by Charles Todd
“She’s in her room. Matthew’s room.” There was a bitter twist to his voice at the words. “At the head of the stairs, turn right toward the sea. It’s the last door but one.”
Rutledge climbed the stairs at a steady pace, neither hurrying nor taking his time. When he reached the passage at the top, he turned right, found the next but one door and tapped lightly.
There was no answer. He opened the door gently and looked inside.
The bedclothes were a tangle, spilling half off the bed. In the midst of them was a tousled fair head, buried in a sea of dark rose coverlet that matched flowers in the draperies and the fabric of one chair by the hearth. Her face was to the wall and out of his line of sight. He’d have to go round the bed to see it.
“Mrs. Hamilton?” he called quietly.
But she was deeply asleep. Or pretending to be. He couldn’t be certain. He wasn’t close enough to the bed to see how she breathed.
Hamish said, “If she sleeps sae soundly, there’s naething on her conscience.”
But women sleep deeply after love. What role had Felicity Hamilton played in the events of the last twenty-four hours?
After a moment, he closed the door and went back the way he’d come.
Mallory was waiting for him, and without a word led him to the kitchen precincts.
The maid, Nan, was wide awake and choleric. A thin woman with weather-reddened skin and pale hair that showed streaks of graying, she sat rigidly in her chair in a small pantry off the servants hall, her eyes alive with fury.
“Who’s that, then?” she snapped at Mallory as he brought Rutledge in. He ignored her.
But Rutledge answered her, identifying himself simply as a police inspector.
“You haven’t kept her locked up like this all this time, have you?” Rutledge asked, turning back to Mallory. There was no food or water in the room, no sign even of a chamber pot.
“Good God, no. But she was banging on the door of the servants’ hall at six this morning and I couldn’t have that. I think she broke that other chair against it.” He gestured to the chair flung against the wall, the splat shattered.
“And who wouldn’t be making a racket, kept here by the likes of you?” she demanded. “I’ve a cousin at home. A policeman. He’ll be wanting your blood if you lay a hand on me!”
“I haven’t touched you,” Mallory retorted, “except to shut you up down here so that we could have a little peace.”
Nan was on the point of answering him, when Rutledge asked quickly, “Has he harmed you in any way?”
“He’d not dare to. But who can say what he’s done to Mrs. Hamilton?”
There was something avid in her face that told him she wished for it. As if there was little love between herself and her mistress, and whatever Felicity Hamilton suffered, she had earned. So much for Nan as chaperone. Mallory was right, she’d blacken his character with a vengeance. And Mrs. Hamilton’s as well, relishing the chance.
Rutledge wondered how she felt about Mr. Hamilton, whether her loyalties lay there-or with neither of her employers.
She hadn’t asked about Matthew Hamilton. How he fared, whether he was alive or dead. Did she even know why she and her mistress were being held against their wills?
“She’s no’ concerned for them. Only for hersel’,” Hamish replied. “But her tongue will clack once away fra’ here.”
“You can’t leave them like this, you have to feed them, you know,” Rutledge said to Mallory. “It’s going to be a bigger problem than you think, keeping them here.”
“I’ll manage,” Mallory replied stiffly. “I can prepare food, tea. It won’t be fancy, but it will be edible. I’ve even mucked out the stables this morning for the damned horse. All right, you’ve seen both of them.”
They turned toward the door, Rutledge promising Nan Weekes help before very long and getting the sharp side of her tongue for letting “that man” get round him so. “Poor excuse for a policeman you are.”
It was as if she’d expected him to overpower Mallory in front of her, and set her free, and held it against him for failing to try.
Hamish remarked, “There’s the thorn in this dilemma.”
It was true. Mrs. Hamilton might sleep soundly under the circumstances, her door not locked. But Nan was another matter. Rutledge found himself more worried for her than for her mistress. Mallory’s stability would be fragile after days of strain and Nan’s belligerence.
