A False Mirror - Charles Todd [28]
Rutledge reached the Hamilton gate, nodding to the damp constable huddled under his cape beside a cedar that seemed to drip constantly, its own waterfall.
The tiled plate announcing Casa Miranda caught his attention. An exotic name for a stately Georgian house. But Hamilton might have wanted a nostalgic reminder of another life.
Rutledge went directly to the door and lifted the brass knocker, letting it fall heavily, like the stroke of doom.
It was daylight now, he thought. Such as it was. He prayed the ghosts would stand more easily at bay.
After a moment a weary male voice called, “Who’s there?”
“Rutledge. I’m alone.”
“Give me five minutes to be sure of that.”
Finally satisfied, Mallory let him inside but kept the door between himself and the gardens beyond, as if expecting a sniper waiting to pick him off.
“He’s haggard,” Hamish said, not without satisfaction as Rutledge and Mallory confronted each other in silence, both taking note of changes since they had fought together in France. Both searching for a middle ground that had nothing to do with France.
Mallory, looking at Rutledge, could see more clearly the toll the war had taken and the peace had not replaced.
Rutledge could read all too well the long lines of pain in the other man’s face, the dark circles of sleeplessness and strain under the eyes. How much of it had been put there by the past few days, Rutledge could only guess. But Mallory was tall and English fair and still handsome, and it was easy to see that he might be very attractive to women.
Hamish, reminding Rutledge, added, “The men didna’ like him.”
Crossing Hamish’s words, Mallory was saying, “Neither of us has prospered since France, it would seem.”
After a moment Rutledge said, “No. Few of us did.”
It was as if the empty words summed up four years of war for both men, neither willing to admit to the personal shadows that dwelled under the surface of the mind, neither wanting to bring any of it back. And yet the very act of standing here opened the nightmare in ways neither had foreseen.
For Rutledge it was the sound of a firing squad slamming a round home with nervous, ragged precision. And the memory of men lifting wooden stocks to their shoulders, sighting down the steel barrels at one of their own.
All for nothing—all for nothing.
For Mallory it was the voice of Dr. Beatie shouting at him, urging him to do what had to be done to end his suffering. Driving him to kill.
The awkward silence lengthened, and Mallory was the first to turn away, abruptly gesturing toward the drawing room. “In there. Where we won’t be overheard.”
His voice cracked on the words, and he cast a backward glance toward the stairs, as if expecting to see someone standing at the top of the flight.
Rutledge reminded himself of the task he’d been sent to accomplish. “Where is Mrs. Hamilton?” he asked, not leaving the hall. “And her maid? I shan’t bargain with you until I’m certain they’re safe.”
Mallory grimaced. “Damn it, they’re well enough. Felicity—Mrs. Hamilton—is still asleep. The maid—her name is Nan Weekes—is threatening me with God’s curse if I touch her. She might well be the best cleaning woman in Dorset, but she’s safe enough from rape, even in the dark. A few more days of the rough side of her tongue, and she’ll stand in greater danger of murder.” He’d meant it facetiously, but it hung in the air like a threat and he cursed himself for a fool.
“Mrs. Hamilton has made no effort to escape?” Rutledge asked, listening to the undercurrents in the quiet voice. For signs of instability, building forces that could end in murder-suicide.
“And leave Nan to my tender mercies? She’s not that sort. Are you coming into the drawing room or not?”
Rutledge followed him into the pretty room facing the gardens and the road, its walls covered in a shell-colored silk, the drapes and chairs a pale green striped with a