A False Mirror - Charles Todd [82]
“What was Mrs. Reston’s maiden name?” Rutledge asked Bennett.
“Good God, how should I know? Reston married her long before he came here. You’ll have to speak to the rector or Mrs. Trining, not me.” He shifted his foot to ease it a little. “The Bennetts aren’t on the same social rung as the Restons.”
They went next to the rectory. Granville, Putnam told Rutledge quietly, had fallen into an uneasy sleep in one of the guest rooms. “If you could wait until a little time has passed before you question him?” he asked without much hope. “It would be a kindness.”
But there was no time to be kind. And in the event, the doctor had heard voices and he came to the head of the stairs.
“I shouldn’t have listened to you, Rector. I should have rested in a chair in your study. I kept dreaming that—that all was well.” He began to descend the stairs, his face pale in the wan sunlight coming through the open door. “Mr. Bennett. Is there news?”
“Sadly, sir, no,” Bennett told him. “Just that we need to have you confirm something for us.” He turned to Rutledge, who brought out the oiled cloth and opened it so that Dr. Granville could see what it held. Putnam gasped and stepped aside to give his houseguest a better view.
He seemed shocked by the sight. “That’s my work. Or as near as I can be sure. See how the pads are placed, to absorb bleeding? And then another over that in the opposite direction. Four such in a row. And more bandaging, to keep the pads from shifting as Hamilton moved his head. Which explains why this has held together.” Professional pride had taken over. The truth hadn’t yet dawned on him. “And notice here how I turn the end of the tape back on itself, to make it easier to find for changing without disturbing the patient.” He looked up at the two policemen. “But where did you find this? At the Hamilton house? Why is it so wet? Does this mean—have you found Hamilton, then? I thought you said there was no news.”
“This was in the cottage that went into the sea with the landslip. The cottage where Reston’s brother lived until his death,” Rutledge repeated for what seemed like the tenth time that morning.
“What was it doing there?” Granville was genuinely surprised. “You aren’t trying to tell me that someone carried Hamilton out there? I can tell you as his doctor that he couldn’t have walked that far on his own!”
“If he was in the cottage when it went over, then Hamilton is dead. But we can only confirm so far that he was there at some point. If you are quite sure about these?”
“Yes, yes, who else could these belong to? He’s my only patient just now with a head injury. But none of this business makes any sense to me.”
“Did Hamilton have visitors while he was in your surgery? Other than his wife?”
“Half Hampton Regis tried to get in to see him. I left strict instructions that he wasn’t to be disturbed by anyone. My wife”—he cleared his throat—“my wife understood the seriousness of that.”
“But anyone could have stepped in the garden door. Or come down the passage from the surgery door, if no one was about to stop him or her? Even at night?”
“Well, yes, but people aren’t savages here, they asked after Hamilton but never pressed when we informed them that he was too ill to see anyone. I made it quite clear that his rest was essential to a full recovery.” His voice was testy, as if Rutledge was questioning how he ran his surgery. “Look, are you trying to suggest that my wife neglected—”
“Not at all,” Putnam cut in soothingly. “The man’s asking if it could have happened quite by chance—no one around, and someone opening doors—”
Dr. Granville said curtly, “It’s possible. It isn’t likely. Even Miss Trining took no for an answer.”
But in the back of the doctor’s mind, Rutledge was certain, loomed the fact that he had failed to provide a nurse to stay with Hamilton and keep visitors away, both day and night.
And by not doing so,