A False Mirror - Charles Todd [21]
He kept reminding himself that two lives hung in the balance in Hampton Regis. If he failed, two women might die. And he couldn’t be sure—he couldn’t be absolutely certain that Mallory would spare them. Not if he was driven to the point of desperation.
Because Rutledge had no idea how Mallory had changed in the past three years. For better or for worse.
He heard a church clock striking the hour as he drove the last winding half mile into the heart of Hampton Regis. Although it was quite late, he found a furious Inspector Bennett waiting impatiently for him in the police station off the harbor road.
“What took you so long? I expect the train would have been quicker.”
Rutledge, his shoulders tight from pressing as hard as he had on the roads, said only, “I’m here now.” He’d refused to take the trains since he’d come back from France. They were crowded, claustrophobic, leaving him shaken and frantic to get down as soon as possible. A hurtling coffin of metal and wood. He doubted if Bennett would understand that.
“Yes, and I’d like to know what you intend to do about Mallory. Made me look a fool, having to send for you. I manage my own patch, thank you very much, without outside interference.”
“I intend to do nothing at the moment.” Rutledge glanced down at the man’s foot, in a thick and unwieldy cast. “That must be hurting like the very devil. How did it happen?”
He’d been intent on changing the subject but was taken aback by the vehemence of Bennett’s retort. “Mallory ran me down, that’s what happened. When I went to arrest him. Flung me off the damned motorcar, directly into its path. If I hadn’t been quicker, I daresay he’d have been glad to see me dead under his wheels.”
The note had said something about Mallory assaulting a police officer, but Rutledge had assumed there had been a brief exchange of blows or a shoving match.
Such violence put an entirely different complexion on the coming confrontation. And it seemed to underline Mallory’s guilt in attacking Hamilton.
He’d hoped to wait for daylight, for his own sake as well as to give Mallory time to rethink his position. After all, there had been no set timetable for his arrival, and darkness often put fears and decisions into uncomfortable perspective. Men brooded in the night, and were grateful for sanity in the morning.
“Are you up to answering questions?” he asked Bennett now. “I’ll need a better picture of events than was available at the Yard. For one thing, has anything changed in Mallory’s situation? Are the women still safe? Has he tried to harm either of them?”
They walked back to Bennett’s office. Bennett sank into his chair like a man in pain, easing the injured foot out of the way of his single crutch. Rutledge took the only other chair.
It was a tiny room, hardly wide enough for the desk, the chairs, and the two men. From the scatter of papers across the desktop, Rutledge could see that his counterpart was not a tidy man, more impetuous than organized, and likely to have a temperament to match.
Bennett shuffled irritably at the papers, turning some, shoving others aside, creating a small avalanche that he caught just before it went over the edge. The near mishap did nothing for his mood.
Hamish said, “He’ll no’ help you, if he isna’ forced to.”
“A facade,” Rutledge answered silently. “That’s all I’m expected to be. But we’ll see about that.”
Bennett was saying, “There’s not much to tell. Matthew Hamilton—you probably know the name, coming as you do from London—was walking on the strand early this morning in a heavy sea mist. Apparently it’s something he does to help him think. That’s what one of the other vestry members told me. Miss Trining, that was. At any rate, someone came up behind him, footsteps no doubt muffled by the incoming tide, and struck him down. While he was still dazed, his attacker hit him repeatedly with something heavy, a stick, a cane, a bit of flotsam—who knows? By the time someone saw him lying there and summoned help, Hamilton’s feet were awash, and all tracks had vanished.