A False Mirror - Charles Todd [103]
Rutledge went next to the rectory, more than a little worried about Putnam after their last conversation. The rector assured him that food had been delivered without incident. There was the rich scent of frying ham wafting through the door, and Rutledge thought he smelled potatoes and cabbage as well.
“And I spoke with Nan Weekes,” Putnam was saying. “For her own sake, I encouraged her to be less intransigent and more cooperative. The stressful conditions in that house are very worrying to me, and no doubt to you as well.”
“And I don’t see a swift resolution,” Rutledge admitted. “Thank you, Rector.”
“Would I could do more,” he said with a sigh, and closed the door.
Rutledge drove on to Casa Miranda, and found the odors there less appetizing. Someone had burned the meat, acrid smoke greeting him when Mallory finally admitted him to the house.
“I won’t be alive to be hanged,” he said with grim gallows humor. “I’ll starve or be poisoned first. What do you want now?”
“I need to look through Hamilton’s papers. There’s the possibility that something he’d done abroad has come back to haunt him.”
“Those confounded statues ought to haunt the man. I’m tired of staring at them. Felicity—Mrs. Hamilton—must give you permission.”
Mrs. Hamilton, when she came to the study where he’d been left to wait, had a smudge of flour on her nose and an air of hurt resignation. She said to Rutledge, “I don’t know that I should give you leave to go through Matthew’s desk. I don’t see why we can’t wait until he’s awake.”
Mallory had left the two of them together, withdrawing quietly. Rutledge wondered if he were in the kitchen trying to resurrect his dinner.
“We have no other leads, Mrs. Hamilton. Half the village is convinced that Mallory here attacked your husband. The other half holds every opinion gossip can think up, from some past deed following him here from abroad to a boatman telling me that the sea claims its own in time. As if the Mediterranean pursued him to England.” He tried to keep his voice light, but she wasn’t diverted from her concern.
“Well, it’s none of anyone’s business, is it?” she said with asperity.
“London has only so much patience. If they recall me, the next man may not be as willing as I am to search for answers in the past.”
“Oh, very well. The key to the desk is in the lock. But I beg you to put everything back where you found it. I shan’t care to have Matthew unhappy with me.” She crossed to the desk and took the key, holding on to it, as if hoping he might still change his mind about the need for it.
“I’ll be very careful,” he promised.
She sighed, passing it to him. “Inspector Bennett will grow old with gout. Mrs. Bennett’s menu choices would feed ditchdiggers, and I was never fond of parsnips. But you may thank her for her thoughtfulness. I’m learning to be grateful for small things, like warm bathwater and my clothes in order in my closet. No one can make tea the way—” She broke off, looked away from him, and then said, “Will you please tell me how Matthew is feeling? I dreamed last night I was burying him and I couldn’t find his best suit. It was frightful, searching everywhere, and the coffin ready and the mourners in the drive. I woke myself up crying.”
“It’s been extraordinarily difficult for you, Mrs. Hamilton. But your husband would admire your courage, if he were here to see it. A day or two more, perhaps, and we may have some relief for you.”
“It wasn’t Stephen who attacked him. I can tell you that now. He doesn’t have it in him to do such a thing.”
“I’m sure we’ll have the truth in time.”
“Yes, but you don’t understand. It’s like being married, shut in here together with no one else to talk to. We fight over the smallest