Outside, as they walked to the back stairs, Rutledge said, “Look. Tell me what it is you want me to do? This has to end, you know it as well as I do. Tell me what it will take to set the women free.” It was an appeal to Mallory’s better nature, but even as he spoke the words, he knew they were empty.
“That’s simple,” Mallory answered. “Find out who nearly killed Matthew Hamilton.”
Rutledge went to Dr. Granville’s surgery next, greeting the doctor’s wife and asking for a few minutes of the doctor’s time. The waiting room behind him was crowded, and he could feel every eye on him as he introduced himself to Mrs. Granville.
Mrs. Granville said doubtfully, “He’s got his hands full just now. What with Mr. Hamilton and his usual hours. I don’t know if there’s been an epidemic of sore throats and unsettled stomachs or if people are hoping for news of poor Matthew.”
“Perhaps you could take me to see Mr. Hamilton, then. And I shan’t have to disturb the doctor.”
“Well, I’m not certain Mr. Bennett would agree.”
He smiled. “I’m handling the matter for Inspector Bennett. Until he’s fit to do more on his own.”
“Yes, poor man. In that case, then.” She let him into a passage that ended in a door that was half glass, with fenced lawns and bare trees beyond. He followed her past a series of closed doors to the last but one. “He’s in quite a bit of pain, isn’t he? The inspector. But he wouldn’t hear of anything to help, you know.”
Now he could see through the glass into the tidy garden just beyond, and a table under a tree, with chairs around it. He had a picture of tea set out there on a summer’s day, and children running through the grass, laughing. The England he and Mallory and so many others had fought for. Bleak now in winter, cold and quiet. As if war had drained away the color and reality, not the seasons.
Hamilton’s tiny room was windowless. He lay there on the cot bed, the lamp beside him lit but shielded to keep the light out of his eyes.
But Matthew Hamilton’s bruised eyes were closed, and his breathing was labored, as if it hurt to draw too much air in at a time.
Rutledge, looking down at him, took his measure: a tall man, broad shouldered, with dark hair silvering at the temples, long sun-bronzed fingers lying idle on the coverlet, slender body. He could have put up a good fight, if he’d been attacked face-on. A match for Mallory or anyone else, physically.
Hamish said, “It was a vicious beating.”
And that appeared to be true. His ribs were wrapped tightly, the broken arm set, and lumps under the coverlet indicated bandaging on his legs as well.
To kill? Or simply vengeful, without much caring about the outcome.
“I’m told he was found near the tideline,” Rutledge commented quietly.
“Oh, his clothing was soaked with seawater,” Mrs. Granville replied. “It’s a wonder, cold as he was, he didn’t die of exposure. But Anthony-the doctor, that is-feels that the cold may have prevented massive internal bleeding.”
“One good thing, then. No sign of returning to consciousness?”
“He’s moaned a time or two. The doctor is reluctant to administer anything to help with the pain, at least for the next few hours, because of possible brain injury.”
“But he’s not conscious enough to speak, as far as you know? When he begins to moan?” He reached out and touched one of the hands on top of the coverlet, and raised his voice a little. “Mr. Hamilton? Can you hear me? I’ve brought a message from your wife, Matthew. Do you understand what I’m telling you? Grasp my hand if
you do.”
There was no response.
“How is Mrs. Hamilton?” Mrs. Granville asked him, leaning forward a little, as if eager for news. He turned to look at her, seeing her now as one of the village women rather than just the doctor’s assistant. “She hasn’t been back to see him,” she continued. “I’ve heard that she’s under-er-constraint at the house.”
A thin face, thinner lips, gray eyes alive with curiosity.
“Mrs. Hamilton is safe where she is,” he answered carefully. “I don’t think you need to fear for her or the maid. I’d hoped to bring her with me. Perhaps the next time. Could I see Mr. Hamilton’s clothing?”
Surprised, Mrs. Granville said, “Well, yes, of course, if you like. It’s all in the cupboard there. I dried the woolen things as best I could.”
