A False Mirror - Charles Todd [67]
Hamish said, “A barrow from the shed.”
“Then where is it now? And why didn’t Jeremy Cornelius see it? No, if it was Mallory, he came prepared to make Hamilton’s disappearance as inconspicuous as possible. And so far he’s succeeded.”
But Hamish was not in the mood to agree. “What if the lad saw but one man, no’ two?”
Hamilton himself, stooped in pain, his head covered to hide the bandaging. But what had possessed him to walk away from Casa Miranda? Unless he was too muddled to know what he was doing?
Rutledge went back to the doctor’s office, but Bennett’s unvoiced condemnation beat against him, and he felt as if he would suffocate if he stayed there. He had already looked in the closet where medicines and supplies were kept, searched the waiting room, the other examining rooms, scanned the shelves behind the doctor’s desk, reached over it to pull open drawers and close them again, thumbed through shelves of files in another closet. Nothing appeared to be out of order. Nor had he found anything that might conceivably be the weapon that had killed Margaret Granville. All the same, for want of anything better to do, he returned to the waiting room.
Dr. Granville’s medical bag stood forlornly where he must have set it down on his return from Joyner’s house. A reminder that medicine was powerless against death.
Rutledge squatted beside it and opened the top. Inside there were boxes of pills and powders. He took out the nearest one. An emetic. The next he recognized as digitalis. A small notebook caught his eye, and he opened that to the page where a fountain pen had been clipped. Lines were scrawled there, dated today with the time given as four in the morning, describing treatment of one William Joyner whose heart was failing. Thumbing through earlier pages, he found that Granville kept careful records of patients he saw outside surgery hours. Joyner’s name came up a dozen times, with a list of symptoms and medicines prescribed, treatment instituted.
He heard brisk footsteps in the passage. Setting the notebook back in the bag, Rutledge closed it and stood up. A youngish man with prematurely white hair stepped into the room. The constable following on his heels said only, “Dr. Hester, sir. From Middlebury.”
“Thank you for coming.” Rutledge introduced himself, and added, “This way.” He led Hester to the office.
Hester nodded to Bennett, who said, “It’s Dr. Granville’s wife, sir, she’s there behind the desk. I didn’t like to ask him to touch her.”
“Perfectly right.”
Hester set his bag on the desktop and knelt beside the body, working efficiently and carefully in the small space.
“I daresay the cause of death will be skull fracture from the blow on the back of the head. She was probably unconscious before she hit the floor, and most likely dead shortly thereafter. Hard to tell until I’ve examined her in better lighting. She’s been dead for several hours—the body is cool but rigor hasn’t set in. As far as I can tell, she’s not been interfered with in any way. I should think the body lies as it fell, moving very little after that. As I’m sure Dr. Granville is already aware, she probably knew nothing from the time she was struck. I can’t say what instrument was used, but if there’s nothing out of place here—” He gestured to the room at large. “Most likely the weapon was taken away by whoever did this.”
“A cane?” Bennett asked. “We saw that the doctor has an assortment of canes and crutches in a closet. For all we know, one is missing.”
“It would depend on the shape of the cane’s head. I’d guess more round than angular. With sufficient force and room enough to bring one’s full weight into play, a single blow in the right area of the skull could kill.”
Rutledge said, “Most of them have a knob at the end for a better grip.”
“Yes, that’s the sort I keep on hand,” Hester agreed. “It couldn’t have done this. But that’s not to say it’s the only kind Granville has used.” He glanced at the body. “Poor woman.” It was the first time his professional manner slipped.
Rutledge