A False Mirror - Charles Todd [108]
Why risk removing Hamilton, when he could have been smothered where he lay with a pillow? If Hamilton had left the surgery of his own volition, why didn’t he go back to Casa Miranda? And even if Hamilton had inadvertently killed Mrs. Granville, he couldn’t have attacked himself on the strand. Stephen Mallory could have tried to kill Hamilton the first time and succeeded the second time. But George Reston had nearly as strong a motive as Mallory. And in his eyes, if no one ever discovered what had become of Hamilton now, it might seem a fitting torment for Henrietta Reston to live with.
They were soon on the outskirts of Exeter, and Rutledge cut his speed.
It was a cloth manufacturing town from Norman times and a trading center that had brought it wealth and sometimes unwelcome attention. William the Conqueror had laid siege to it in person. It sat by the Exe River, and Francis Drake had supped with Walter Raleigh in Mol’s Coffee House here.
The cathedral’s Norman towers were wreathed in clouds as Rutledge came through the city, and the street lamps cast a watery light across its medieval west front. The motorcar’s rain-washed windscreen gave the sculptures a flickering, shadowy life of their own, and Rutledge, glancing up at them, could have sworn they moved.
It was a measure of how tired he was.
He found the police station and asked an overweight sergeant on duty where he could find a Miss Cole who lived with her aunt. The sergeant replied irascibly that until he knew the business of the man in front of him, such information wouldn’t be given out.
Rutledge introduced himself and received a long stare in return as the sergeant wondered aloud what had brought a Scotland Yard inspector to this part of the West Country.
“A personal matter,” Rutledge informed him and waited.
“Indeed, sir. I’ll just call Constable Mercer, and he’ll take you there. Though it’s late to be paying a social call.”
“I’ve had a long drive, Sergeant.”
“Indeed, sir.” He summoned the young constable, and while they waited for him, the sergeant said, “The house isn’t far, sir, it’s a tall one set back from the road, just past the turning where you came into town. Ah, Constable, Mr. Rutledge here is from London, Scotland Yard. Could you show him Miss Miranda’s house and let them know it’s all right to open the door to him.”
Miranda Cole. Casa Miranda…the house of Miranda.
Rutledge caught himself in time, on the point of saying it aloud.
With Constable Mercer seated stiffly beside him, Rutledge drove back to the way he’d come. He soon picked out the iron gates to Tall Trees, which Mercer had told him to watch for, and then three houses to the east of that, saw a small Georgian dwelling with pillars to its portico and a wing to one side.
With the constable in tow, Rutledge went to the door and knocked. It was several minutes before an elderly maid answered his summons, her gaze moving from him to the constable with some alarm.
“Good evening, missus,” Mercer began. “This is Inspector Rutledge from Scotland Yard, to see Miss Miranda. I was asked to bring him here, so you wouldn’t be worrying about strangers at the door at this hour.”
Her gaze returned to Rutledge, sweeping over him as if he’d brought trouble with him. “I should hope it could wait until morning. Miss Cole and Miss Miranda have retired.”
“I’m sure Miss Miranda Cole will see me. Tell her I’m here about Matthew Hamilton.”
The maid’s mouth tightened. “I’ll ask her.”
They stood there for what seemed like five minutes. Finally the maid returned and said to Mercer, “There’s a cup of tea for you in the kitchen, Constable. Mr. Rutledge, if you’ll come with me.”
She ushered him into a room at the back of the house, the curtains drawn against the night and lamps burning on tables by the window and by the hearth. A fair-haired woman stood by a chair across the room, her face showing no interest in him