A False Mirror - Charles Todd [22]
Matthew Hamilton…Rutledge cudgeled his tired wits. His sister had spoken of the man from time to time. Or one of her friends had done. Rutledge had paid scant attention, but he possessed a good memory and he managed to dredge up a few details. Hamilton moved in good circles, but he wasn’t particularly enchanted with London and soon after his marriage he’d disappeared from the social scene. That accounted for the move to Hampton Regis. But why had he chosen to close up his flat as well? London gossips had looked for an answer to that and failed to find it.
The information Bowles had given Rutledge was lean to the point of skeletal: that Hamilton had been at the Peace Conference in Paris, coming unbidden from his station on Malta, and was sent back there posthaste.
Wasn’t it this same Hamilton who had been against stiff reparations from Germany? French vengeance he’d called it. And hadn’t he railed against the American president Wilson’s belief in self-determination, publicly branding it foolishness in the extreme? Wilson had been tired, ill, his idealistic pronouncements according to Hamilton failing to take into account the realities of world politics and setting the stage for grave consequences down the road. The British and French delegations had been intent on ignoring the American president, palming him off with his precious League of Nations. Hamilton had tried repeatedly to convince them all that they were sowing the seeds of disaster which another generation would reap in blood. It hadn’t been a popular stance.
The British had all but disowned him, as they had disowned Lawrence and others with a clearer vision. Rutledge had been in hospital during most of the Peace Conference, his knowledge of it secondhand. But the displeasure of the Foreign Office hadn’t sent a man of Hamilton’s stature to a backwater like Hampton Regis. Small wonder the gossips had been busy.
Given Hamilton’s history, what scandal or past indiscretion might have caught up with him here? Stephen Mallory had had no role in Hamilton’s diplomatic career. Yet that had covered at least twenty years of Hamilton’s life.
Bennett was still speaking, his voice sour. “And how is it you’re acquainted with this man Mallory? Does he have friends in high places?”
“Hardly high places. I expect the Yard was more concerned about the Hamiltons and their maid than any connection I might have with your suspect.”
“Then you won’t mind telling me how it was you came to know him.”
“In the war,” Rutledge answered him, and changed the subject, though he knew Bennett wasn’t satisfied. “Any improvement in Hamilton’s condition?”
“Not according to the doctor.” Bennett grimaced as he shifted his foot again. “He’s been close to consciousness a time or two, but he never quite wakes up. That doesn’t bode well for his ability to recall who attacked him.”
“Yes, I see that. What happened next?”
“I sent my constable, Jordan, to the Hamilton house to fetch Mrs. Hamilton to him, and I went to Mallory’s cottage myself. It lies inland, a few miles up the Hampton River. My intent was to question him about where he’d been that morning, but he lost his head and went directly to find Mrs. Hamilton. She was at Dr. Granville’s surgery. He waited until she came home, and took both Mrs. Hamilton and her maid hostage. When we went to try and talk him into surrendering, he threatened to kill both women if we didn’t summon you directly.”
“Since then, you haven’t tried to—er—persuade him to surrender?”
“I had myself driven up to the house shortly before nightfall, and called to Mrs. Hamilton. Mallory answered for her and reminded me that their safety depended on you coming down from London.” He considered Rutledge, his eyes hostile. “I still can’t see why he should have sent for you by name. There must be more to it.” His posture was insistent, as if he were determined to get to the bottom of the connection.
“I’ve told you. We served together in France, and I expect I’m the only policeman he knows.”