Legacy of the Dead Part 12

And therein lay the mystery of Eleanor Gray and the child.

If she wouldn't tell him what she knew, there might be another way of examining her past. . . .

Rutledge said to Oliver, "I'd like to search the inn if I may. Can you arrange it?"

"What on earth for?" Oliver demanded.

"I don't know. Yet. But it's worth looking to see whether-for the boy's protection if not her own-she left something there that might help us. A connection to the child's background that might have been overlooked because at the time no one understood what it represented."

Oliver shook his head. "I've been through the inn. Upstairs and down, the public and the family quarters. There's nothing."

But Rutledge knew more about Fiona MacDonald than Oliver did-and what he wanted to find, if they still existed, were any letters that Fiona had written to her aunt before she came to Duncarrick.

HE WAS GIVEN the key and Constable McKinstry as an observer, and allowed to inspect the inn. the key and Constable McKinstry as an observer, and allowed to inspect the inn.

McKinstry moved with nervous apprehension, a man torn between two duties. He showed Rutledge the way the inn was laid out, and then hovered at his shoulder like a second Hamish, both of them carrying on a desultory conversation with him as he moved from room to room of the private wing. By the time they'd finished with the small parlor, then walked into the dining room behind it, and the kitchen beyond that, Rutledge said, "The boy's room. Have you searched it thoroughly? If I were hiding anything, I'd put it in among his toys, or perhaps at the bottom of a drawer filled with outgrown clothes-"

"But what would she have been hiding?" McKinstry asked wretchedly. "If she's not guilty, what is is there to hide?" there to hide?"

Rutledge turned and started toward the stairs. "This way? Right! The boy's proper heritage is what we're after. If anything had happened to Miss MacDonald-illness-accident-she had no family of her own to come for him and take him in. Surely she'd have thought to leave some instructions for the child's protection? A name, or how to go about reaching a solicitor, perhaps. Eleanor Gray had a solicitor who conducted her affairs for her." But was Mr. Leeds courageous enough to take on Lady Maude's displeasure a second time?

McKinstry said, "We've looked-"

"-but haven't found anything. Yes, I know. Look again for that reason!"

McKinstry led the way up the stairs, where several doorways opened onto a central pa.s.sage. Rutledge followed him. The private wing, as he had noted, was small and old but well-kept and comfortable. It spoke well for Fiona's sense of duty to the inn and the child in her care.

Hardly, he thought, a den of iniquity, as some had imagined it!

A white cat came out of the room at the head of the stairs, friendly and curious. She was well-fed, Rutledge saw, and not frightened. Someone was looking after her- He went into the room and saw that it must be Fiona's. There was a round depression on the pillow at the head of the bed and a thin carpeting of white hairs. This was where the cat slept.

Besides the bed, which boasted a coverlet trimmed in eyelet, there was a chest, a dressing table, and a desk. Two chairs stood beneath the windows, both cushioned in a rose print. He went to the desk first, but left it after a cursory examination. It would be the first place anyone looked. Oliver, for instance, would have gone through it with great care. All that appeared to be left were bills, unused stationery, a penknife, ink, pencils, envelopes, a large book of accounts for the household, and other ordinary items.

Hamish was no happier about his task than McKinstry had been, and reminded Rutledge that he had no right to pry here, police business or not.

Ignoring Hamish's irritation, he went through the drawers of the chest, found them neat and orderly, then looked at the back of each. Nothing.

Behind a curtain, clothes had been hung on a wire, and there was a pair of shelves for hats and shoes, but nothing of interest. A sweet perfume followed him as he let the curtain drop. Then he lifted it again, remembering another time and another place. He examined the shelves closely and found nothing. But a floorboard had moved as he stepped deeper into the small s.p.a.ce, which was no larger than a cupboard.

Squatting on his heels, he examined the board and found that it was not loose. But the baseboard behind it, he thought, might be. He took out his pocketknife and, finding a seam, tried to pry out the board.

It didn't come. It was firmly nailed in place, and it had been imagination that had made it appear loose. Wishful thinking.

He moved through the room, searching the dressing table next, then pulled out the bed, which stood against the wall that formed part of the stairs on its other side.

The baseboard here was indeed loose. Eight inches or more yielded to his questing fingers as he worked his knife into the seam.

He stood up quickly as he heard McKinstry come down the pa.s.sage from the boy's room beyond.

"Nothing, sir. I've looked at every possible place she might have hidden something. Where else should I try?"

