Legacy of the Dead Part 13

Hamish, finding his voice, provided the answer. The Davison children had had a fog-gray cat by that name. And Fiona must have told Ian about the litter that Maude Cook had never seen. . . .

AS THEY WALKED back toward the hotel, Rutledge asked McKinstry who the man was. back toward the hotel, Rutledge asked McKinstry who the man was.

"His name's Drummond. He and his spinster sister live next to the inn, and Fiona chose to leave the boy with them. She said he'd be less frightened with people he knew."

And people she trusted? It was worth bearing in mind. . . .

WHEN MCKINSTRY HAD gone on his way back to the station, Rutledge retraced his steps and came to a halt outside the house where the Drummonds lived. gone on his way back to the station, Rutledge retraced his steps and came to a halt outside the house where the Drummonds lived.

It was the house he had noted before, the one with the extension in the rear and the windows with unexpected symmetry.

His instincts told him that Drummond and the child had not come back from feeding the cat. He wondered if Drummond allowed the boy to play with the toys in the chest, or sit on his mother's bed and hold Clarence.

When Rutledge knocked at the door, a woman of middle age answered, her fair hair drawn back and tight curls adding a softness around her face. She brushed these back, as if afraid the caller on her front step might take them for a softness in her as well, and said, "If you've come to see Drummond, he's not in."

"Miss Drummond? My name is Rutledge, I've been sent by Scotland Yard to look into the matter of the parentage of the boy you have in your keeping."

"Young Ian? And what interest has London got in a lad of three?" Her voice was sharp, indignant. But her pale eyes were wary, almost frightened. As if he'd come to carry the boy away.

"If his mother-the woman he calls his mother-is hanged for murder, it would be best if the child went to his own kin. I think you'd agree with me there."

"I agree with nothing." Her fear made her garrulous. "Ian wouldn't be here if he hadn't been given to us by his mother. And if Drummond hadn't fought against that fool Elliot to keep the lad with us until-until it was all decided. He He was all for sending him to the Forsters." was all for sending him to the Forsters."

"Did you know Miss MacDonald well?"

Hamish said, "She must have done, else the lad would never have been entrusted to her. Fiona would never set a child at risk!"

Miss Drummond had not invited Rutledge in, but kept him on the doorstep like a tradesman. "As to that, knowing her well, I'm thinking now that none of us did. But Ealasaid MacCallum I knew. For her sake I agreed to do what I could. Drummond's reasons are his own. Ian's a likely lad, and has been no trouble. And I expect we can feed and clothe him better than most, if it comes to that," she added with some pride. "Before the war, Drummond made a fair living, working at Mr. Holden's. A good man with horses," she added grudgingly, as if she disliked admitting to better qualities in her brother. "They're great beasts, the shire horses, but when he he handled them, they were meek as lambs. The Army took the lot of them and brought not one of them back. There's only sheep to be run at Holden's now. And my brother's not a man who cares for sheep. But Drummond can turn his hand to anything asked of him, and Mrs. Holden keeps him busy enough working about the house. He ought to be busy about the needs of his own! I can't do it all alone." handled them, they were meek as lambs. The Army took the lot of them and brought not one of them back. There's only sheep to be run at Holden's now. And my brother's not a man who cares for sheep. But Drummond can turn his hand to anything asked of him, and Mrs. Holden keeps him busy enough working about the house. He ought to be busy about the needs of his own! I can't do it all alone."

Hamish said, "She doesna' approve of her brother. But they live together like two peas."

"That's most likely the root of it," Rutledge replied silently. He thought the pair must have inherited this barn of a house together, and neither had wanted to move out. Or sell up. It could make for bad feelings over the years.

"Can you tell me anything about Miss MacDonald's family?"

"Everyone knew her grandfather. He was respected. He'd played the pipes for the old Queen in his day, when first she came up to Balmoral. And the MacCallums have owned The Reivers for four-five-generations. We've been neighbors for nearly three, the Drummonds and the MacCallums. Always honest, G.o.d-fearing. Minded their own business. Kept the inn in good order, never any rowdiness or drunkenness allowed. Still, all I knew about Fiona was what her aunt told me-that she was a hard worker and tidy and had no eye for the men. Not thinking to find another father for Ian, you understand."

"Then, why," Rutledge asked quietly, "did the town of Duncarrick turn their backs on her?"

