A False Mirror ir-9

by Charles Todd

  But the clerk shook his head. “Are you sure of the name? The only Cole here was a friend of my father’s and long since in the churchyard.”

  “It’s not important,” Rutledge replied, and went on his way.

  Hamish, in his mind, reminded him that he should have asked the rector where to find the woman.

  “If he’d known it, I rather think he’d have given me her direction,” Rutledge said, walking into his room and coming to stand by the window, looking out on the street. “I’m not sure why he was quite so guarded. That interests me. He may believe that Hamilton spoke of her in confidence.”

  Below him in the street he glimpsed a knot of women talking, their hats close together as they stood there in deep discussion. He rather thought the subject was Matthew Hamilton and his wife, a prisoner of Hamilton’s alleged attacker.

  He wondered how any of them-Mallory, Hamilton, or his wife-would manage after the fact, when they must live here in spite of gossip and suspicion of what might have transpired in that house while Mrs. Hamilton was held against her will.

  Or was she? He remembered the tousled head among the bedclothes. How many women in Mrs. Hamilton’s situation could sleep so deeply and so free from anxiety?

  “She knows Mallory,” Hamish offered. “She mayna’ believe he’s guilty.”

  And that was a good point. “But why isn’t she by her husband’s side, even if she had to fight her way out of that house? Mallory can’t stay awake forever. He can lock doors but he can’t prevent her from trying to climb out her window. Or even stop her from standing there screaming for all the world to hear. It would go a long way, that screaming, toward making the neighbors aware that she was held against her will.”

  “Would it please her husband, if she makes hersel’ a spectacle?”

  “If I were married to her, and couldn’t get there to help her, I’d have liked to know she wasn’t taking the separation without some effort to defend her honor.”

  “Aye, but then you havena’ a wife.”

  It was a blow that Rutledge hadn’t expected. He’d spoken without thinking, considering the issue theoretically.

  Jean was in Canada, married to her diplomat. What if he, Rutledge, had gone there after her, and held her against her will? What would she have done then? But she would know, of course, that he’d do no such thing. He hadn’t been able to fight for her when she released him from their engagement. He’d been too ill in his mind to find the strength to defend his love for her or explain that he was haunted by what had happened in France, by the dying and the turmoil and the horror of watching men he knew fall with appalling wounds. He hadn’t been able to tell her what it was like to know with certainty that carrying out his orders had killed so many of them. Never mind that the orders were only his to give, not his to change. He’d failed his men in a way that no amount of argument or reason or excuse could alter. He’d held their lives in his hands. And he’d let them slip through his fingers. It was as simple-and as complicated-as that.

  How could he have explained Hamish? Come to that, how could he explain to any woman what war had done to him and to so many others? How could he describe watching Hamish fall, how could he tell anyone how the man had lain there, trying to speak to him, begging for release? And how could he ever condone drawing his revolver and delivering the coup de grace, the blow of grace, to put Corporal Hamish MacLeod out of his pain and torment?

  Jean would have despised him, walked away in disgust long before he’d finished telling her half of it. And so he had let her go without a struggle, knowing that he was abhorrent to her in his battered state, knowing that he couldn’t ask her to love him, when Hamish MacLeod owned him, body and soul. Better to let her go, let the last hope of his salvation walk out the door of his hospital room and never come back again. Better to let her think that he was a pathetic remnant of the man she’d loved, rather than believe he was what he truly was-a man who had killed other men, including his own. A common murderer, come to that.

  Rutledge straightened up from the window and turned around to look at the room, the draperies beside him, the desk to the other side, one chair and a chest with drawers, a bed. A room in a hotel, a man without roots, without a home, without any ties of love.

  He and Mallory…

  In an attempt to shrug off the mood that had swept him, he tried to think what to do next. Where to turn in this investigation that had been thrust upon him.

  For one thing, what did he know about Matthew Hamilton, the face behind the diplomatic mask? Where had the man served besides Malta? Had his career been blameless? A civil servant doing his duty through long years of exile.

  And why had Hamilton chosen exile? That was something that would require an answer too. To serve abroad took a willingness to sever ties and rely totally on one’s self. Even on precious weeks of leave, it must be difficult to reestablish intimacy with friends and family, to fit in again when he knew so little about the ordinary lives of the people he’d left behind. When he hadn’t been there to be a part of the small events, the everyday trials and hopes and dreams of people who hadn’t spoken with him for years? What had he found to take back with him to his station, to fill the empty weeks and months and even years of absence? An outcast at home-and an outcast in the field, for all intents and purposes.