"Where did she do the inn's accounts? Is there an office in the inn proper?"

"Yes, sir, behind the bar. It isn't an office in the true sense-more a small cubby that has a curtain across it. She kept her account books there."

"Then you begin with that area. I'll just finish here and join you when I've satisfied myself I've looked everywhere."

McKinstry nodded, and there was a glint in his eye, as if he was glad that nothing had turned up.

But it should have-Fiona had had warning enough to hide private papers from the police, but would she have risked the child's safety by destroying them?

When the constable's footsteps had reached the bottom of the stairs, Rutledge waited for them to fade along the lower pa.s.sage, then turned back to his own find.

Squatting on his heels again to reach into the dark and dusty hole, he nearly leapt out of his skin when the cat brushed against his leg. She started away in alarm, then came again for petting. He rubbed her ears and soft throat, then gently pushed her aside.

From the hole he brought a box, tin, he thought, and no more than ten by eight by six inches in size.

There were letters in it, the deed to the inn, several old envelopes of papers that seemed to go back in time to Miss MacCallum's father, and a collection of odds and ends that must have been considered family treasures-a man's pocketknife made of stag's horn, a pocket watch that had an elegantly engraved case bearing the name MacCallum, a pair of ivory crocheting hooks with a matching ivory thimble, and a little medicine flask made of silver with a fine engraving of the Tollbooth in Edinburgh. And a letter bearing Rutledge's own handwriting. The letter he had sent from France to a grieving young woman who had just learned that the man she loved was dead.

He could hear Hamish lamenting in his ear, anguish clear in the soft Highland voice.

"It had to be written," Rutledge told him. "It was kinder than hearing from the Army what had become of you."

"And none of it would ha' happened if we'd no' been so tired and afraid. . . ."

"No. It had to be done. It was done. I had no choice."

"Aye, it must seem that way now. In the safety of a house that was never bombarded for days at a time!"

"You chose to die," Rutledge reminded him, but knew even as he said the words that they were a lie. None of them had chosen to die-though he had tried in the months afterward to put himself in the way of a German sh.e.l.l or machine gunner's sights. They had all wanted to live and come home. . . .

He took each of the other letters out of their envelopes and scanned them quickly. The first came from Fiona, carrying the news that her grandfather had died. The next was also to Ealasaid MacCallum with word of the death of Fiona's brothers. After that, Fiona had written to tell her aunt about her position in Brae, describing the Davison family and how different the countryside around Glasgow was from the beauties of the mountains to the north.

I will be happier here, she wrote. she wrote. It is not as lonely, and It is not as lonely, and these people are wonderfully kind to me. The children are a delight. . . . these people are wonderfully kind to me. The children are a delight. . . .

But the following letter was very different. It read: I have sad news to tell you, dear aunt. I've lost Hamish. He died in the Somme offensive, like so many others. I have just had died in the Somme offensive, like so many others. I have just had word. I still don't believe it. It seems that if I wait long enough, he word. I still don't believe it. It seems that if I wait long enough, he will come through the door and take me in his arms again. I lay will come through the door and take me in his arms again. I lay awake last night, praying that it was no more than a dream, but awake last night, praying that it was no more than a dream, but this morning the letter was still beside my bed. I can't cry, I can't this morning the letter was still beside my bed. I can't cry, I can't feel, I don't know what to do. The minister here has come to offer feel, I don't know what to do. The minister here has come to offer comfort and Mrs. Davison has been kindness itself. I ache so, I comfort and Mrs. Davison has been kindness itself. I ache so, I want to die, but I have every reason to live. When Hamish was want to die, but I have every reason to live. When Hamish was home last, we were wed in secret. And I am now carrying his home last, we were wed in secret. And I am now carrying his child. It will be born in the autumn, and it will never know its father. But I will have a part of him to hold and love-a living child. It will be born in the autumn, and it will never know its father. But I will have a part of him to hold and love-a living memory of the man I married. I hope you will rejoice for me- memory of the man I married. I hope you will rejoice for me- and not feel that it is sad to be alone. I am not alone now, and I and not feel that it is sad to be alone. I am not alone now, and I never will be again. never will be again. . . . . . .

Rutledge folded the page gently and put it back in its envelope without finishing it. He had seen all that he needed to see.

She had told her aunt that she was carrying a child-but he knew for a certainty that Hamish MacLeod had never been home that terrible year to father it. And it was not until Hamish was dead that she had admitted to it.