"Ah!" Miss Drummond said it as an exclamation and a sigh. "If we knew what was at the bottom of that, we'd be wise, wouldn't we? Is that all you've come to ask?"

Rutledge said, "Tell me about the boy. Is he bright? Does he mind?"

"He does. I will say this for her, Fiona raised him proper. I've told that fool Elliot as much, but he sees only what he wants to see. I'm thinking it's no surprise he's a widower- drove his wife to an early grave, if you want my opinion! Ealasaid gave him the benefit of the doubt, but I had no patience with him! The old minister who was before him, he he was a man of G.o.d, and he preached a mighty sermon of a Sunday. Mr. Hall, his name was, come from Dunfermline and married a Croser from over to Hawick. We went to kirk every Sunday, and were proud of it. But this fool Elliot, now, he's besotted with sin. He doesn't care a whit about redemption, only in setting blame. And what good's that, I ask you!" was a man of G.o.d, and he preached a mighty sermon of a Sunday. Mr. Hall, his name was, come from Dunfermline and married a Croser from over to Hawick. We went to kirk every Sunday, and were proud of it. But this fool Elliot, now, he's besotted with sin. He doesn't care a whit about redemption, only in setting blame. And what good's that, I ask you!"

"I've been led to believe that Fiona never confided in her aunt-never told her, for instance, that she wasn't the boy's mother. Surely she must have told someone? A woman she trusted-a friend or neighbor-your brother-"

Miss Drummond stared at him consideringly. "Any secret's best kept if it's kept. You should know that as a policeman! Fiona was friendly in a quiet fashion, respectful to her elders. Nice ways about her, as if she'd gone to school to learn them. But all I've ever heard was that she'd loved her grandfather and he was a bonny piper. Oh, and that she'd been happy with her soldier before he died. More than that I never asked and she never spoke of. Now, it's time you went, or Drummond will be home and shout at both of us. He doesn't like anyone prating about Fiona or the lad. 'Least said, soonest mended.' That's his view!"

"There's only one other question before I leave," Rutledge said, holding his ground. "I've been told that men were attracted to Fiona MacDonald. Was that true?"

He was met with stony silence. Miss Drummond's face had changed, the color shifting to a mottled red, as if some emotion had risen swiftly and as swiftly been stamped down. Anger? Or jealousy? After a few seconds, the woman before him, her voice very different, said tightly, as if the truth had been forced out of her, "They say still waters run deepest. I don't know. Fiona's not by nature a talkative woman, the kind you'd sit and gossip comfortably with. I never could tell what to make of her. I never got close to her. Men, on the other hand, they saw something else. I can't put a name to what it was. They'd watch her, and wait for her to smile, and then their faces would light up. I've seen my own brother staring at her, mesmerized by something I couldn't feel or understand. As if he thinks he's found the core of her and wants it. If you ask me, Drummond's besotted with her. And if you want the whole truth of it, Elliot is as well. He raves on about sin like a man who knows what it means to burn with desire at night!"

"But surely the police haven't fallen under her spell-"

"Haven't they now? McKinstry would save her if he could, he's in hopes of marrying her. Oliver used to stop by the inn of an evening before he went home, sitting there like a suitor, and him with a wife. And what troubles the Chief Constable and the fiscal is that she refuses to bow her head and confess to what she's done, and beg for mercy, the way a woman should. They see it as defiance of their authority, and it unsettles their faith in their own importance. I'm not surprised they all want her hanged. Don't you see? It's the best way to be free of her!"

WHEN RUTLEDGE WALKED into the hotel, the man at the desk said, "There's been a telephone call for you, sir. From London." into the hotel, the man at the desk said, "There's been a telephone call for you, sir. From London."

He took the message and read it.

Call Sergeant Gibson.

One of the best men at ferreting out information of any kind, Gibson had a reputation for being thorough as well.

Rutledge went into the telephone closet, set his hat on the little table there, and put in his call to the Yard.

Gibson came on very shortly to say, "Inspector Rutledge, sir?"

"Yes. I'm in need of good news. I hope you're going to tell me you have found Eleanor Gray."

"No, sir, that I haven't. But I talked to suffragettes she'd marched with and was known to be friends with. They haven't seen her in some three years. What they tell me is that she went off to Winchester one weekend and never came back to London. At least not as far as anyone knows. Most of the women thought Lady Maude had had enough of her daughter's wild ways and sent for her."

