A False Mirror - Charles Todd [27]
The sign creaked on its hinges as Rutledge walked around to the door after leaving his motorcar in the yard behind the inn. He could feel the sea’s breath, salty and damp, as he lifted the latch and stepped into the dark lobby.
A lamp bloomed from the door into the office, and a sleepy night porter stepped out, wary but curious.
“Inspector Rutledge,” he said to the man, setting down his valise and moving to the desk. “Inspector Bennett has taken a room for me.”
The night porter reached inside a drawer and handed him a key. “First floor, to your left. Number fifteen.”
Rutledge took the key, retrieved his case, and went up the shadowy stairs.
Hamish said, as they made their way down an even darker passage, “I wouldna’ be astonished to see a ghost outside yon door.”
“As long as he doesn’t rattle chains as I sleep, I’ve no quarrel with him.”
Hamish chuckled derisively. There were other things Rutledge feared in his dreams. The rattle of machine-gun fire…
He opened the door to number 15, and discovered that it was large enough and pleasant enough, with a view toward the sea through rows of chimney pots. But standing at the glass, careful not to place himself where he could see his own reflection—or Hamish’s behind him—he could just make out the rooftop of Hamilton’s house on its gentle rise above the harbor and the sweep of the drive as it reached the gates and turned in.
And it intrigued him that the house, sheltered in its garden, was so visible from this angle. It would be easy to wait here and watch the comings and goings to the door. He made a mental note tomorrow to look in the other rooms on this side of the inn, to see if the view was as clear.
8
After conferring with the desk clerk after breakfast, Rutledge learned that the rooms to either side of his were not presently occupied, and he took the opportunity to look out their windows. But the inn’s chimneys blocked any view from the room to his right, while to the left a clump of trees in the rear garden of a house across the way broke up his line of sight sufficiently to shield most activity at the Hamilton home.
Number 15 offered the clearest view.
“Aye, but to what end?” Hamish asked him bluntly.
“Someone must have watched Hamilton leave his house on the morning he was attacked. Without necessarily being seen. As far as I can tell, other than the church tower the inn offers the best vantage point.”
The night desk clerk slept in his little room behind Reception. Anyone could step quietly through the inn door without waking him. And the stairs are only a stone’s throw away, carpeted and dark as pitch.
Rutledge decided to walk to the Hamilton residence this morning, a quieter approach than arriving by motorcar. The air was damp and cloudy, the sea a wintry gray and the tang of salt strong on the wind, mixed with the reek of the tideline. Gulls wheeled, dipping and calling raucously where a man sat cleaning his catch over the gunwale of his boat.
As he climbed the road, Rutledge turned to look at the headland across the bay. The woman waiting tables at breakfast had told him there had been landslips there in living memory. It no doubt explained why no one had built there, but five minutes later showed him the stone foundation of what appeared to be an ecclesiastical building rather than a house.
Hamish said, belligerent this morning, “You canna’ be sure.”
But he thought he could. The pattern of the stones seemed to indicate a round small chapel, perhaps once called St. Peter’s after the Fisherman, its tower a beacon to returning ships. Or dedicated to St. Michael, since that militant saint seemed to fancy the high ground.
And then the other side of the bay was cut off from view, and he could look down into the harbor and