A False Mirror ir-9 Read online

  A False Mirror

  ( Ian Rutledge - 9 )

  Charles Todd

  Charles Todd

  A False Mirror

  1

  HAMPTON REGIS Early February, 1920

  It was a bitterly cold night of frost, the stars sharp and piercingly bright overhead.

  He pulled the motorcar to the verge and settled to watch the house that lay directly across the black expanse of water. It stood out against the sky, amazingly clear. Even from here he could tell there were lamps burning in three of the rooms. He could picture them in his mind: at the rear of the house-the sitting room, very likely. In the entry, where the pattern of the fanlight over the front door shone starkly against the deep shadows there-behind it the staircase, of course. And one on the first floor, under the eaves.

  Their bedroom, surely.

  The sitting room lamp went out after half an hour. He could see, for an instant, the grotesque silhouette cast for a moment or two against the drawn shades as someone reached out to turn down the flame. And then the silhouette reappeared briefly in the fanlight just as the second lamp was extinguished.

  He leaned forward, his concentration intense, then swore as the windscreen clouded with his breath.

  Were there two people in the bedroom now?

  He couldn’t bear to think about it. He couldn’t bear to picture her in another man’s arms, wrapped in the warmth of the bedclothes, whispering softly, her hair falling over his shoulder and across his chest…

  His fists pounded angrily on the steering wheel as he tried to force the images out of his mind.

  And then the last lamp went out, leaving the house in darkness. Shutting them in. While he sat there, like a fool, in the windless night, cold and wretched.

  It was the fourth time he’d driven into Hampton Regis. He had promised the doctor he’d do no such thing. But the temptation was too strong, overwhelming his better judgment. Haunted by the need to know, he had told himself that once would do no harm. But once had become twice. And now here he was again.

  Dr. Beatie had said, “Stephen-you aren’t healed yet. Do you understand? Emotional distress could put you back here, in a worse state than before!”

  Both of them knew it was a lie. There could be no worse state than the one he’d somehow, miraculously, survived. He had had to kill the Captain before Dr. Beatie could set him free. He wished now it had been Matthew Hamilton who had died.

  He caught himself, knowing it was wrong to wish such a thing. But God, he was tired, and alone, and sometimes afraid. He wanted things the way they had been in 1914. Before the war-the trenches-the nightmares. Before Matthew Hamilton had walked into the clinic waiting room to comfort Felicity and told her-what? Lies? Or the sordid truth? That her fiance was a coward.

  After a time Stephen got out to crank the motorcar, the sound of the powerful engine roaring into life and filling the cold silence. He would freeze to death if he sat here, uselessly mourning.

  Setting his teeth, he turned the motorcar and without looking again at the darkened house behind him, drove back the way he’d come.

  He couldn’t see behind the silken white curtains that covered the window under the eaves a pale face staring out into the night, watching the puff of exhaust whip across the rear light, a wraith shielding its brightness until it was out of sight.

  Matthew Hamilton rose early, quietly throwing back the bedclothes and the counterpane that covered him, then tucking the ends around his wife’s bare shoulder. Looking down at her, he marveled again at his luck. Then reminded himself that it wasn’t his luck at all, but someone else’s misfortune, that he had married this lovely, loving woman in his bed.

  Wryly turning away, he dressed quickly and then set about making up the fire so that the room would be warm for her. When it was drawing well, he went down to the kitchen and blew the fire there into life for the kettle. While he waited for it to boil, he raised the shades and looked out at the clear, cold morning. The sun was not yet up, but a pale rose had begun to streak the winter-brown lawns spreading to the cliff face overlooking the sea. The water beyond was still, waiting for the sun, and farther out there was a soft mist blanketing it.

  To the west, across the harbor below, the land rose up again, running out to a point a little higher than the one on which his house was set. The pair of headlands formed two arms embracing the Mole-the medieval stone pier that jutted out across the shingle to the tideline-creating a haven for shipping along England’s south coast in an age when sailing ships made Hampton Regis rich.