  Rutledge went to find a telephone, and once shut into the tiny room where it stood, he put in a call to Scotland Yard.

  It took all of ten minutes to bring Sergeant Gibson to the telephone. The deep gruff voice sounded tense, unwelcoming.

  Rutledge thought, And this is how it must have been when Hamilton called to say he was in London for a few weeks, and would like to meet a friend.

  Aloud he said to Gibson, “I’m calling in regard to one Matthew Hamilton, Foreign Office, stationed in his last years of ser vice in Malta. There must have been earlier postings. If he was successful in his position, why did he end his career in the foreign ser vice equivalent to Coventry? Why not in a better posting?”

  But the answer to that was already in his mind. The war. Half of Europe was a battlefield. There were no gracious capitals available to reward senior civil servants for long years of doing their duty. And Matthew Hamilton hadn’t distinguished himself at the Peace Conference in Paris.

  “I’ll look into it, sir,” Gibson answered, that wariness still apparent.

  Rutledge was on the point of asking how the search for the Green Park murderer was progressing, and thought better of it. Wariness from Gibson was a form of warning. And he didn’t take that lightly.

  Chief Superintendent Bowles was no doubt in a foul mood, and everyone was walking clear of him, whenever possible.

  There was a pause, lengthening, and nothing more was said. “That’s the lot,” Rutledge added, into the silence. “Call me here when you have something.”

  And the connection was broken.

  Whatever was happening in London, even Gibson was apprehensive. It didn’t bode well for the inquiry he’d left behind.

  10

  Rutledge forced himself to return to the Hamilton house, knocking at the door, and going on knocking until finally Mallory answered.

  He said, irritation in his voice and in his face, “Go away. If you haven’t come to tell me I’m free to leave, we have nothing to say to each other.”

  “I thought,” Rutledge retorted, “that you’d sent for me to help. How can I, if I’m shut out? I need information, and with luck, you can give it to me.”

  Mallory, surprised, said, “What kind of information? I can’t tell you who it was struck Hamilton down. I wasn’t there. I didn’t come into town yesterday morning. If you want the truth, I’d finished a bottle of whiskey the night before and was still asleep when Bennett came pounding on my door.”

  “I need to speak to Mrs. Hamilton, then. There may be something she hasn’t told either you or me. Something she may not consider important or has forgotten in the stress of events. We may not have a great deal of time. If Hamilto
n dies, Bennett will have his way and bring you in for trial, whatever the cost.”

  “Yes, well, that was his intention from the start. I’ve only delayed him for a little while,” Mallory replied moodily. “I don’t like being in debt to you or anyone else. I should have ended this while I still could.”

  Rutledge could almost feel Hamish, behind his shoulder, alert to something in Mallory’s quiet voice.

  “It isna’ the same. He isna’ the same.”

  It was true. Reality setting in with morning light? Or had something happened between Mallory and Mrs. Hamilton this morning? What if she no longer believed his protestations of innocence?

  Murder followed by suicide…time was running out faster than even Rutledge had expected.

  The door was suddenly pushed wider. “You wanted to speak to me, Inspector? Is it Matthew? Is he all right?” The woman standing there was quite beautiful, in a fragile and defenseless way. The kind of woman, in his experience, who brought out protectiveness in men, the need to shield and guard. Rutledge had found such women to be very capable of looking after themselves.

  Jean had been fragile too, until her own needs had driven her to strength.

  “You ought to be with him, Mrs. Hamilton.” Rutledge spoke directly to her. “He needs to feel your presence there beside him.”

  “Then you must do something to end this silly business,” she said fiercely.

  Even her voice was intriguing, low and gentle. It enhanced the helpless image. She was like a child, he thought, but by no means childish. He could see her mind working behind the pretty eyes focused on his face.

  When he said nothing, she looked from Rutledge to Mallory, pulling her blue woolen sweater closer about her, almost to the point of wrapping her arms about herself. She added quickly, the anger gone and worry in its place, “Are you lying to me? Is he better and you aren’t telling me, just to frighten me? Or is he truly worse, and you’re afraid to let me hear it?” She stood there, waiting for him to commit himself to a lie or the truth.

