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.”
“I couldn’t know that. It was you who refused to wait. Who didn’t have faith in the future.”
“How could I, when you’d painted it so bleakly?” She stood in the doorway to the dining room. “I don’t suppose you could make a pot of tea. Matthew always brought me my morning tea.”
He hesitated, and then said, “Yes, of course. Breakfast!” as if it had just struck him what time it was. “We’ve got to feed Nan, as well.”
Felicity frowned. “We’d be so much better off without her. I wish she was gone.”
“No, we shouldn’t be. She’s your chaperone.”
“Little good she is at chaperoning. Locked up belowstairs.”
He smiled. “Appearances, my dear, appearances,” he said, in a voice that was so like Miss Trining’s that she laughed. Nan must have heard it as well, for she began to bang ominously on the door of her prison.
“I wish she was dead!” Felicity said in anger, and then covered her mouth with her hand. “I didn’t mean that, truly I didn’t.” She waited to be forgiven, like a child.
“No, of course you didn’t.” But he turned away, his appetite gone, and went on to prepare a meal he couldn’t swallow.
Bennett was in a foul mood. His foot had kept him awake most of the night, and this morning Rutledge had proceeded to act without him. It was unprofessional, and in his present state of mind, unforgivable. He sat in his office hunched over his desk like a poisonous toad, waiting for Rutledge to appear.
Then he said, with understated anger, “I hear you’ve been busy.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Rutledge said blandly, his face giving nothing away. “And so I went to the house. The women are safe, but their situation isn’t the best. I’d like to bring this business to a conclusion today.”
And so would I, Bennett thought, if only to be rid of the likes of you.
His feelings were so clear in his expression that Hamish said, “Watch your back. He doesna’ care how it ends.”
“Yes, at least Mallory is right there,” Rutledge answered silently. And to Bennett, “Perhaps it would help if we could go over the evidence against Mallory again.”
“I’ve told you. Twice before. There was reason to believe he might have had a hand in the assault, and I went to confront him. He ran me down and fled. What more do you want in the way of evidence?”
“I believe you, of course. But what I’d prefer are witnesses, some sort of direct proof at the scene that he might have been there. I daresay Mallory can afford a decent barrister. We had better be prepared for that.”
“The only tracks were ours, the ones we made coming down to have a look at Hamilton. We didn’t know then he’d been beaten, did we? First thought was, he’d walked too far and his heart had given out. Dr. Granville was with us, I’d sent for him straightaway. And he was anxious. Hamilton’s had malaria, dysentery, and God knows what other diseases out where he’s been,” Bennett retorted, easing his leg in front of him. “Bones are the very devil! You’d think they’d have no feeling in them. At any rate, I cast about for footprints, a weapon, some sign of a struggle-and I came up empty-handed. Here was a badly injured man, he had no enemies that we knew of, and the only person with any reason to see him out of the picture is the man now hiding behind the skirts of two frightened women. That should tell you something. If he’s innocent, why didn’t Mallory stand and take questioning like a man?”
“Because,” Hamish was pointing out, “Mallory didna’ trust the police to be fair.”
Rutledge tried to quell the voice in his head. “Who were Matthew Hamilton’s friends? He served on the vestry. What does the rector have to say to this business?”
“I haven’t asked him. When have I had the time?”
“Then perhaps we should see him now. I’ll drive you,” Rutledge went on as Bennett was on the point of protesting. He stood by the door waiting, and Bennett had no choice but to get to his feet and clumsily adjust his crutch under his arm.
Rutledge had passed the church coming into Hampton Regis last night and heard the clock strike the hour. It stood not far from the turning to Casa Miranda, a tall, rather austere stone edifice well set out in its churchyard. To the west of it behind a massive Victorian shrubbery, this morning he glimpsed the sunlit windows of what must be the rectory.
The rector wasn’t a man to take sides. Slim and frail, he looked to be older than he was, a man so trodden down by life that only his faith sustained him.
When they found him in the church, staring at the baptismal font as if expecting it to break into speech at any moment, he seemed surprised to see them.
