A False Mirror - Charles Todd [119]
“Thanks, but I’m still on duty.”
“A long day,” Stratton agreed. “There’s been another killing, they tell me. This time a maid working for Hamilton. And Matthew’s still missing.”
“We hope to have someone in custody shortly. Which reminds me, Stratton, where were you last night? Not wandering about Casa Miranda looking for diaries, by any chance.”
“God, no. I understand that the man who is holding Mrs. Hamilton a prisoner in her own house is an ex-officer armed to the teeth. I’m not that brave, I can tell you. What I’d like to know is if you found anything there.”
“How did you know I was at the house last evening?”
“Opening doors in a busy inn can lead to unpleasant surprises, but I found a room where the windows do look out toward the Hamilton house. Yours, in fact. And I saw you go there while I was surveying my options.”
“In future, I’d consider spending my evenings with the drapes drawn, if I were you,” Rutledge said pleasantly. “It would be wise.”
Stratton’s eyebrows rose. “Expecting more trouble, are you?”
“No. Just a friendly warning that people who meddle with a policeman going about his duties often come to grief.”
“You haven’t answered my question about the diaries. Do they exist, do you think?”
“If they do, they belong to Matthew Hamilton. If he’s dead, they belong to his estate. Neither you nor I have any right to them.”
“Do you think it fair for one man to hold the fate of many in his hands while he decides what to do with information he should have been sensible enough not to collect in the first place?”
“The peccadilloes were not his, Stratton, they were yours, whatever it is you’re living to regret now. You should have thought of that in good time.”
Stratton grimaced. “I can only plead youth.”
“Then you’d better pray that Matthew Hamilton has learned discretion as he aged. Or that his wife doesn’t wish to memorialize him—assuming he’s dead now—by publishing his life’s history.”
He turned to walk away. But Stratton said, “Gaming debts are not a disgrace. It’s just that I’d rather not have my fondness for playing the odds publicly acknowledged.”
In the reference to Stratton that Rutledge had seen, it wasn’t gaming debts that had been mentioned. But he didn’t stop, moving on toward the stairs.
“Then you’ve nothing to fear, have you?” he replied over his shoulder.
But he found himself agreeing with Hamish that Stratton was a very clever man, and so was the murderer he would soon be waiting for.
Twenty minutes later, Rutledge went to the inn’s kitchen and begged a box of sandwiches from the staff, with apples from a silver bowl in the dining room. Then he made certain that his torch was ready for use and added to the case the extra pair of field glasses that Bennett had found for him. Finally he dressed in dark clothing that was serviceable and warm.
Hamish was not best pleased. “Yon Mallory has told you—he killed you once before.”
“That was just a game his doctor played. It has no bearing on the present situation.”
“Oh, aye? Does the lieutenant ken it was a game?”
“He won’t shoot me.”
“I wouldna’ turn my back on him in the dark.”
It was nearly four o’clock when Rutledge walked up the hill to Casa Miranda. His motorcar stood in the yard at the inn, where he’d left it each night of his stay.
As a ruse, it wasn’t very successful, Hamish had pointed out. “No’ if Stratton is watching fra’ a window.”
“He’ll find a constable in my room tonight, if he ventures in there again. What’s more, I left orders for the constable to lock himself in, as an added precaution.”
He spoke to the man on duty under the swaying limbs of the evergreen, remarking on the wind’s force.
“I’d not like to be out on the water this evening,” the constable replied. “But I should be warm enough.”
“Stay in plain sight after dark.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll do that.”
Rutledge went on to the door and knocked. Mallory answered quickly, smelling of whiskey.
“You’re a fool to drink tonight,” he said shortly.
“I’m not drinking. It was one glass, and I downed it with a sandwich. The house is