In ordinary circ.u.mstances, this could have meant that Hamish was not the father. That she was trying to pa.s.s off another man's child as his. But these were not ordinary circ.u.mstances. The night Fiona had lain awake praying the news was a dream, she had also made some very important decisions.

One of them was to tell her aunt that a child was to be born in the autumn.

A CURSORY READING of the remaining letters satisfied him that they held no secrets. Only the words of a young woman describing her pregnancy as it progressed. How had Fiona MacDonald known the feelings and the emotions and the sickness that a woman in her condition should have experienced? of the remaining letters satisfied him that they held no secrets. Only the words of a young woman describing her pregnancy as it progressed. How had Fiona MacDonald known the feelings and the emotions and the sickness that a woman in her condition should have experienced?

Because the real mother had told her-and Fiona had carefully written it all down.

Was it from Maude Cook that Fiona had learned such things? Or-had she cleverly asked Mrs. Davison about her own confinements and what it was like to bear a child? Mrs. Davison, mother of three, would have talked to Fiona as one woman to another, prodded by questions, by interest, by the fact that she loved her own offspring and enjoyed sharing the giving of life.

But the letters offered no answers to that. Or to the question of why Fiona had carefully told her aunt lies, and led her to believe that she was with child.

And she hadn't been.

She had been very forward-thinking. She had woven the tissue of lies well before her aunt had sent for her. In the last letter, there were the words, I must work out my time here, as I must work out my time here, as I promised Mrs. Davison. And Ian shouldn't travel just now, it I promised Mrs. Davison. And Ian shouldn't travel just now, it will be difficult for both of us. But by the end of the month, we will be difficult for both of us. But by the end of the month, we shall arrive in Duncarrick and I look forward to seeing you shall arrive in Duncarrick and I look forward to seeing you more than you know. more than you know.

Fiona MacDonald hadn't come upon a woman lying by the roadside in the throes of childbirth, taken advantage of an opportunity to kill her and steal her baby. She had known for some time that a child would be born-she had made sure that her aunt had known too. And it meant, clearly, that the infant had been promised to her.

But by whom?

And if there had been no need to kill the mother in order to take the child, who was the woman whose bones had been found on a mountainside?

More important from the point of view of Lady Maude, what role-if any-had Eleanor Gray played? And where was Eleanor Gray now?

No one could say.

Hamish spoke the thought that Rutledge had already considered-and did not want to address now: that the child might have been a temporary gift to Fiona, to keep until the mother was ready or able to reclaim him. Until she had done what she had intended from the start to do, study to become a doctor?

And Fiona, already planning for the child, wanting the child, coveting the child forever, might have decided that she couldn't bear to give him up.

Hamish added, pain in his voice, "It's what they'll say. It's what they'll want to believe. Unless the mother is found alive, to bear witness for her!"

15.

RUTLEDGE PUT THE TIN BOX BACK WHERE HE'D FOUND it for the time being, and was already on his way to the stairs, when a thought struck him. it for the time being, and was already on his way to the stairs, when a thought struck him.

His sister Frances had found in a small cedar chest belonging to their mother the carefully preserved christening robes that the two of them had worn. Wrapped in tissue, these were still white and soft, with lacy bodices and a wide band of matching lace at the hem, small caps frilled with lace and the tiniest of tucks, long ribbons for bows under the chin. Little knitted boots with blue or pink ribbons to tie them. Frances, who seldom cried, had said in a husky voice, "She never held grandchildren-mine or yours. It must have grieved her."

As if that was the ultimate wrong to the dead . . .

And in the center of each long skirt, hanging down almost to a grown man's knees, let alone an infant's, had been a large embroidered oval with entwined initials in white satin thread.

His had been his great-grandfather's christening robe, carefully handed down from generation to generation. Frances had worn their grandmother's. A family tradition that had meant much to people proud of their heritage- And surely, even if she had abandoned her baby at birth, Eleanor Gray would have seen to it that he was christened properly, and in a long white gown. Not, perhaps, the one that had been pa.s.sed down through the Gray generations, but most certainly one that was suitable to the occasion. Unless it had been borrowed- Rutledge turned around at the head of the stairs and walked swiftly back down the pa.s.sage. While Fiona had had the front room, there were two more at the back, one empty with a neatly made bed covered with clean sheets to keep off the dust, and the other a small boy's realm, with a toy chest, a clothes chest, a dresser, and a crib.