Bennett made the introductions and said without further ado, “Mr. Rutledge would like your opinion of Matthew Hamilton.”
“Matthew?” Augustus Putnam faltered. “Is he dead then? I’ve been remiss, I haven’t been to see him.”
“He’s still very much alive,” Rutledge responded. “Shall we sit down over there?” He gestured to the chairs at the back of the nave. “Inspector Bennett would appreciate it.”
“Yes, yes-by all means.” Putnam led the way to the chairs and waited as if the host until both men were seated. Then he sat down heavily as if worn out by the interview to come.
“Matthew Hamilton,” Rutledge reminded him.
“Ah. Well, you probably know his history. Foreign Office and all that. He’s been so helpful with church affairs. I’ve been grateful. Sometimes the vestry board can be…” He hesitated, looking for the right word, then smiled. “Obstreperous,” he ended.
“Too many demands and not enough money?” Rutledge asked.
“Yes, exactly,” Putnam agreed gratefully. “We have to make do-the war, you know. It changed so much.”
“The rector lost his only son at Passchendaele,” Bennett told Rutledge with some bluntness, as if that explained the rector’s situation.
“I’m sorry,” Rutledge’s voice carried more than the usual polite murmuring of sympathy.
Putnam nodded in acknowledgment.
“Thank you. It’s still amazingly raw. The loss.” His thoughts seemed to wander away, as if searching for some explanation for why his son had been taken. After a moment, he came back to the present. “I’ve the greatest respect and admiration for Matthew Hamilton,” he said. “There’s been much comment about his interest in foreign gods, but I can tell you he’s a fine example of what a good parishioner ought to be. Kind, considerate, intelligent, compassionate.”
“Foreign gods?” Rutledge asked.
“He was something of an amateur archaeologist in his spare time. Part of the collection he brought home with him has-er-stirred up some confusion in the minds of a few people. Especially the goddess.”
For an instant Rutledge found himself wondering if the reference was to Mrs. Hamilton, and then he remembered the headless figure in the drawing room. “Have you seen this collection?” he asked with interest.
Putnam smiled. “Yes, I was particularly asked to view it. George Reston was most insistent about that. He was shocked, you see. I expect Matthew had enjoyed a little amusement at his expense. We aren’t very worldly, here.” He cast a swift glance toward the silent Bennett, then added to Rutledge, “Have you been to Malta, Inspector? Or to some of the other early sites in the Mediterranean? I’ve read a little about them, and I must confess they tend to be extraordinary in their perspectives.”
Rutledge held back a grin. In so many words Putnam had told him more than Bennett had understood. Putnam, he realized, wasn’t quite as childlike as he appeared. It was a facade developed over time to shield himself from the wrath of the Restons and the Trinings among his flock.
“And Mrs. Hamilton? Do you know her well at all?”
“A lovely young woman,” he said. “We’ve been saddened by the fact that she doesn’t come to ser vices as often as we’d like. But she seems sincere in her faith.”
Hamish said, “The auld biddies must ha’ driven her away.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Rutledge answered aloud, then winced.
Bennett put in, “We’re here to inquire if you can think of anyone who might wish Mr. Hamilton ill.”
Putnam considered that for a moment, then shook his head. “I would say he’s universally liked.”
Which left the impression that no one felt that way about his wife.
“And Mr. Mallory?” Rutledge asked.
“Ah. Mr. Mallory. We’ve had long talks, you know. On the nature of faith. He lost his in France. Not too surprising, I’m told. But not lost forever, one hopes.”
Translated, it seemed to say that Putnam had enjoyed very little success with Mallory. But there was an undercurrent of compassion that spoke of understanding and sadness.
Sometimes, Rutledge thought, reading between the lines was a skill a policeman ought to develop early on. But Bennett, sitting there with righteous stolidity, was not listening to the nuances. He was a blunt man with little imagination, and his foot must have been hurting him after the exertion of getting in and out of the motorcar. There was a grim downturn to his mouth, as though he was consciously suppressing the pain.