  “There’s little change,” Rutledge told her finally. He was suddenly afraid to pit her against Mallory and add to the man’s agitation. “Which may not be a very good sign. The doctor feels he ought to have come round by now. And he hasn’t.”

  Something stirred in her eyes, fear coiling and uncoiling. “And if I wanted to go to him? What then? Who would take my place here? And would you let me come back again?” She glanced quickly at Mallory, then away. “I must come back, you see. For-for Nan’s sake. I can’t leave her in this predicament all alone.”

  “I could stay here, in your place,” Rutledge offered for a second time. “I think Mr. Mallory would accept that.”

  “No!” The word was explosive, angry. “I warned you not to bring it up, damn you. You’re no use to either of us caught in Bennett’s trap with me.” Mallory had stepped in front of Felicity Hamilton, as if half expecting her to push through the door and run out to the motorcar or down the drive, before he could stop her. “Get out of here, Rutledge, and don’t come again until you’ve got news. I’ve had enough of your meddling, do you hear me? Help me by finding the man responsible for this, or stay away from me.”

  “But, Stephen,” Mrs. Hamilton said, turning to him, pleading. “It’s not meddling. I wouldn’t be long-I’d go and sit with Matthew for just a little while, and then come straight back here. I promise you.”

  “Felicity. They wouldn’t let you come back. Don’t you understand? They’re using Matthew to make trouble. Frightening you so that you’ll rush down to Granville’s surgery and-” He broke off. “Don’t look at me like that,” he pleaded. “This is none of my doing.”

  “You didn’t see him lying there, Stephen. You didn’t see the blood and the bandages. I did.” She whirled back to Rutledge. “You’ll give me your word I can come back, won’t you?”

  “It’s not his word that matters. For God’s sake, Bennett won’t have given his, and so he’s free to do as he pleases. I don’t want to hang for something I didn’t do. Even if Matthew dies-”

  “No, don’t say that!” she exclaimed. “I won’t let you even think it.”

  Rutledge could see the anguish in Mallory’s face and the intensity in Mrs. Hamilton’s, each with a need the other couldn’t meet. A confrontation neither had anticipated at the start of this debacle.

  Hamish said, “It’s no’ a very good thing-”

  And Rutledge cut his words short, saying quickly to Mrs. Hamilton, “He’s right. Bennett won’t be bound by my promises. If you leave here, there’s no turning back.” He looked over her head to Mallory’s tight face.

  “We needn’t stand here on the steps quarreling. Let me in-”

  “No!” Mallory said again. “You’ve already made matters worse. Why haven’t you done as I asked, why haven’t you got to the bottom of this business? I don’t understand what’s taking so long. It’s not as if Matthew had other enemies-”

  He stopped, and then tried to change his own words. “Someone hated Matthew Hamilton enough to give him that beating. Someone you haven’t found yet.”

  “But not for lack of trying,” Rutledge retorted, his impatience getting the best of him. And then he added rapidly, before Mallory could move to the door to shut it, “Mrs. Hamilton, you must tell me about your husband’s work in the Mediterranean. Who it was who envied him? Who it was who resented his skill in carrying out his duties or was angry about what happened in Paris? Who it was who caught up with him on the strand and tried to kill him?”

  She stared at him. “But I don’t know what Matthew did. I don’t know that part of the world, I met him after he’d come back to London. I asked him once if we could travel to Malta and let me see the places he knew there. And he wouldn’t hear of it. He said that part of his life was finished, done with, and neither of us should dwell on what had gone before.”

  “Then who would know? Who might have seen him at work, who might have been to Malta and understood what he was doing there?”

  Mrs. Hamilton’s face crumpled, tears heavy in her voice. “Don’t you see? I believed he was telling me that my engagement to Stephen was closed, that the bargain was, neither of us would look back, and so I never pressed him, because I didn’t want him to press me. It never seemed to matter, not really, though sometimes he would grow quiet and stand there in the drawing room, his hands on that ugly female figure, and I knew his thoughts weren’t in the room with me. And it hurt to be shut out, because I’d have liked to ask him about her, where he’d found her, and what he knew about the other figures he kept there. But I was afraid it would open Pandora’s box for both of us, and I couldn’t bear it. I don’t know what’s in his past.”

  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 ou
t 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?