A False Mirror - Charles Todd [89]
But he wasn’t the friendly local man, someone who might be hailed with “Good God, Bennett, are we all to be murdered in our beds? And was that the Chief Constable coming out your door this morning? What’s going on at the surgery? My wife was turned away and the youngest with colic, mind you. Is Mr. Hamilton dead? Was it his body Dr. Hester took away?”
Word was out that there had been a death. It couldn’t be avoided. Dr. Granville’s neighbors had seen enough to hurry to a friend’s home or a shop, passing on their eyewitness accounts. The question was, would any of them also remember anything from the previous night that would be useful to the police? He’d rousted one of Bennett’s men from bed and withdrawn the other from Casa Miranda for the day and set them going door-to-door wherever windows looked out on the surgery. It would be a matter of great good fortune if they came back with reliable reports.
He walked out, a subdued scraping of chairs behind him to follow his progress, and went directly to the telephone in its cramped closet.
There he put through the long-delayed call to Kent, prepared to wait patiently while it was answered at the other end and Melinda Crawford was summoned to the telephone.
Instead the maid informed him that Miss Crawford had gone to dine with friends and would be home at nine o’clock that evening. Was anything wrong? Miss Crawford would wish to know straightaway, rather than worry herself sick until she could reach him.
“You know how she is, Inspector,” the voice at the other end of the line chided him. “I needn’t remind you.”
“Tell her it’s a duty call, after I’d been swept by a strong sense of guilt,” he said, smothering his disappointment at missing her.
“And not a minute too soon, as you well know! Good day, Inspector.”
It had been Boxing Day when he last spoke to her. Nearly three months ago.
Hanging up the receiver, Rutledge was still standing in the shadows of the closet when he heard someone at Reception speak his name.
The desk clerk was saying, “He was in the dining room a short while ago, sir. Shall I see if he’s still in the building?”
The male voice said breezily, “Don’t bother. I’ll be staying, if you have a large room with a sea view available.”
“We have very few rooms with a sea view, sir. The Duke of Monmouth was a coaching inn in its day, and most of our guests were grateful to be spared the dampness of the Mole.”
“A large room, then.” After a moment, the man went on, “I hear you’ve had a spot of trouble here. Cleared up, is it?”
The desk clerk answered with the caution of a local resident. “As to that, sir, you’ll have to speak to Mr. Rutledge. If you’ll just sign here, sir.”
“Ah. Well, I shall require tea, if that’s possible. I’ve had a long wet drive. At least the rain has stopped here. It’s pouring farther to the east.”
“I’ll take you up, sir, and then have a word with the dining room staff.”
“Just tea will do, and perhaps…” the new guest was saying as his voice faded in the distance.
Rutledge listened as the clerk led the way up the stairs, waiting for a moment longer until they’d turned into the first-floor passage and it was safe to step out of concealment.
He hadn’t recognized the newcomer. But the name would be there in the hotel register. Walking quietly, he crossed to the desk and turned the heavy book his way.
R. G. H. Stratton was scrawled on the page.
Rutledge didn’t know anyone by that name. Either at the Yard or in London.
He left the Duke of