And then Putnam commented, as if reminded by something only he could see, “I should like to know what you think of our bosses. Will you take a moment to look at them?”
Bennett opened his mouth to say that they had other calls to make, but Rutledge was before him, intrigued by the rector’s shift in subject.
“By all means,” he told Putnam with enthusiasm infusing his voice. “I’ve a fondness for architecture.” He turned to Bennett and said, “It shouldn’t take more than five minutes.”
Bennett said stiffly, “I’ll just wait in the motorcar then.” He adjusted his crutch and walked off, clearly put out by the distraction.
Putnam led Rutledge down the nave, where they could look up into the darkness of the high vaulted ceiling. Pointing to the ribs of the vaulting where what appeared to be flat stone buttons pinned them into place, he said, “If your eyes are younger and better than mine, you can just pick out the devices on each boss.” The rector’s words echoed above their heads, as clear to Bennett as they were to him.
And Rutledge could. As the west door closed behind Bennett, he stared upward into the shadows. The bosses were from Henry VII’s day, he thought, with the white rose of Lancaster and the red rose of York melded into the Tudor rose, healing all wounds of the long bloody wrangling among the descendants of Edward I. Or such was the hope. Henry Tudor had certainly done his best to rid himself of any opposition. The device of the portcullis was there too, and while they were both of interest, they weren’t unique to this church.
But Rutledge waited patiently for Putnam to explain the significance of them. After a moment he said, quietly, “One morning Matthew Hamilton was standing where you are now, as we were discussing a vestry matter. The subject turned to mistakes we’ve all made in our lives, and he said to me, ‘There’s a Miss Cole who could tell you much about a mistake that altered my life. I’ve carried more than a little guilt about that over the years, and I’ve wondered how to make amends. Only I’ve put it off too long now.’” The rector shrugged diffidently. “I recall almost his exact words because whatever he had done still greatly distressed him. I asked if he’d care to tell me more, and he said it was his own cross to bear. This may have nothing to do with the attack on him. But you did ask if there might be someone who wished him ill. I would be grateful if you kept this to yourself. It could cause needless pain if I’m wrong.”
“Did he ever mention this woman again?”
“It was not a subject I cared to bring up myself.”
“I appreciate your advice,” Rutledge answered slowly. “And your wisdom,” he added after a moment.
Putnam smiled. “One learns diplomacy in many arenas, Inspector. I’m sure the police and the foreign ser vice have nothing on the Church when it comes to treading with care.”
He escorted Rutledge up the aisle to the west door and added as it swung inward, bringing in the cold air, “Some things are best left unsaid. And then there is no necessity for explanation or retraction.”
They shook hands and Rutledge left. Hamish said, “Yon’s a canny man.”
Bennett, fuming in the motorcar, demanded, “What’s so unique about the bosses, then?”
“Putnam takes pride in them,” Rutledge answered simply. “And sometimes it’s wise to give a lonely man a few minutes of one’s time. It may encourage him to remember something we ought to know.”
Grunting, Bennett let Rutledge crank the motor on his own. As the other man stepped behind the wheel, Bennett said, “In my view, finding our man is more important than pacifying the rector.”
“You live here. You know best,” Rutledge said without emphasis.
“Standing around on those cold pavestones has made my foot ache like all the imps of hell taking hot tongs to it. I’ll have to rest it.” It was obvious that the man was of two minds, torn between putting up his foot and staying the course.
“I’ll drive you home. After that I’ll call in again at the surgery. With any luck there should be news.”
“If he’s going to live, you mean. Hamilton. I’ve got a bad feeling about that. You could tell Mrs. Hamilton that her husband is dying, in the hope Mallory will let her visit him.”
“And if he won’t, she’ll be distressed to no purpose.”
“Her feelings aren’t our concern. Winking Mallory out of there is.”
“In good time,” Rutledge promised, driving through the town and turning down the road to Bennett’s house. “And Nan Weekes is still there, remember.”
“If Hamilton lives, Mallory won’t hang,” Bennett commented, ignoring his reply. “It’s a pity.”