  There had once been a watchtower on the far headland, built to keep an eye on Napoleon. Only ruins stood there now, overgrown at the base, a few feet of stone still reaching upward like pleading fingers.

  Two days ago he’d seen a vixen and her kits romping there, and he’d been touched by their exuberance, wondering how any man could hunt them down. Farmers were often a backward lot, though it was an unkind thing to say. But foxes kept vermin down, and like the old owl in the belfry at the church, deserved a better character than they’d been given.

  The kettle whistled behind him, startling him, and he moved quickly to lift it off the plate. He enjoyed these few minutes alone, before the maid arrived, before the house was a-bustle. He also enjoyed spoiling his wife, doing such small things for her pleasure. A far cry from his long years of exile in other countries, alone and often distrusted, the voice of London when often London had left him to his own devices. It was over, and he called himself happy.

  Felicity was standing by the window when he brought her tea, her robe belted tightly about her waist.

  “Watching for the foxes?” he asked. “They should be active again this morning.” He handed her a cup as she turned.

  But she hadn’t been watching for the foxes. He could see that in her face. Why was love so perceptive? It would be better off blind, he thought, pretending not to notice her guilt.

  She was saying, “We ought to have a fine day. Just as well-I’ve a thousand things to do!” She smiled up at him, then reached out to lay her free hand against his cheek. “I do love you, Matthew,” she told him softly.

  He covered her fingers with his own. “I’m glad,” he responded simply. “I don’t quite know how I managed to live so many years without you.”

  She set down her cup and walked over to the blazing fire. “Shall I take the dogcart or the motorcar?”

  “The motor, of course. It will be warmer.”

  She nodded, thinking about her errands. Then she said, “Must you call on Miss Trining today? She’ll have something to say about you arriving in a dogcart. Far beneath your dignity.”

  He laughed. “Yes, I know. I shall never live up to old Petrie’s standards. Queen Victoria herself couldn’t have found fault with him.”

  “I should hope not. She knighted him,” Felicity answered, laughing with him. “But just think-the next important man who chooses to reside here will be held up to your standards.” She lowered her voice. “Not quite the man Matthew Hamilton was, you know,” she said gruffly in imitation of Miss Trining. “I don’t know what the Foreign Office is coming to these days!”

  It was perfect mimicry.

  “It would never do for you to attend a vestry meeting. I’d see your face down the table, know what you were thinking, and lose any reputation I ever had for being a sober, God-fearing civil servant. They’d chuck me out on the spot for unseemly levity.”

  “Not you,” she said quickly. “God knows, they’re lucky to have someone under eighty willing to serve. I on the other hand would be burned at the stake, before sunrise. Like Guinevere.”

  She bit her lip as she spoke the name, wishing she could take it back. She put her arms around his neck, her eyes closed. “Hold m
e,” she begged.

  And he did, her tea forgotten.

  2

  LONDON End of February, 1920

  Chief Superintendent Bowles sat at his cluttered desk, chewing on the end of his mustache, staring at his subordinate.

  “Time off?” he said. “What on earth for?”

  “A-personal matter,” Inspector Rutledge answered, unforthcoming.

  “Indeed!” Bowles continued to stare. The nurse who’d sent him a copy of this man’s medical file before Rutledge returned to duty last June must have lied.

  Rutledge was still thin for his height, and his face was drawn as if from lack of sleep. But the eyes, dark and haunted, were intelligent and alert. So much for cowardice. And he hadn’t shown a yellow streak in the north, over that nasty business about the child. The local man had complained of him, of course, and Mickelson had been angry over the outcome of the case. But the Chief Magistrate had told Bowles in no uncertain terms that the investigation had been brilliantly handled.

  And the Chief Magistrate had Connections. It wouldn’t do to ignore that.