He was already opening the low cupboard at the foot of the bed. The coat and trousers Hamilton had been wearing were still dampish, and had that odd feeling that salt water gives to fabric, heavy and slightly stiff. No hat, as if the man had enjoyed the wind in his hair. Or had lost it in the struggle.
“Boots,” Hamish said, and Rutledge saw the Wellingtons under the neatly folded pile of undergarments.
“He was planning from the start to walk by the sea,” Rutledge responded silently. “He wasn’t lured there.”
Mrs. Granville was saying, “The contents of his pockets are in that small box. I was going to offer it to Mrs. Hamilton yesterday, but she left so suddenly.”
Rutledge took out the box and opened it. Wallet, in some unusual leather now stiff and water stained. Several pounds in bills. A handkerchief. A handful of coins. Keys on a ring. A pipe and tobacco in a pouch. And a watch, the fob on the gold chain an enameled shield with the cross of Malta in red and white. The watch must have been cleaned and wound, for it was ticking softly.
Nothing unusual or unexpected. Save for the keys, he returned the items to the box and set it back where he’d found it. Then as an afterthought, he put them back as well. As long as Hamilton was alive, they should be left for him.
Just as he was closing the cupboard, the man on the bed groaned in pain, then stirred uncomfortably before subsiding into silence once more.
“If he speaks at all, no matter how trivial his words may seem to you, write them down and summon me at once. Leave word at the station or at the Duke of Monmouth.”
“Yes, of course, Inspector.” She followed him to the door. “I’ll tell the doctor you came, and if he has any need to speak with you, he’ll reach you.”
He walked down the passage and was almost at the outside door when a woman came out of the surgery waiting room, nearly colliding with him.
“Miss Trining,” Mrs. Granville said, in the tone of voice reserved for someone of substance.
“I shan’t wait any longer,” Miss Trining said. “I feel better now, anyway.”
“Are you sure you oughtn’t stay until the doctor sees you? Indigestion is sometimes-”
“I know my own body best,” Miss Trining said shortly, then looked Rutledge up and down. “Who are you?”
He gave her his best smile. “Inspector Rutledge from Scotland Yard,” he said. “And you are…?”
“Charlotte Trining. I’m a member of the vestry, along with Matthew. Have you been to see him? Dr. Granville won’t let me near him.”
“And rightly so. Rest is the best cure, sometimes,” he said. “I’ve my motorcar outside. May I drive you somewhere?”
Over Miss Trining’s head, Mrs. Granville shot him a grateful look.
“Yes, thank you.” She nodded to the doctor’s wife and let Rutledge hold the door for her.
He said good-bye to Mrs. Granville and followed Miss Trining to the car, opening the passenger door for her.
He had met many women like her over the years. Imperious and self-important, accustomed to having their way, and as often as not a force in any community out of sheer natural gall and ferocious, driving energy. The sort of women who had connections and were never shy about alluding to them.
Her dark blue eyes were scanning him as he turned the crank and then climbed in beside her.
Hamish said, “’Ware!” and was silent again.
Miss Trining said, “I shouldn’t have thought Bennett’s foot injury was sufficiently serious to summon Scotland Yard to his aid.”
“I expect he felt he couldn’t remain objective,” Rutledge answered. “And rightly so.”
“I never liked that man, Mallory,” she went on. “I’m not surprised he attacked Matthew. What does surprise me is that he didn’t finish the job while he was at it. Lack of moral fiber, I expect. I’m told by a cousin in Sussex that he suffered shell shock during the war. I don’t hold with cowards. Watch where you’re driving, young man. You nearly hit that cart!”
He had. Her words had struck him like a physical blow, and he had swerved without realizing where he was.
Saying nothing, he fought to regain his composure, and she looked at him sharply, turning her head to stare at him.
“Don’t tell me you feel differently on the subject.”
“I was at the Front, Miss Trining,” he answered after a moment. “I saw firsthand what men had to endure. I can’t stand in judgment of them now.”
