A False Mirror - Charles Todd [50]
But he said pleasantly, “Thank you, Miss Trining. I’ll come again in the afternoon.”
“I understand you’ve been questioning Mr. Reston. May I know the purpose of your interest in him?”
“Mr. Reston’s bank is just off the Mole. I’d hoped he could tell me who was on the street that morning.”
Her attention sharpened. “And could he?”
Rutledge smiled to take the sting out of his response. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”
Her mouth tightened. “Indeed. I thought perhaps you were curious about his past. But since you don’t choose to confide in me, I feel no compunction to confide in you. Good day, Inspector.”
He watched her walk away, her back stiff and straight. Now what, he wondered, had possessed her to cast doubt on Mr. Reston’s past? Whatever it was she knew—or thought she knew—Bennett was unaware of it. And that was intriguing.
He found the Reston house after asking the shy girl behind the counter at a flower shop near the Mole for directions. The shop smelled of dried lavender and lilies. The girl, a brunette in her early twenties, was dressed in a white shirtwaist and a dark blue skirt, her hair pulled back becomingly to a knot at the nape of her neck. She smiled at him as he entered, the obligatory smile of someone hoping to make a sale.
When she recognized him, she was suddenly wary, as if he had come to question her.
“I’ve already spoken to Constable Jordan,” she said in a soft voice. “I didn’t see anyone out and about the morning that Mr. Hamilton was hurt.”
“Did you see the doctor and the police removing him to Dr. Granville’s surgery?”
“Oh, no, I looked away. It was upsetting.”
Hamish said, “It must ha’ been. But why was she no’ curious?”
“Did you know it was Mr. Hamilton they were bringing up from the strand?”
“Not then. I—I thought someone had drowned.”
“Is drowning common, off the Mole?”
She shook her head. “Not very. There’s no bathing here, not with the currents. But sometimes, especially in the war, seamen washed up along the south coast. A good many were never identified. Which is sad—no one to mourn for them, and perhaps a wife or mother somewhere waiting and waiting for them to come home.”
And no one to buy flowers to put on their graves, he thought. He asked her the question that had brought him to the shop and thanked her.
The banker lived in what Bennett had called the fish scale side of Hampton Regis, an imposing gray stone edifice with a mock turret and a battlemented porch over the drive that looped past the side of the house.
Mrs. Reston, he was told by an elderly maid in a prim starched cap that was more suited to an Edwardian household, was not at home this morning.
Feeling thwarted, Rutledge retraced his steps and went again to Casa Miranda, asking to speak to Mrs. Hamilton. Mallory, he noted, looked haggard.
She came to the door with red eyes, as if she’d been crying for some time. Her first words were, “Is there news? If it’s bad, tell me quickly.”
He couldn’t bear the distress in her voice. “Your husband was briefly awake, Mrs. Hamilton,” he said gently, then added with a glance toward Mallory, “Not awake long enough to know where he is or why he is there. I must tell you he spoke your name, and we must take that as a good sign. Dr. Granville is doing all he can.”
“Please tell him I’m grateful.” Felicity Hamilton began to weep, her face in her hands. He thought, Tears of relief. Both men looked away from her, uncertain how to comfort her.
After a moment Mallory said quietly, “What do you want, Rutledge?”
“Let me in for ten minutes. If I’m to help, I need more information than I have now. Anything that you can tell me—”
“No.”
But Felicity, finding her handkerchief, said emphatically, “Don’t be foolish, Stephen. If it will somehow help.”
Reluctantly Mallory stepped aside to allow Rutledge into the hall.
The house already had a dismal air, as if without someone polishing and cleaning, without an ordinary schedule for the day, it was deteriorating.
They went to the sitting room, where the luncheon dishes still stood on trays. Rutledge thought