Felicity never discovered why Matthew went to walk on the shale beach below the breakwater that morning. He enjoyed strolling by the sea. It was, he’d often said, a way of clearing his mind. The fact that he’d made it a habit of late had begun to worry her.
She’d heard nothing by breakfast, and ate her meal in anxious silence, pretending that it was normal for her husband not to join her when he had business of his own in the town. By ten o’clock when there was no word, she began to grow uneasy. She went to find his diary to be certain he’d had nothing scheduled for the day. She couldn’t settle to anything, moving from task to task, humming to herself to pretend all was well. But it was a farce, and failed to comfort her.
While Nan, the maid, was dusting the stairs, Felicity slipped out to look for the motorcar, and saw it was still in its shed. The horse that drew the dogcart had been fed, the stable mucked out, chores Matthew always dealt with before breakfast. The cart was there where it always was. Nothing had changed.
He couldn’t have returned from his walk. If there’d been someone at the door, she’d have heard it.
Matthew wasn’t in the gardens. He wasn’t in the house. A mist still concealed the Mole from view but she thought it was beginning to lift.
And no one had come to tell her that something had happened to him.
He couldn’t simply disappear-could he? She remembered those frightful landslips that occurred from time to time along the coast just west of here, when an entire cliff face could vanish into the sea. She shivered at the thought of never knowing what had become of him. Then scolded herself for letting her imagination exaggerate her fear.
By eleven, she was verging on real anxiety, pacing the floor, listening for the sound of the latch lifting or a familiar footfall in the hall. Listening for the knocker to sound.
Where was Matthew?
She had just gone up to her room for her coat and hat when she heard the knocker clanging hard against the plate on the door.
Felicity stood still for a moment, her heart thudding. And then, calling to Nan that she’d see to it, she flew down the stairs, almost flinging herself at the door, pulling it open with such force it startled the constable standing there.
“Mrs. Hamilton?” he said, as if he didn’t know her at all.
“Yes, Constable Jordan, what is it? I was just on the point of going out-”
He cut across her words. “It’s your husband, Mrs. Hamilton.”
His tone of voice as much as Matthew’s name stopped her in her tracks, one hand outstretched as if to ward off the blow that was coming.
“He’s dead.” She said it so flatly that Constable Jordan stared at her.
“No, madam-”
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 this morning?”
Mallory was nothing if not quick. The truth began to dawn on him, and there was something in his eyes that startled the inspector. Relief? Anger, certainly, and then something else. A very real fear.
“He’s dead, you say?”
“I haven’t said,” Bennett responded. “If you’ll just answer my questions-”
“It’s Matthew Hamilton they’ve found, isn’t it?” For an instant Bennett thought Mallory was going to take the lapels of his coat and shake the answer out of him. “Isn’t it!”
“Why should you think that, sir?” Bennett asked, keeping his tone level, unchallenging.
But Stephen Mallory was already out the door, shoving him aside and racing toward the bicycle that Bennett had left against the gatepost.
He caught the handlebars, dragged the bicycle with him, and opening the door, tossed it high and into the rear of his motorcar. He wheeled to reach the crank, but Bennett was there, trying to catch him around the shoulders and wrestle him to the ground. Mallory threw him off with the strength of a madman, Bennett thought, as he found himself hitting a fence post with a crack that made his head swim.
It was all the time Mallory needed. He’d brought the engine to life with the crank and was already stepping into the motorcar when Bennett charged him again, tackling him around the hips. Mallory kicked out with his free leg, bracing himself with the frame of the door and the steering wheel. Bennett’s breath came out in a long whoosh! Then Mallory was free and throwing himself into the driver’s seat, reaching for the gears.
He had just time enough to swing the door shut when Bennett, still game, though breathing hard and struggling to keep on his feet, leaped for the door.
Mallory gunned the motor, shifted into first and then as fast as he dared into second, dragging Inspector Bennett with him as the motorcar jumped forward like a horse under the whip. Fighting for control of the wheel, Mallory drove on, weaving at first and then more smoothly as his tires hit the lane and caught.
Bennett, holding on for dear life, was being dragged, his grunts of pain and anger jerked from his body as he bounced beside the car. But then his grip slipped and Mallory hammered with his fist on the other hand still clinging to the door.
Bennett fell off with a wild yell, and then screamed as the rear tire bumped over his foot.
Mallory didn’t stop. There was only one thought in his head now. Reaching Felicity before she could hear the news from anyone else.