“I should have thought you would know, better than most, how they let their friends and comrades down.”
It was harshly said and harshly meant.
He remembered a line from O. A. Manning, the war poet who was in reality Olivia Marlow.
Without looking at Miss Trining, he quoted,
“Courage is not measured by
Marching bands and banners in the wind.
If you have not walked
The bloody lines and seen the faces,
You have no right to describe it so.
We die here to keep you safe at home,
And what we suffer
Pray you may never know.”
“Yes, yes, I know the poem. What does it say to anything?”
“That you weren’t there, Miss Trining. And have no right to judge.”
She turned away in a huff. “You can let me down here, if you will,” she said, pointing to a milliner’s shop to his left.
But when he drew up to the shop, he said, “You appear to know the Hamiltons well. Tell me about Matthew.”
“There’s not much to tell. He’s been a valued civil servant, he came back to England, married a much younger woman, and seems to have settled into his new life without looking back.”
“Did you know him before he came to Hampton Regis?”
Something in her face belied her response. “No. I must say that he’s been an asset to us here, recognizing his responsibility to set a good example for all of us. I admire that.”
“And Mrs. Hamilton?”
“She could do far more than she has, to be frank. I don’t think she realizes how she lets her husband down at every turn. Refusing to serve on committees, refusing to take up charitable work, refusing to entertain in the style that I’m sure Matthew was accustomed to abroad. After all, a senior foreign ser vice officer does have a certain social position. But that’s what comes of marrying someone so much younger, you know. No sense of what’s due a man of Matthew’s stature.”
“Does Matthew Hamilton have enemies?”
She stared at him again. “Enemies?” Her emphasis on the word was noticeable. “I shouldn’t think anyone in Hampton Regis has any connection with his past. Why should they? Most of them have never been abroad, unless they were in the war. Much less to Malta and Sicily and Crete.”
“I was thinking more specifically than that. Here in Hampton Regis.”
“You are entirely too young and inexperienced to handle this inquiry,” she said flatly. “I shall have a word with the Chief Constable about that when he comes to tea.” And without waiting for him to come around and open her door for her, she did it herself and stepped out. “Good day, Inspector.”
9
When Felicity wandered
down for breakfast, there were dark shadows under her eyes and she seemed distracted.
“Rutledge was here again,” Mallory said. “You were asleep.”
“Just pretending. I heard him knock at my door and panicked.”
“I don’t think he believed the hostage story. But Nan gave him an earful.”
“Yes, I’m sure she did. I wish we could let her leave, just to be rid of her. I don’t feel comfortable when she’s in the house. I never have. She adores Matthew.” She hesitated. “Did he say-is Matthew all right?”
She was asking if he still lived. Mallory could feel his heart turn over. What would she do if Matthew died? Turn on him, slip out of the house in the middle of the night, when he finally sank into deep sleep, unable to keep his eyes open any longer? And then he felt guilty for even considering such a cruel betrayal.
“Still unconscious.” He didn’t tell her that Rutledge had offered to let her visit her husband. He wasn’t sure how she’d respond to that.
Felicity shook her head and pulled her shawl closer, as if she felt cold. “You don’t suppose we could build a fire in the study or the sitting room? It would be so much cozier.”
“Felicity.” She looked up at him, then looked away. “What are we going to do?”
“I thought this inspector was here to sort it all out for us. That’s why you wanted him to come, isn’t it?”
“The question is, will he be strong enough to stand up to Bennett?” He hesitated. “He wanted to know if we’d had an affair.”
“Hardly an affair. I was in love with you long before I met Matthew. I was going to marry you. Only you didn’t want to marry me. Not then.” There was a hurt expression on her face, as if she remembered the past more clearly or, at the very least, differently.
“Dear girl! I told you, I didn’t want to come home to you a lame beggar-”
“But you didn’t, did you?” There was accusation in her voice, as if he had tricked her somehow. “You came home whole.”