A False Mirror - Charles Todd [44]
Except for what he’d read or been told since, he knew nothing about the peace that had been fought over and turned into punishment for Germany, each participating nation stretching out greedy hands for what they wanted out of the shambles of dead men’s suffering. He’d been locked in his own private hell while Wilson and Lloyd George and Clemenceau created the new world in their own images. The defeated Kaiser was gone, shut in his tiny estate in Holland, and the Tsar, deposed and dragged around Russia like a trophy until he was no longer of any value to anyone, was dead.
Wilson had been fixated on his League of Nations, and he was willing to trade like a tinker for anything of value in return for support. Ill and heartbroken, he’d been defeated in turn, carrying the League home like a dying comrade. And the concept of self-determination had brought Arabs and Slavs and Africans and Indians to the table to plead for their tiny patches.
What did Hamilton know about any of this? Why had he gone to Paris uninvited, and then been sent away as sharply, as if he had overstepped his bounds? If the Foreign Office hadn’t named him to the official delegation, he had no business there, and certainly no right to speak his mind as he had done. Or did the war have nothing to do with Hampton Regis and what had happened on the strand below the Mole?
Rutledge brought himself sharply back to the present and, for want of any other topic, began to talk about the case he’d left behind in London.
Hamish, receding into the shadows only a little, was crowding him now, seeming to block the door and shut out the very air with his ominous presence.
Why were there no windows in this wretched room? Why was there no sunlight to brighten it, or a wind from the sea to refresh it? It smelled of antiseptic and death and pain. Hardly an encouragement to live.
Increasingly claustrophobic and uneasy, wishing himself anywhere but here, Rutledge at first didn’t hear the grunt as Hamilton moved a little on his narrow bed. It was followed by what sounded like a word, garbled and twisted by the bruised lips. Rutledge turned to stare at the bandage-swathed patient beside him.
And this time Hamilton said, quite clearly, “Water.”
Rutledge reached for the carafe standing on the small table next to the bed, and in his haste almost knocked the glass onto the floor. He half filled it and knelt by the cot, holding up Hamilton’s head so that he could try to sip the water.
It was difficult at first, clumsily done, but then Hamilton seemed to find the knack of drinking without hurting his mouth or spilling the contents of the glass down his chest. He was thirsty, but after a time, exhausted by sheer effort, he closed his eyes and lay back again on Rutledge’s arm.
Rutledge lowered him gently back to the pillows and set the glass aside. Hamilton seemed to be breathing quietly, and for a time Rutledge thought he must have lapsed into unconsciousness again.
But then he said, hoarsely, “Felicity?” And after that, “Who’s there?”
Rutledge answered, “I’m from London. I came to investigate what happened to you. Do you remember? Can you remember?”
He groaned again as he moved a little, then touched his bandages lightly, as if not sure what they were or why they covered him. “Do I know this place?”
“You’re in Dr. Granville’s surgery. In Hampton Regis. Someone found you—”
Hamilton interrupted, saying fretfully, “You came all this way from London? But I’ve resigned, you know. It’s finished. I’ve only to close up the house in Valletta.”
And then, as if there was a crack in the confusion, he added roughly, “Felicity? Forgive me!”
Rutledge waited, trying to decide what to say to him about her circumstances, and in the end saying nothing.
But the injured man had tired himself, slipping easily into sleep or into unconsciousness, Rutledge couldn’t tell.
He waited there for another five minutes, but there was no further response. After that, he went in search of Dr. Granville.
The doctor