  Rutledge had also done well in Northamptonshire, though it had been a grave risk sending this man to see to Hensley. But then he’d trusted Hensley to keep his mouth shut, and it had turned out all right. There was no proof to be found that he’d known what Hensley was up to. Or none that he knew of.

  His thoughts returned to the letter from the clinic.

  Bowles had half a mind to bring that fool nurse up on charges of incompetence. For the past six months, Rutledge had somehow managed to turn every test into a small success. What was he to do about this man who refused to destroy himself? The nurse had sworn she’d overheard him threatening suicide time and again, she had sworn he wouldn’t survive the rigors of the Yard for more than a month, two at best. What’s more, how did Rutledge manage to carry out his duties in such a way that others protected him? Protectors who were unaware that Rutledge had come out of the trenches with shell shock and must have killed who knew how many brave soldiers through his own lack of moral fiber!

  Bowles would have given much to know who had pinned medals on this man’s chest and called him a hero. That officer deserved to be shot, by God!

  Better still, Rutledge ought to have been shot, he thought sourly, and not for the first time. It was the least the Germans could have done, after their rampage across Belgium and France. A nice clean bullet to the heart crossing No Man’s Land. If Rutledge had ever crossed it, of course-very likely he’d cowered in the trench out of harm’s way while his men died. And no German fire could reach him there, however hard the guns had tried.

  His already bleak mood was turning into a nasty headache-

  Bowles suddenly became aware that he’d been glaring at Rutledge in silence. He cleared his throat, shifting in his chair to give the impression he’d been preoccupied with other issues instead of sitting there like a fool, daydreaming.

  “There’s the Shepherd’s Market murder still to be solved. Not to mention that business about the men found dead in Green Park. I don’t see how I can spare you. Or anyone else for that matter.”

  Rutledge said, “It’s rather important.”

  “So is peace and order!” Bowles snapped. “Or do you think yourself above the rest of us? Jaunting about the countryside attending to personal affairs indeed, while there’s work to be done here.”

  “Neither of these cases is mine,” Rutledge reminded him, his voice neutral. But something in his eyes warned Bowles that this leave he’d requested was a more serious business than Rutledge was willing to admit.

  Bowles brought his attention back to his inspector’s face. Was Rutledge on the brink of breaking down? Was that what made him so anxious to get away for a bit?

  The more Bowles considered that possibility, the more he began to believe in it. What else could it be but a recognition on Rutledge’s part that time was running out?

  “You’re to stay in town and work with Phipps, do you hear me? You’ll help him find out what’s behind the Green Park murders. And there’s an end to it.”

  He sat back in his chair and studied the fountain pen in his fingers. “An end to it!” he repeated forcefully. “Request denied.”

  Chief Inspector Phipps was a nervous man whose efficiency was not in question, but whose personality left much to be desired. He seemed to feed on his own anxieties to the point of aggravating everyone around him. Inspector Mickelson had sworn the Chief Inspector could drive God himself mad.

  What would close contact with him do to a man facing a breakdown?

  Satisfied, Bowles picked up a file on his desk and opened it. Rutledge was dismissed.

  Chief Inspector Phipps walked into Rutledge’s office without knocking, his fingers beating a ragged tattoo on the back of the file he was carrying.

  Rutledge looked up, his gaze going to the file.

  The Green Park murders, so close to Buckingham Palace, had drawn the attention of the press. Two men had been killed there, a week apart. So far nothing uncovered in the investigation indicated any connection between them. But each had been garroted and left in the bushes. An early riser found the first victim when his dog was drawn to the shrubbery and began barking. Children playing hide-and-seek with their nursemaid had discovered the second victim. Their father-titled and furious-had appeared at the Yard in person, demanding to know why his son and daughter had been subjected to such a gruesome experience. They were distraught, as was his wife, he’d told Phipps in no uncertain terms. And the Yard was to blame for allowing murderers to roam unhindered in decent parts of town. No mention was made of any anguish the nursemaid had suffered.

