A False Mirror - Charles Todd [57]
He thought to ask about Becky and was assured that she was expected to resume her duties by early next week.
“Thank goodness this wasn’t a busier time of year,” she went on, and then nodded toward the rain, coming down harder as they watched. “My grandmother told us last night this was coming. Her knees ached something fierce. The barometer bore her out, but we didn’t know, did we, that it would be such a stormy morning.” She sighed. “Poor daffodils, they’ll have muddy faces now.”
He offered a smile, and she went back to the kitchen. It was a depressing morning, true enough, and Hamish was vigorously reminding him of the rain in the trenches, the sour smells of unwashed bodies, wet wool, mud, and despair in equal measure.
Finishing the last of his toast and tea, he rose and walked out to the lobby, opening the door to a gust of air so heavy with moisture it seemed to have come from the sea, not the sky.
He had expected to go back to Matthew Hamilton this morning, to sit there again and talk to the man, hoping to bring him back to the present once more. He had the feeling that Hamilton had understood more than Rutledge or the doctor realized, and that the words flowing around him had partly roused him out of the pain and blackness that engulfed him. But it was late, and his first duty must be to Mrs. Hamilton and her maid.
The situation there was unstable enough to change by the hour.
He fetched his hat and coat, and with a sigh dashed through the downpour to the motorcar, feeling his shoulders and his shoes taking the brunt of what was pelting down and swirling in puddles under foot.
He turned the crank and ran for the driver’s door, nearly colliding with a man half hidden behind a large black umbrella. He seemed to appear out of nowhere from the boot of the motorcar.
The umbrella flexed as it struck Rutledge and dumped a shower of water into his face as he ducked away from the points.
The man holding it swore, and then as it shifted a little so that he could peer under the dripping edge, he said, “Rutledge?”
It was Dr. Granville.
“Are you looking for me?” Rutledge asked, and then added, “For God’s sake, come inside before we’re both wet through.” Leaving the motorcar running, he urged the doctor through the yard door into the inn.
They found themselves in the narrow, flagged passage that led from the back hall, and Granville left his umbrella outside, taking out a handkerchief to wipe his face.
“What is it? Has Hamilton taken a turn for the worst?” Rutledge asked when the man seemed to hesitate.
“Or is he dead?” Rutledge went on, staring hard at the doctor.
“I don’t know.” The doctor’s voice was diffident, as if he were embarrassed to say what had brought him here.
“You didn’t put a guard on him, is that it? After I’d warned you. Well? What has happened to him now? Come on, man, speak up!”
The doctor looked up at him. “He’s gone,” he said simply. “Just—gone.”
At first Rutledge took that to mean that Hamilton had died in the night, alone and without regaining his senses. But then he realized that the doctor meant what he said quite literally. The shock in his eyes was unmistakable.
“Gone? When? Where?” Rutledge demanded.
“I don’t know. For God’s sake, I don’t know. His bed was empty when I went to check on him half an hour ago.”
“Are you quite sure he hasn’t passed out in another room as he tried to find help?”
“I’ve searched the premises. He’s gone, I tell you.”
“To the house. To find his wife.” Rutledge swore, and wheeled toward the door. “Come on, man, we’ve got to search for him.”
“He can’t have made it far, it’s not a climb he can—”
But Rutledge had the sleeve of his coat, pulling at him, and the doctor came reluctantly behind him, catching up his umbrella but with no time to open it.
They made for the motorcar and climbed in, bringing the miasma of wet wool after them, steaming up the windscreen