A False Mirror - Charles Todd [137]
“Yes, sir. Quiet enough. The lady refused to come for the night, sir. Miss Esterley, that was. I believe the rector stayed in her place.”
Rutledge said only, “I’m sorry to hear it.” He stared up at the housefront, wishing he could look through walls and judge the state of mind of the occupants. But tomorrow would be soon enough.
He bade the constable good night and walked back the way he’d come. Hamish, cross with him, was giving him no peace, and he came close, more than once, to venting his own annoyance aloud.
The sound of the voice in his mind seemed to follow him through the silent streets, an uncomfortable companionship in the darkness. The church clock behind him struck the hour. He’d forgotten how late it was. But there was no sleep for him yet.
He passed the turning for the Duke of Monmouth and walked instead to the water, his steps echoing as he neared the shops and a cat, a mouse dangling from her jaws, trotted around the nearest corner and into the shadows.
There were boats drawn up on the shingle, and others bobbing in the tide at the end of their tethers. He walked among them, poking about here and there, looking at gear and breathing in the rich smells of the sea, salt, and fish and that almost-impossible-to-describe scent of block and tackle and nets that have long lived in the water and grown stiff with it.
It was not too many days ago that he’d gone out with Perkins to the landslip. A futile effort, but it had given him a key when he found the bandages.
Hamish said, “The church clock struck the half hour. There’s naething here. And you’ve been away a verra’ long time.”
He reminded himself that Hamish was a Highlander from the narrow mountain passes of Glencoe, where eagles soared high over the Pap and screamed down the slopes. But he himself had been accustomed to the sea, he’d learned to row a boat watching his father, and he’d spent his holidays by the water more than once.
Finally satisfied, he went back to the first boat he’d come to, reached down, and pulled out the best example he’d seen of what he was looking for. Holding it close to his body, he retraced his steps.
Someone was going to be unhappy with him in the morning. But he could make that right later in the day.
He stopped at the motorcar in the inn yard, looked around him at the night, making certain that there was no one in the shadows or walking along the street at the end of the drive. Then he reached into the back, where Hamish sat, for the rug he kept there. But Hamish now was at his shoulder. Wrapping up his find, he stowed it carefully against the back of the rear seat, glanced up at the windows above him, and saw only dark panes of glass. This was the kitchen yard of the inn, where the staff slept. Neither Stratton nor Hamilton could have seen him at work.
He went round to the front entrance and took the steps two at a time. He’d had almost no sleep the night before, and it had been a wearing day.
Quietly testing the lock on Hamilton’s door, Rutledge went into his own room and stretched himself out on the bed. It would be the second night he’d slept in his clothes.
In the high-ceilinged room, Hamish had full rein.
“She wasna’ strangled. She was bludgeoned.”
“I know that. But does Hamilton? It’s the only way to find out, damn it.”
“It was a trick.”
“It was a necessity.”
“And what will you do wi’ him in the morning?”
“Take him with me to Casa Miranda. And see what transpires.”
“Oh, aye? And after that?”
“For the love of God, go to sleep.”
There was silence in the room, and through the walls, he could hear Hamilton twisting and turning in his bed, the springs creaking under his weight.
It was a little after first light when Rutledge woke with a start. He had set his mental clock for an hour before that and slept straight through.
Rising to shave, he listened for sounds from Hamilton’s room.
Finishing dressing, he went out to the passage. He stayed there for nearly three minutes, judging the faint snores coming from Stratton’s room. So far, so good. He went on