remained hazy at best, that I thought very likely I was continuing to run a fever.”
“It could be true.”
“It was. I remember how cold the wind blew as I was walking along that road. I couldn’t stop the chills that racked me. I wasn’t sure where I was going, only that somehow I had to get there.” He hesitated. “Have you told Felicity about Miranda?”
“I’ll leave that to you. When you feel you can.”
“Miranda was afraid of me, wasn’t she?”
“I think, rather, she wasn’t prepared for reminders of the past. She had shut that
door. And it’s best left shut.”
“I would have married her, blind or not.”
“The blindness worried her more than it did you.”
“What will you do about Mallory? Do you really believe he wasn’t my assailant? I won’t press charges, you know. It will only make for more gossip and keep the memory of these past few days alive.”
“You’re a forgiving man.”
“No. A realistic one. Deep in my core there’s a molten ball of jealousy. But it serves no purpose. And he’s suffered as much as I have.” He shifted his leg. “I hope you’ve brought something to ease this ache. Else I’ll be drunk as a lord by teatime.”
Rutledge found one of the pills that Dr. Hester had given him. “This should help. I’ve got stronger sedatives as well.”
“This will do. I can tell you, I’m not eager to find myself in a helpless stupor while murderers climb through the windows.”
Rutledge thought the man in the bed was more afraid of the outcome than he was willing to admit. But he laughed, as Hamilton was expecting him to do, as he offered him a glass of water. Then he said soberly, “I’ve found the killer, I think. If I’m right, by morning you’ll have your house to yourself again, and it will be finished.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But we shan’t stay in Hampton Regis, you know. It’s time to turn my back on the sea. And I expect Miranda Cole will be happy to learn I’m not as near to Exeter as I was.”
“I expect she will.”
He left Hamilton then, running into Mr. Putnam in the doorway. “I’ve just brought a few things,” he said, “to tide us over. I went to Mallory’s cottage and fetched fresh clothes for him.”
“Well done. I’ll need to speak to you later. Certainly before dinner.”
“I shall have to give Dr. Granville a little of my time tonight. We’re choosing the readings for Margaret’s ser vice. And the music. She was very fond of the choir.”
“By all means, take as long as you need. I’ll be here to spell you.”
“You know now, don’t you, who is behind all this?” The rector, holding his belongings and Mallory’s in his arms, looked into Rutledge’s face and then away again. “I didn’t think you did this morning, in spite of the dramatic conclusion with that dreadful boat hook.”