He clambered down with an effort and hobbled up the walk to his door.
Hamish said, “He wants his revenge.”
“And I’m here to see he doesn’t have it.”
But there was no news, although Matthew Hamilton seemed to be breathing less stressfully.
“As if he’s coming up from the depths,” Granville said, “although it might be the body and not the mind that’s healing.” He examined Rutledge with some curiosity, and Rutledge found himself flushing under the scrutiny.
What did the doctor read in his face? Shell shock? Nightmares?
“I don’t quite see Scotland Yard’s interest in this business,” Granville commented. His blue eyes were concerned. “Was it Mrs. Hamilton who sent for you? Are you a friend?”
“I’ve never met her before this.”
“I’m worried about her, to be truthful.” He ran a hand through his hair. “If Mallory will allow it, I’ll be happy to come to the house and make certain she’s holding up well under the circumstances. Something to help her sleep might be in order. She’s a strong woman, but even the strong can break under the weight of anxiety and fear.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Meanwhile, I’ll be here again,” Rutledge said, “as often as I can, until there’s news.”
“Is there any hope that Mallory will allow Mrs. Hamilton to come here to speak to her husband? He might respond to her voice, if not to ours. It’s worth trying.” His words seemed to fall flat in the small room.
“That might well depend,” Rutledge answered him, “on whether Mallory believes Hamilton will clear him or condemn him, once he’s awake.” He looked the doctor over in his turn, seeing the competent hands, the strong face, the dark hair prematurely graying at the temples. It gave the man a distinguished air, one that patients must find comforting, he thought, when they were very ill. He was wasted, here in Hampton Regis.
Granville said, “If you want my professional opinion, you’ll be wise to convince that young hothead to come to his senses. This is as vicious a beating as I’ve dealt with in many years. My guess is, Mallory’s unstable, and God knows what he intends to do with Mrs. Hamilton. If she rejects him, he may turn to murder and suicide as his only way out.”
“What are Hamilton’s chances? I need to be told.”
“Worst case? He could very well be helpless and in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. That’s my greatest fear.”
Hamish said irascibly, “He isna’ dead. Ye shouldna’ speak o’er him as if he were.”
And yet, it seemed that Matthew Hamilton had no reality, his bruises like Caesar’s wounds speaking for him. What would he have to say when he opened his eyes? Would he know where he was-or even who he was? Or would he lunge upright and swear at the memory of his attack?
What had Miss Trining had to say about Mallory? That he was a coward-and as far as anyone knew, this attack had been cowardly too, from behind. It was easy to see why guilt had been assigned so quickly. Mallory was the perfect scapegoat…
With a last look at the injured man, Rutledge left and this time openly drove to the Hamilton house. Mallory answered his summons reluctantly. “What now?”
“I’d like to speak to Mrs. Hamilton, if you don’t mind.”
Mallory frowned. “Is he-have you come to say he’s dead?”
“No. But the doctor feels it would be a good thing to have his wife speak to Hamilton, encourage him as it were, something to cling to in the darkness.”
“For God’s sake, don’t tell her that, she’ll be frantic.”
“As she should be,” Rutledge replied. “She’s his wife, man, after all.”
Mallory shook his head. “I can’t let you talk to her. I can’t-it isn’t something that will work. Get me out of this, if you can. It’s the best solution for all of us. Matthew Hamilton included. I didn’t harm him.”
He shut the door firmly. But inside, Rutledge could hear voices, raised as if in anger.
Hamish said, “It’s no’ sae simple.”
“No. It never is. I have a feeling it will get worse before it gets any better.”
But how best to find this Miss Cole whom the rector had mentioned? Without asking questions and giving half the town something more to discuss behind their hands?
He went back to the hotel and stopped at the desk to ask if there had been any messages for him.
The clerk assured him there had not been, and Rutledge started toward the stairs, heading for his room. Then he turned back to the desk. “Friends in London,” he said, “asked me to look up someone here. A Miss Cole. Do you know where I can find her?”
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.