A False Mirror - Charles Todd [33]
“One good thing, then. No sign of returning to consciousness?”
“He’s moaned a time or two. The doctor is reluctant to administer anything to help with the pain, at least for the next few hours, because of possible brain injury.”
“But he’s not conscious enough to speak, as far as you know? When he begins to moan?” He reached out and touched one of the hands on top of the coverlet, and raised his voice a little. “Mr. Hamilton? Can you hear me? I’ve brought a message from your wife, Matthew. Do you understand what I’m telling you? Grasp my hand if you do.”
There was no response.
“How is Mrs. Hamilton?” Mrs. Granville asked him, leaning forward a little, as if eager for news. He turned to look at her, seeing her now as one of the village women rather than just the doctor’s assistant. “She hasn’t been back to see him,” she continued. “I’ve heard that she’s under—er—constraint at the house.”
A thin face, thinner lips, gray eyes alive with curiosity.
“Mrs. Hamilton is safe where she is,” he answered carefully. “I don’t think you need to fear for her or the maid. I’d hoped to bring her with me. Perhaps the next time. Could I see Mr. Hamilton’s clothing?”
Surprised, Mrs. Granville said, “Well, yes, of course, if you like. It’s all in the cupboard there. I dried the woolen things as best I could.”
He was already opening the low cupboard at the foot of the bed. The coat and trousers Hamilton had been wearing were still dampish, and had that odd feeling that salt water gives to fabric, heavy and slightly stiff. No hat, as if the man had enjoyed the wind in his hair. Or had lost it in the struggle.
“Boots,” Hamish said, and Rutledge saw the Wellingtons under the neatly folded pile of undergarments.
“He was planning from the start to walk by the sea,” Rutledge responded silently. “He wasn’t lured there.”
Mrs. Granville was saying, “The contents of his pockets are in that small box. I was going to offer it to Mrs. Hamilton yesterday, but she left so suddenly.”
Rutledge took out the box and opened it. Wallet, in some unusual leather now stiff and water stained. Several pounds in bills. A handkerchief. A handful of coins. Keys on a ring. A pipe and tobacco in a pouch. And a watch, the fob on the gold chain an enameled shield with the cross of Malta in red and white. The watch must have been cleaned and wound, for it was ticking softly.
Nothing unusual or unexpected. Save for the keys, he returned the items to the box and set it back where he’d found it. Then as an afterthought, he put them back as well. As long as Hamilton was alive, they should be left for him.
Just as he was closing the cupboard, the man on the bed groaned in pain, then stirred uncomfortably before subsiding into silence once more.
“If he speaks at all, no matter how trivial his words may seem to you, write them down and summon me at once. Leave word at the station or at the Duke of Monmouth.”
“Yes, of course, Inspector.” She followed him to the door. “I’ll tell the doctor you came, and if he has any need to speak with you, he’ll reach you.”
He walked down the passage and was almost at the outside door when a woman came out of the surgery waiting room, nearly colliding with him.
“Miss Trining,” Mrs. Granville said, in the tone of voice reserved for someone of substance.
“I shan’t wait any longer,” Miss Trining said. “I feel better now, anyway.”
“Are you sure you oughtn’t stay until the doctor sees you? Indigestion is sometimes—”
“I know my own body best,” Miss Trining said shortly, then looked Rutledge up and down. “Who are you?”
He gave her his best smile. “Inspector Rutledge from Scotland Yard,” he said. “And you are…?”
“Charlotte Trining. I’m a member of the vestry, along with Matthew. Have you been to see him? Dr. Granville won’t let me near him.”
“And rightly so. Rest is the best cure, sometimes,” he said. “I’ve my motorcar outside. May I drive you somewhere?”
Over Miss Trining’s head, Mrs. Granville shot him a grateful look.
“Yes, thank you.” She nodded