A False Mirror - Charles Todd [150]
Hamish said, “It doesna’ have anything to do wi’ us, then.”
In that same instant Rutledge caught the first dart of flame licking up the edge of a chimney. He realized that it was Miss Trining’s house, and in the back of it, the pumps were set up and starting to work.
He called to the constable behind him not to relax his guard, then raced down to the center of Hampton Regis.
The firemen were busy, Bennett’s constables helping, and the men on the pumps, their faces red in the glare of the flames, were grimly concentrating on keeping the water flowing.
He glimpsed Putnam in the crowd, then lost him in the shifting light. Dr. Granville was there as well, and even George Reston, though he was standing to one side, watching.
Rutledge made his way to Granville. “How is Joyner?”
“He died over an hour ago. Have you seen Miss Trining? Is she out of there?”
“No, I haven’t seen her,” Rutledge said, his gaze sweeping the milling throng working to put out the flames.
“Damn! They tell me the fire began in the wood stacked by the kitchen door. There’s been a great deal of smoke. I hope to God—” He broke off.
The bells had stopped.
Rutledge could hear people coughing and gasping all around them, but they kept working. “Where’s Putnam, do you know?”
“He was looking for her as well.” Dr. Granville dashed off, disappearing in the direction of the pumps.
Rutledge threaded his way across the crowded back garden, helping where he could, still searching for the rector. He finally found Miss Trining, clutching the portrait of her ancestor, watching as others brought out pieces of furniture and carpets.
He reached her, saying only, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s the kitchen that’s burning now. The wall where the fire wood was stacked to dry. God knows what started it. A spark from the chimney?”
She was stoic, her face set in a determined calm, though he could see that her knuckles were white where they held the portrait.
The shingles by the chimney were smoking heavily now, the flames doused.
“Have you seen Mr. Putnam?” he asked her.
“He’s making certain all the servants are safe. I told him they were.”
Rutledge made one last circuit of the property and then turned back toward Casa Miranda, walking fast.
Hamish, all the while scolding him for leaving his post, said, “It was verra’ clever.”
“Yes.” He saved his breath for the last sprint up the hill, startling the constable, whose attention was riveted on the pall of smoke rising up in the night sky.
“Have you seen Mr. Putnam?” he called to the man.
The constable turned guiltily to face him. “Sir? I believe he went up to the house not five minutes ago.” He saw Rutledge’s expression in the reflection of the lights around Miss Trining’s house. “You did say to let him pass at will, sir.”
Damn!
Rutledge went on to the door, fishing Hamilton’s keys out of his pocket. Letting himself in as quietly as he could, he stopped with his back to the door and listened.
The house was silent.
Where the bloody hell was Putnam?
Overhead Hamilton and Mallory were lying tensely in the dark, waiting. And Mrs. Hamilton, God willing, was in her own room, oblivious.
He dared not call out.
The rector couldn’t have let himself in through this door—it was the one with the newest lock. But he had two keys that fit doors to the kitchen and to the servants’ hall.
Still Rutledge waited where he was, his body tense with listening.
Hamish said, “Ye ken, yon fire was set.”
“He couldn’t have known what I’d found.”
“He could ha’ made a verra’ good guess. Were ye seen, passing through yon shrubbery into the churchyard?”
“Possibly. Too late to worry about that now. It’s done.” A dialogue with Hamish was so familiar in the dark that he wasn’t even aware of it. “Clever of him not to set the fire in the rectory.”
The house seemed to creak and then settle around them as the chill of the night began to work through the brick and into the