Rutledge went first to the clothes chest. It was nearly empty. Here were only the outgrown dresses and stockings and tiny shoes kept for memory's sake. A small, pretty blanket for a baby that had seen much service. A blue velveteen coat with a matching cap, and a threadbare stuffed horse, one ear chewed off and one leg missing. At the bottom, carefully preserved in tissue and lavender, was a christening gown. He took it out and unfolded it with gentle hands.

Hamish saw it before he did. An embroidered half-circle of entwined letters, this time in the bodice.

Rutledge carried it to the window and examined it closely. Beautifully shaped initials with tiny forget-me-nots in the s.p.a.ces. MEMC.

But did it stand for Maude Cook-or Mary Cook? Or someone else?

By the time McKinstry had come back to report to Rutledge, he had already put the gown back in the bottom of the clothes chest and dropped the lid.

THE MAN THAT Rutledge had encountered in the barn was standing outside the door as the constable and Inspector stepped out on the pavement. McKinstry, key in hand, turned to greet him. At the man's side stood a small, untidy boy of three or four. He was tall for his age and st.u.r.dy, with dark hair nearly the color of Rutledge's, and gray-blue eyes that were darker in the sunlight than they might have been by candlelight. Rutledge had encountered in the barn was standing outside the door as the constable and Inspector stepped out on the pavement. McKinstry, key in hand, turned to greet him. At the man's side stood a small, untidy boy of three or four. He was tall for his age and st.u.r.dy, with dark hair nearly the color of Rutledge's, and gray-blue eyes that were darker in the sunlight than they might have been by candlelight.

"I've come to feed yon cat," the man announced abruptly, his eyes on Rutledge in condemnation.

So you know who I am now, Rutledge thought, Rutledge thought, and don't and don't like it. I wonder why . . . like it. I wonder why . . .

"I didn't know you had a key," McKinstry was answering, surprise showing in his face.

"Aye, you don't leave a house to mind itself. I've had a key since Ealasaid MacCallum took her father's place."

"I don't know-" McKinstry said again, but the man cut him short.

"The cat's to be fed. Are you taking her, then? The lad will grieve for her. And he's lost his ma already."

McKinstry said, "Very well, then, as long as you don't touch anything!"

The man glared at him. "I've no' touched anything of anybody else's since I was his his age and didn't know better!" He inclined his head toward the child. age and didn't know better!" He inclined his head toward the child.

Hamish had been saying something, but Rutledge had found it hard to make sense of it-he himself was silenced by the doleful stare of the child.

This, then, was Ian Hamish MacLeod.

Rutledge felt his heart turn over. A handsome child, this was. A small, lost child.

Rutledge dropped to one knee, and the man holding the boy's hand stepped forward, tense and prepared to intervene. But something in Rutledge's face stopped him; he stepped back again.

"h.e.l.lo, Ian," Rutledge said, trying to speak through a constricted throat. This might have been Hamish's child if he'd lived. This might have been Jean's if she and Rutledge had married in 1914- "Going to see your cat, are you?"

Ian nodded. His eyes solemnly moved across Rutledge's face and then to McKinstry's. McKinstry must have smiled as he said "Hallo, Ian," because the child smiled and it was as if the sun had come out. The eyes filled with light and with warmth, and the sadness vanished.

"Is Mama here? Has she come back?" he asked breathlessly.

"No, but I have seen her," Rutledge said. "She's well, and she misses you." He looked at the man's face and dared him to contradict him. But the man didn't, and although McKinstry stirred at Rutledge's back, he, too, said nothing.

"When will she come back?" Ian insisted, anxious now.

"Soon, I hope," Rutledge answered. "I'll do my best to bring her home."

The boy's eyes swept his face again, as if to judge how truthful he was. Then he nodded, turned to the man holding his hand, and said, "Clarence?"

"Aye, we'll be feeding her. As soon as these gentlemen have gone away."

"Good-bye," the child told them, his voice firm. "Clarence is hungry."

"Clarence?" Rutledge questioned as they walked away and left the odd pair to do their duty by the cat.

McKinstry's eyes crinkled. "Well, there was a litter of kittens, you see, and Peter, the old man who worked in the stables, brought the boy one of them. Peter had named her Thomasina, after another cat he'd once had in the stables. But Ian has called her Clarence instead. I wondered why at the time, but haven't thought about it since."