A False Mirror - Charles Todd [32]
“She’s no’ concerned for them. Only for hersel’,” Hamish replied. “But her tongue will clack once away fra’ here.”
“You can’t leave them like this, you have to feed them, you know,” Rutledge said to Mallory. “It’s going to be a bigger problem than you think, keeping them here.”
“I’ll manage,” Mallory replied stiffly. “I can prepare food, tea. It won’t be fancy, but it will be edible. I’ve even mucked out the stables this morning for the damned horse. All right, you’ve seen both of them.”
They turned toward the door, Rutledge promising Nan Weekes help before very long and getting the sharp side of her tongue for letting “that man” get round him so. “Poor excuse for a policeman you are.”
It was as if she’d expected him to overpower Mallory in front of her, and set her free, and held it against him for failing to try.
Hamish remarked, “There’s the thorn in this dilemma.”
It was true. Mrs. Hamilton might sleep soundly under the circumstances, her door not locked. But Nan was another matter. Rutledge found himself more worried for her than for her mistress. Mallory’s stability would be fragile after days of strain and Nan’s belligerence.
Outside, as they walked to the back stairs, Rutledge said, “Look. Tell me what it is you want me to do? This has to end, you know it as well as I do. Tell me what it will take to set the women free.” It was an appeal to Mallory’s better nature, but even as he spoke the words, he knew they were empty.
“That’s simple,” Mallory answered. “Find out who nearly killed Matthew Hamilton.”
Rutledge went to Dr. Granville’s surgery next, greeting the doctor’s wife and asking for a few minutes of the doctor’s time. The waiting room behind him was crowded, and he could feel every eye on him as he introduced himself to Mrs. Granville.
Mrs. Granville said doubtfully, “He’s got his hands full just now. What with Mr. Hamilton and his usual hours. I don’t know if there’s been an epidemic of sore throats and unsettled stomachs or if people are hoping for news of poor Matthew.”
“Perhaps you could take me to see Mr. Hamilton, then. And I shan’t have to disturb the doctor.”
“Well, I’m not certain Mr. Bennett would agree.”
He smiled. “I’m handling the matter for Inspector Bennett. Until he’s fit to do more on his own.”
“Yes, poor man. In that case, then.” She let him into a passage that ended in a door that was half glass, with fenced lawns and bare trees beyond. He followed her past a series of closed doors to the last but one. “He’s in quite a bit of pain, isn’t he? The inspector. But he wouldn’t hear of anything to help, you know.”
Now he could see through the glass into the tidy garden just beyond, and a table under a tree, with chairs around it. He had a picture of tea set out there on a summer’s day, and children running through the grass, laughing. The England he and Mallory and so many others had fought for. Bleak now in winter, cold and quiet. As if war had drained away the color and reality, not the seasons.
Hamilton’s tiny room was windowless. He lay there on the cot bed, the lamp beside him lit but shielded to keep the light out of his eyes.
But Matthew Hamilton’s bruised eyes were closed, and his breathing was labored, as if it hurt to draw too much air in at a time.
Rutledge, looking down at him, took his measure: a tall man, broad shouldered, with dark hair silvering at the temples, long sun-bronzed fingers lying idle on the coverlet, slender body. He could have put up a good fight, if he’d been attacked face-on. A match for Mallory or anyone else, physically.
Hamish said, “It was a vicious beating.”
And that appeared to be true. His ribs were wrapped tightly, the broken arm set, and lumps under the coverlet indicated bandaging on his legs as well.
To kill? Or simply vengeful, without much caring about the outcome.
“I’m told he was found near the tideline,” Rutledge commented quietly.
“Oh, his clothing was soaked with seawater,” Mrs. Granville replied. “It’s a wonder, cold as he was, he didn’t die of exposure. But Anthony