A False Mirror - Charles Todd [36]
“I believe you, of course. But what I’d prefer are witnesses, some sort of direct proof at the scene that he might have been there. I daresay Mallory can afford a decent barrister. We had better be prepared for that.”
“The only tracks were ours, the ones we made coming down to have a look at Hamilton. We didn’t know then he’d been beaten, did we? First thought was, he’d walked too far and his heart had given out. Dr. Granville was with us, I’d sent for him straightaway. And he was anxious. Hamilton’s had malaria, dysentery, and God knows what other diseases out where he’s been,” Bennett retorted, easing his leg in front of him. “Bones are the very devil! You’d think they’d have no feeling in them. At any rate, I cast about for footprints, a weapon, some sign of a struggle—and I came up empty-handed. Here was a badly injured man, he had no enemies that we knew of, and the only person with any reason to see him out of the picture is the man now hiding behind the skirts of two frightened women. That should tell you something. If he’s innocent, why didn’t Mallory stand and take questioning like a man?”
“Because,” Hamish was pointing out, “Mallory didna’ trust the police to be fair.”
Rutledge tried to quell the voice in his head. “Who were Matthew Hamilton’s friends? He served on the vestry. What does the rector have to say to this business?”
“I haven’t asked him. When have I had the time?”
“Then perhaps we should see him now. I’ll drive you,” Rutledge went on as Bennett was on the point of protesting. He stood by the door waiting, and Bennett had no choice but to get to his feet and clumsily adjust his crutch under his arm.
Rutledge had passed the church coming into Hampton Regis last night and heard the clock strike the hour. It stood not far from the turning to Casa Miranda, a tall, rather austere stone edifice well set out in its churchyard. To the west of it behind a massive Victorian shrubbery, this morning he glimpsed the sunlit windows of what must be the rectory.
The rector wasn’t a man to take sides. Slim and frail, he looked to be older than he was, a man so trodden down by life that only his faith sustained him.
When they found him in the church, staring at the baptismal font as if expecting it to break into speech at any moment, he seemed surprised to see them.
Bennett made the introductions and said without further ado, “Mr. Rutledge would like your opinion of Matthew Hamilton.”
“Matthew?” Augustus Putnam faltered. “Is he dead then? I’ve been remiss, I haven’t been to see him.”
“He’s still very much alive,” Rutledge responded. “Shall we sit down over there?” He gestured to the chairs at the back of the nave. “Inspector Bennett would appreciate it.”
“Yes, yes—by all means.” Putnam led the way to the chairs and waited as if the host until both men were seated. Then he sat down heavily as if worn out by the interview to come.
“Matthew Hamilton,” Rutledge reminded him.
“Ah. Well, you probably know his history. Foreign Office and all that. He’s been so helpful with church affairs. I’ve been grateful. Sometimes the vestry board can be….” He hesitated, looking for the right word, then smiled. “Obstreperous,” he ended.
“Too many demands and not enough money?” Rutledge asked.
“Yes, exactly,” Putnam agreed gratefully. “We have to make do—the war, you know. It changed so much.”
“The rector lost his only son at Passchendaele,” Bennett told Rutledge with some bluntness, as if that explained the rector’s situation.
“I’m sorry,” Rutledge’s voice carried more than the usual polite murmuring of sympathy.
Putnam nodded in acknowledgment.
“Thank you. It’s still amazingly raw. The loss.” His thoughts seemed to wander away, as if searching for some explanation for why his son had been taken. After a moment, he came back to the present. “I’ve the greatest respect and admiration for Matthew Hamilton,” he said. “There’s been much comment about his interest in foreign gods, but I can tell you he’s a fine example of what a good parishioner