A False Mirror - Charles Todd [37]
“Foreign gods?” Rutledge asked.
“He was something of an amateur archaeologist in his spare time. Part of the collection he brought home with him has—er—stirred up some confusion in the minds of a few people. Especially the goddess.”
For an instant Rutledge found himself wondering if the reference was to Mrs. Hamilton, and then he remembered the headless figure in the drawing room. “Have you seen this collection?” he asked with interest.
Putnam smiled. “Yes, I was particularly asked to view it. George Reston was most insistent about that. He was shocked, you see. I expect Matthew had enjoyed a little amusement at his expense. We aren’t very worldly, here.” He cast a swift glance toward the silent Bennett, then added to Rutledge, “Have you been to Malta, Inspector? Or to some of the other early sites in the Mediterranean? I’ve read a little about them, and I must confess they tend to be extraordinary in their perspectives.”
Rutledge held back a grin. In so many words Putnam had told him more than Bennett had understood. Putnam, he realized, wasn’t quite as childlike as he appeared. It was a facade developed over time to shield himself from the wrath of the Restons and the Trinings among his flock.
“And Mrs. Hamilton? Do you know her well at all?”
“A lovely young woman,” he said. “We’ve been saddened by the fact that she doesn’t come to ser vices as often as we’d like. But she seems sincere in her faith.”
Hamish said, “The auld biddies must ha’ driven her away.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Rutledge answered aloud, then winced.
Bennett put in, “We’re here to inquire if you can think of anyone who might wish Mr. Hamilton ill.”
Putnam considered that for a moment, then shook his head. “I would say he’s universally liked.”
Which left the impression that no one felt that way about his wife.
“And Mr. Mallory?” Rutledge asked.
“Ah. Mr. Mallory. We’ve had long talks, you know. On the nature of faith. He lost his in France. Not too surprising, I’m told. But not lost forever, one hopes.”
Translated, it seemed to say that Putnam had enjoyed very little success with Mallory. But there was an undercurrent of compassion that spoke of understanding and sadness.
Sometimes, Rutledge thought, reading between the lines was a skill a policeman ought to develop early on. But Bennett, sitting there with righteous stolidity, was not listening to the nuances. He was a blunt man with little imagination, and his foot must have been hurting him after the exertion of getting in and out of the motorcar. There was a grim downturn to his mouth, as though he was consciously suppressing the pain.
And then Putnam commented, as if reminded by something only he could see, “I should like to know what you think of our bosses. Will you take a moment to look at them?”
Bennett opened his mouth to say that they had other calls to make, but Rutledge was before him, intrigued by the rector’s shift in subject.
“By all means,” he told Putnam with enthusiasm infusing his voice. “I’ve a fondness for architecture.” He turned to Bennett and said, “It shouldn’t take more than five minutes.”
Bennett said stiffly, “I’ll just wait in the motorcar then.” He adjusted his crutch and walked off, clearly put out by the distraction.
Putnam led Rutledge down the nave, where they could look up into the darkness of the high vaulted ceiling. Pointing to the ribs of the vaulting where what appeared to be flat stone buttons pinned them into place, he said, “If your eyes are younger and better than mine, you can just pick out the devices on each boss.” The rector’s words echoed above their heads, as clear to Bennett as they were to him.
And Rutledge could. As the west door closed behind Bennett, he stared upward into the shadows. The bosses were from Henry VII’s day, he thought, with the white rose of Lancaster and the red rose of York melded into the Tudor rose, healing all wounds of the long bloody wrangling among the descendants of Edward I. Or such was the hope. Henry Tudor had certainly done his best to rid himself