A False Mirror - Charles Todd [45]
“He made sense, you say?”
“Of a kind, yes. I’ve told you. He was thirsty, drank a little, and twice spoke his wife’s name. He wanted to know who I was, and then there was something more about closing up the house. He touched his bandages but didn’t ask how he’d come by them. He wasn’t rambling. At the same time, he wasn’t fully aware of his circumstances.”
“I wish you’d called me straightaway, so that I could have judged for myself.”
“There wasn’t time.”
Dr. Granville was considering Rutledge as if he’d deliberately delayed in calling for help, in the hope that Hamilton might say something that would shed light on the beating. He turned back to the bed as Hamilton started moving his head from side to side on the pillow in silent distress.
Hamish said softly, “He’s reliving the blows.”
Granville gestured toward his patient. “Look, you can see for yourself he’s at a level of consciousness now where he’s beginning to feel the full force of his pain. I shall have to sedate him, and that’s dangerous. It’s never wise to push head injuries too soon. Leave well enough alone. That’s an order.”
After a moment, Rutledge said, “Still, he should begin to recover now, wouldn’t you think? Having come this far?”
Granville was busy. “He’s warmer than he ought to be. A degree or two of fever, in fact, if I’m not mistaken. Did you upset him, telling him why his wife wasn’t sitting here with him?”
“Most certainly not. I said nothing about Mrs. Hamilton.”
“And nothing about Mallory?”
“Nothing.”
Granville opened the door and gestured for Rutledge to precede him from the room. “We’ll leave him to rest. If his fever continues to rise, I’ll give him something for it later. And I’ll see that there’s some broth to hand, in the event he wakes again.”
“Someone should be here. You can’t hear him while you’re busy with your other patients,” Rutledge pressed, following Granville down the passage. “Or for that matter, from your house.”
The doctor said, “I’ll have to find someone I can trust.”
“As soon as possible. If I can walk in here without being seen, anyone can. Lock that garden door for starters.”
“I can’t. My wife and I use it regularly.” Granville ushered Rutledge out and went to sit at his desk, his fingers laced on the blotter in front of him. And then after a moment, he got up and went back to where Hamilton lay, silent and vulnerable.
Rutledge returned to the inn for a late luncheon, and sat there quietly by himself in a corner of the small dining room. On the walls were photographs of sailing vessels, usually in full rig, sails billowing out and the sea breaking as the bow cleaved it. One was a Chinese junk, another a felucca on the Nile, a third making its way up what appeared to be the Amazon, the rain forest bending out over the river, spreading deep and ominous shadows across the water. The technique was good, and the photographer had had a nice eye for composition, using it subtly and to great effect.
The woman who was serving him was a little flustered, as if this wasn’t her normal duty. She smiled ruefully as his soup spilled onto the plate under the bowl, and said, “Sorry! Becky usually does this, but she’s not been well enough this week. I’m a very poor substitute.”
“Not at all,” he responded politely. “She’s recovering, I hope?”
“Mumps,” she said with a sigh. “And at her age! Dr. Granville tells me that one can have them again, if the first time was long enough ago and quite mild. I look in my mirror every morning, wondering if I’ll come down with them next. The doctor is a good man. He sat with her most of Sunday night, when her fever was so high. And we’re not allowed to visit. One of the maids looks after her.”
“She’s here, in the inn?”
“In the servants’ wing. It’s the only home she has.”