  Phipps set the file on Rutledge’s desk and began to pace the narrow office as he spoke.

  “Bowles has given you to me. Anything in particular on your desk at the moment?”

  Rutledge said, “I’ve closed the file on George Ferrell. This morning.”

  “Good, good!” Phipps wheeled and paced back the other way.

  “Each of our victims,” Phipps went on, “was found on a Sunday morning. Tomorrow is Saturday. I want Green Park covered from first light to first light. You’ll be given a police matron dressed as a nanny. She’ll be pushing a pram, and you’re her suitor, a young clerk from a nearby shop, who urges her to sit and talk for an hour.” He paused to consider Rutledge. “You don’t really look like a lovesick young clerk. I’ll ask Constable Bevins to assume that role, instead, and you can walk Bevins’s dog several times during the day and early evening. I want an inspector close by at all times, you see. You’ll have the damned dog on your hands until Bevins is off duty. See the beast doesn’t annoy the chief superintendent, if you must bring it back to the Yard.”

  “With so many people in the Park, it isn’t likely that another murder will occur there,” Rutledge pointed out.

  “And that’s what I’m hoping, don’t you see? We throw our man off balance, make it difficult for him to plan.” Phipps paused long enough to crack his knuckles, one by one. “Once the killer has lured his target into the park, it won’t be easy to shift him to another site.”

  “What if he’s already killed the two men he’d intended to murder?”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s a very likely possibility! We’ve got ourselves a trend here, don’t you know. He’ll come to the Park, all right. Wait and see. And he’ll have told his victim where and when to meet him, I should think. Safer than arriving together. Someone might see them and remember.” He was pacing again, rubbing his jaw with the back of his nails. “Very well, then, we’re looking for two men, arriving separately, then meeting. They’ll go off together toward the shrubbery, for privacy. That’s when we’ll have them. Bevins is to bring his dog to the Yard at six o’clock tomorrow morning. Be here and make certain that you have a change of clothes-we shan’t want to be noticed!”

  Hamish said, “Aye, but the dog will be the same dog.”

  But Rutledge’s mind was elsewhere. It was cold, the trees bare, the
wind brutal coming down the Thames. Huddled in a greatcoat, he thought, who would know whether he was wearing a blue or a gray suit beneath it? But a change of hat and shoes might well be in order…

  Phipps was at the door, tapping the frame as he changed his mind again.

  “No, perhaps you ought to be the policeman on foot-”

  “I hardly look like a young constable. The dog and I will manage well enough.”

  “Unless he decides to bite you. I’ve heard that Bevins’s dog has a nasty disposition.”

  And with that he was gone.

  Rutledge, leaning back in his chair, wished himself away from this place, away from London. Away from the wretchedness of torn bodies, bloody scenes of crimes. Although he suspected Frances, his sister, had had a hand in it, he’d just been invited to Kent, to stay with Melinda Crawford, whom he’d known for as long as he was aware of knowing anyone other than his parents. As a child, Melinda had seen enough of death herself, in the Great Indian Mutiny. He could depend on her to keep him amused and to thrust him into her various projects, never speaking about what had happened in November, not twenty miles from her. Even a long weekend would be a godsend. But there was nothing he could do about it.

  As it happened, Bevins’s dog was a great, heavy-coated black monster with more than a little mastiff in him. He slavered heavily as he greeted Rutledge and then trotted sedately at his side as the two of them left the Yard and headed for Green Park.

  In the back of Rutledge’s mind, Hamish was unsettled this morning. The voice was just behind his shoulder, clear in spite of the traffic that moved through the streets even at this early hour or the jostling of people as they hurried past or stepped aside with a murmured comment about the dog on its leather lead.

  “Ugly brute,” one man said, and as if the dog understood, he raised his massive head and stared back. The man turned into the nearest shop, out of reach of the strong white teeth grinning malevolently almost on a level with his throat.