A False Mirror - Charles Todd [71]
The wrong place at the wrong time…Rutledge sighed.
“I’ll drive you wherever you’d like to go. For the moment there’s nothing more we can do here,” he told Bennett. “And I should have put a call in to London an hour ago.”
“I won’t argue with that. My foot has all the imps of hell pounding it, ever since the doctor kicked it. Give me an hour to rest it, and I’ll be waiting for you to come for me. You’ll do well to get out of those wet clothes, while you can.”
When he had rid himself of Bennett, instead of returning to the Duke of Monmouth, Rutledge made his way to Mallory’s cottage outside of Hampton Regis.
It wasn’t very hard to find, just down a short lane off the main road leading inland. There were no near neighbors.
If anyone had been inside since Mallory left in such haste, there was no sign of it. The rooms were tidy, the bed made with military precision, the kitchen clear of dirty dishes. But there was an empty whiskey bottle on the table by the best chair in the parlor, and a glass beside it with dregs in the bottom. The air still smelled faintly of a long night of drinking. As if Mallory had never gone to bed.
“Drowning his sorrows,” Hamish said. “Ye ken, there’s no witness to call him a liar.”
It would be difficult to prove otherwise.
And this cottage was the perfect place to conceal Hamilton, alive, dead, or about to be killed. Rutledge had been too busy searching the house above the harbor to think of coming here. After that, Mrs. Granville’s death had changed the course of the day.
If Bennett or one of his men had discovered Hamilton here, it would serve to condemn Mallory. By the same token, even the constable outside Casa Miranda would have to swear he hadn’t seen anyone leave the house.
Hamish said, “It isna’ sae perfect a place, then.”
Not if the intent was to see Mallory hang.
Rutledge walked around the outside of the cottage, searching for tracks or indications that anyone had tried to use a shovel in the wet earth. It was only for thoroughness. He knew he’d find nothing.
He drove next to Miss Esterley’s house. She owed Matthew Hamilton for the care given to her after her accident, and he might have felt he could turn to her.
Miss Esterley received him in the small parlor, concern on her face. “Gossip is rampant, Inspector. Mr. Hamilton missing, possibly dead. I’m not particularly happy, living here alone with murderers about.”
“I can sympathize,” he answered, taking the chair she indicated across from her. “But there’s nothing I can tell you that will offer comfort.”
“Which says,” she told him bluntly, “you have no idea who is behind this madness.”
“I was hoping,” he said, keeping his voice neutral as he glanced toward the cane at her side, “that Matthew Hamilton might have felt he could turn to you in his time of need.” The beautifully wrought silver swan seemed to mock him. The way the head was drawn back, the breast thrust forward under it. It was possible, he thought, but only just.
She was staring at him. “Are you suggesting that I’m hiding Matthew here, in my house?”
“I’m suggesting that if he asked you to help him leave Hampton Regis until he’s recovered sufficiently to face his enemy, whoever it might be, you would at least entertain his request.”
Her face was cold. “I haven’t spoken to him for more than a week. And then only as we left the Sunday-morning ser vice. I can’t imagine why he would turn to me.”
“He may have thought you were a friend.”
That stopped her short. For a moment she looked away from him, her gaze finding the titles of books in a shelf along the wall under the windows. “I should have thought he would go straight to his wife.” It was as if the admission cost her dearly.
“You know he couldn’t. You know he wasn’t a match for Stephen Mallory, not in his condition. If Mallory was the one who attacked him Monday morning, Hamilton would surely wait until he was well enough to challenge the man.”
When Miss Esterley turned back to him,