A False Mirror - Charles Todd [113]
“It wasn’t I. And it wasn’t Felicity. Who else could it have been?”
“Let’s have a look at the doors and windows, then,” Bennett said. “If Hamilton got this far and killed the maid, why didn’t he hunt you down as well?”
“Because he couldn’t find me, I expect. I’ve told you, I have found a way to sleep. He may know the house better than I do, but I wasn’t where he looked.”
“And you heard nothing in the night?” Rutledge persisted.
“Nothing.” It was curt.
“Did Mrs. Hamilton hear anything?”
“She says she didn’t. I asked her.”
They moved away from the bed, came to the door, and passed through as Mallory backed away.
It would have been easy, then, to overpower him, word given or not. Two men against one. But he still held the revolver, and in the passage outside the servants’ hall door, any shots fired would ricochet, even if they missed their intended target.
They made the rounds of the house. None of the doors had been built to keep murderers out. Their locks were old, heavy, the bolts fitting into worn wood. But nothing was broken, and the windows were properly latched.
Rutledge said thoughtfully, “Hamilton’s keys went missing with him.”
“So they did,” Bennett answered.
Whoever had taken Hamilton had freedom of the house.
Rutledge interviewed Mrs. Hamilton alone. It took some time to convince her to unlock her door, but when she finally opened it, her face tear-streaked and so pale he thought perhaps she’d been sick, she held on to the frame as if to a lifeline.
“Will you come downstairs and be comfortable?” he asked her gently. “We’ve made tea. It will warm you a little.”
But she shook her head. “I said to him—to Stephen—that I hated her and wanted her dead. Not two days ago. I never thought he would kill her…” Her voice trailed off into tears.
And Rutledge remembered that she hadn’t been told that Hamilton wasn’t in the surgery, under Dr. Granville’s eye.
“He was upset when dinner turned out so badly. I didn’t mean for him to take me literally, I was just torn about Matthew and worried—but it’s no less my fault, is it? I should have been braver, I should have borne with all the trouble and said nothing.”
She began to cry. “I didn’t truly want her to die. But I’m to blame, I’ll have to be judged along with him. He wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me, and I’m so frightened, I think my heart is going to break.”
It took him several minutes to calm her enough to tell her about Hamilton. He left out any reference to Mrs. Granville, and he said nothing about the Reston cottage.
It was cold comfort.
“Oh, my God, are you telling me that it could have been Matthew? That he thought—but surely, he’d have realized that wasn’t Stephen down there? That it must be Nan. Or—or me.”
“We don’t know. We don’t know what state of mind he’s in. We don’t know if he could have survived in the cold rain yesterday morning. Please, you must tell me anything you can that will help us find him. It’s urgent, Mrs. Hamilton—you must tell me whatever you know, however impossible it may sound.”
But she was beyond thinking, and in the end, he brought her tea, told her he would be in the house for another hour or so, and prepared to shut her door.
“Is she—is Nan still downstairs?” She shivered. “I shan’t be able to swallow a bite of food now. I’m so frightened.”
“She must be taken away now, to her family. You needn’t know, you needn’t watch.”
“I must talk to her cousin. I want to tell him that it wasn’t intended, that we were just upset.”
“Let me speak to him on your behalf. I think it might be better just now. Would you care to have us ask for Mr. Putnam? He can offer you comfort.”
She shook her head. “I can’t pray. I’m to blame.”
“I don’t think Mr. Putnam cares about any of that.”
But she shut her door without answering.
“She didna’ know,” Hamish said as Rutledge went down the stairs. “It wasna’ her doing.”
“Not directly,” Rutledge replied.
Bennett went out to his constable and sent for Dr. Hester.
He came at length, but before he could reach the house, Nan Weekes’s cousin arrived, in a fury that was loud and uncontrolled.