A False Mirror - Charles Todd [60]
Rutledge cut him short. “Stay out of it. If you want to be useful, think where we ought to look if Hamilton isn’t here.” He took the umbrella, effectively stranding Granville in the motorcar.
The umbrella turned out to be all but worthless, and after a time he gave up and furled it. There was no sign of Matthew Hamilton on the grounds or in the outbuildings. No sign, even, that someone had been there, no muddy marks on floors in the garden shed or the small stable that had been partly converted to a garage. Rutledge put his hand on the bonnets of the motorcars there—they were cool to the touch—and hunted for deep footprints in the soft wet earth. The lone horse nickered as he leaned into its stall, and blew as he offered his hand to it. And he used his instincts as well, lifting rain-heavy branches, burrowing under shrubs, putting himself in the shoes of a man desperately tired or overcome by weakness. He even poked a hand around the iron seat in the back garden, now draped in a tentlike covering of oiled cloth to prevent rusting over the winter. Mrs. Hamilton and her husband must have sat here and watched the sunset of a summer’s evening. Today the sea and the sky seemed to have merged, a gray mass that was nearly indistinguishable behind the curtain of fresh squalls on the horizon.
Rutledge was just turning away when he realized that closer to hand there was a gathering of men down along the Mole, Bennett among them, leaning on his crutches. They were all getting into a line of carts and carriages and motorcars, hurry evident even at this distance.
Hamish said, “They’ve found him, then.”
13
Mallory was once more sitting at the bottom of the staircase, this time with a whiskey glass in his hand. He was staring at it morosely and barely glanced up as Rutledge stepped through the door. Then something in Rutledge’s face brought him to his feet.
“What? What have you found?”
“Nothing. Here. But I think perhaps Bennett has been more successful in the village. I must go.”
He turned away toward the motorcar but Mallory called him back. “Did you tell her he was missing? I must know—did you tell her?”
“No,” Rutledge said, standing there looking closely at him. How much more would it take to make this man break? He was grateful now that he hadn’t discovered Matthew Hamilton hidden in the house. “I saw no point in adding to her distress. But if we find Hamilton has crept out and died—or has been left somewhere to die—it will be hard to stop Bennett from wanting your liver nailed to the police station door.”
“Damn you!”
The curse followed Rutledge down the drive as Dr. Granville demanded, “What’s that you were saying? Damn it, man, how did Bennett find out about Hamilton?”
“Someone must have stumbled on him. I could see from the gardens—a dozen or two men by the Mole, sorting themselves out into vehicles.”
“Bennett must be wondering where I got to. I should be there when they bring him in, rather than wasting my time here.” Granville was tense with worry.
“It wasn’t a waste of time,” Rutledge said, nodding to the constable under his tree as they turned out of the drive. “After all, this was the most likely place.”
He drove fast, but with care on the wet roads. Air passing through the car brought a chill with it that cut through the drenched clothes clinging to his body, although the morning appeared to be warming up noticeably.
They reached the Mole as the last man was getting into a cart, dragging a canvas sack over his head to keep dry.
Bennett stood up in the wagon in which he was a passenger, thought better of clambering down again, and shouted across to Rutledge, “Where have you been?”
“To the house—”
But the inspector wasn’t interested. He called, “There’s been a landslip. To the west of here. A bad one, I’m told. We’re on our way to see the extent of the damage.” He motioned for Rutledge to follow, but the doctor objected angrily.
“A landslip,