A False Mirror - Charles Todd [8]
The relief was almost more than she could bear. “No,” she repeated.
“Here!” For an instant he thought she was going to faint before his eyes, and he reached out for her arm. “Steady on! He’s badly injured, but he’s not dead.” Yet, he added to himself. “They’ve sent me to take you to him, I can drive if you like.”
“Drive. Yes, he doesn’t have the car, does he?” She was bewildered, trying to understand. “Where is he? At Dr. Granville’s surgery?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Stop calling me madam!” she told him irritably. “You know my name, I’m not a stranger! Wait, I was just getting my coat—”
“Where were you going, if I may ask?”
“To look for him, of course. He hasn’t been home since early morning.” And she was already on her way up the stairs, ignoring what Jordan was saying to her back. In a flash she was back with her coat, and it wasn’t until she stepped into the motorcar that she realized she’d forgotten her hat.
Inspector Bennett knocked on the door of the house that was set above the little stream meandering down to the town through a broad valley. It had once been a major river, this forlorn little stream, but over the centuries it had silted up, and farmers had taken advantage of the fertile soil to carve out pasture and tillage. More a pretty cottage than a house, really, Bennett found himself thinking as he stood there, left behind when one of the more prosperous farmers had built his family a grander home upstream. Restored in the 1890s by a man retiring from ser vice in India, it was what all ex-patriots seemed to dream of: wisteria-covered doorway, sweetly blooming in the spring, thatched roof hanging low, whitewashed stucco over stone, and behind a white fence, a front garden that in summer was filled with flowers that loved the cooler English weather—lupine and roses and sweet william and larkspur, with hollyhocks towering over the lot. The kind of garden his own grandmother had had, come to that.
There was no answer to his knock, and he tried again.
The cottage was actually outside Bennett’s jurisdiction, set a good half mile from the town’s inland boundaries. He was within his rights to be here, due to the nature of events, and the charge would be murder soon enough.
The door seemed to open reluctantly, and Stephen Mallory stuck his head out. He was unshaven, and smelled of whiskey. Bennett made a mental note of that, examining Mallory’s eyes. They were bloodshot, and there was a cut on his cheekbone under the left one. But Mallory was fully dressed.
“That’s a nasty cut, sir. How did you come by it?”
“I don’t know. I think I fell out of bed. What do you want?”
“It’s in connection with a body we found this morning. Might I come in, sir?”
“A body?” Mallory seemed to gather his wits. “Here? You mean in Hampton Regis?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Not the war, then…” He wiped a hand across his mouth, relief evident. He’d dreamed—but let it go.
“No, sir.”
Mallory stepped out onto the vine-covered porch, his eyes wary now. “What body?”
“I’d rather talk inside, if you don’t mind, sir.”
“Why? There’s no one here to listen, saving the occasional sparrow. What body?”
It was Bennett’s turn to feel reluctance. “An early riser found the body of a man down by the breakwater.”
Mallory seemed to relax. “Washed ashore, you mean?”
“No, sir, though the tide had nearly taken him. He hadn’t been in the water long, as far as we could tell.”
“What’s it to do with me, then?”
“You sometimes take an early walk along the water or the cliffs. Did you do either today?”
“You mean, did I see the body and not report it. No, I didn’t walk this morning. I was—under the weather. Does this body have a name? Or do you want me to identify him, if I can? Is that why you’re here?”
Standing face-to-face with Mallory, Bennett found it difficult to measure his man. It would have been more useful—and more comfortable—inside, where he could have sat across the room and watched the play of emotions.
“We’ve identified the victim, sir. But I’d like to ask you a few questions first, if I may. Can you tell me where you were last evening and early