"Are they certain she actually went to Winchester? She could have lied about her plans."

"Yes, sir, I thought of that, and took the liberty to call on the people she was to stay with. Miss Gray never got there. She was set to drive down with an officer she'd known in London. But she changed her mind at the last minute and said the two of them would be going to Scotland instead- he was on sick leave and it wasn't up for another week. She promised to call back when she returned to London, but never did."

Scotland! "Did you ask the name of this officer?" Rutledge asked.

"That I did, sir!" Gibson's voice came strongly down the line. "But they've forgotten it. Still, it was someone she'd met before. Not a stranger, or she wouldn't have asked to bring him to Winchester with her. They tell me she was not one to impose on her hostess in that way."

"Well done, Gibson!" Rutledge said. "Do you have a number where I can reach these people in Winchester?"

He could hear down the line the shuffling of papers. "Yes, sir, here it is! A Mrs. Humphrey Atwood. She was the Honorable Miss Talbot-Hemings. Went to school with Miss Gray for a time and stayed friends." There was a pause. Rutledge could hear a door shut. And then with a note of triumph, Gibson added, "The Chief Superintendent told me I wasn't to bother talking to the suffragette ladies. Addled, all of them, he said. A waste of time." There was another pause. "Bit of luck, wasn't it, sir!"

If he hadn't known Gibson better, Rutledge would have imagined him grinning ear to ear. It was there in the voice. But Gibson seldom smiled. He was also seldom wrong in his findings or his conclusions. He was the kind of man who took pride in himself and in his work, and was bulldog tenacious when he wanted to be. Only his eyes warned that inside the beefy, middle-aged body was a brain sharp as a razor. Rutledge had always suspected that Old Bowels and Gibson were enemies from years back.

That didn't put Gibson in Rutledge's column at the Yard. But it meant that an opportunity to blacken Chief Superintendent Bowles's eye was savored by the man, and often produced information that Rutledge found valuable.

As in this case.

Rutledge thanked him and put up the receiver, standing there for all of a minute, thinking.

Here was the first tie between Eleanor Gray and Scotland. Secondhand it might be, but it was better than none.

Why would a man bring a woman some months pregnant from London to Scotland-unless he was the father of her child?

Hamish said, "Unless there wasna' anyone else she could turn to, and he felt sorry for her."

There was also that possibility, Rutledge acknowledged, opening the door of the little room and taking a deep breath of fresher air. But he thought it was more likely that the officer must have known the father, if indeed he wasn't the father himself. He himself would have done as much for a friend at the Front.

He closed the door again and was on the point of asking for the number Gibson had given him, when he realized that he ought to go to Winchester himself.

It would mean a long, fast drive there and back, but it had to be done. A telephone was a device that allowed people to hide behind distance. Nothing said into the telephone could match the nuances of expression and tone of voice that he used so often to judge information and people.

Hamish said, "It's been close to three years. It's likely true they canna' remember the officer's name now."

On the way to his room to pack what he needed, Rutledge answered, "Very likely. But you never can tell what other information they still have."

16.

RUTLEDGE SPENT THE NIGHT IN THE MIDLANDS. HE had tried to persuade himself that he was good for another hour or more of driving. But heavy rain caught up with him, nearly blinding him. When he narrowly missed an unlit wagon going in the same direction, he pulled over, waiting for the worst of the downpour to pa.s.s. Only then did he recognize just how tired he was. There was an inn on the High Street of the next village, and rousing the owner from his bed, Rutledge asked for a room and was brought a tray of tea and dry sandwiches as well. He was on the road again as soon as it was light. By the time he arrived in Winchester, the stiffness in his back and legs was turning to cramp. had tried to persuade himself that he was good for another hour or more of driving. But heavy rain caught up with him, nearly blinding him. When he narrowly missed an unlit wagon going in the same direction, he pulled over, waiting for the worst of the downpour to pa.s.s. Only then did he recognize just how tired he was. There was an inn on the High Street of the next village, and rousing the owner from his bed, Rutledge asked for a room and was brought a tray of tea and dry sandwiches as well. He was on the road again as soon as it was light. By the time he arrived in Winchester, the stiffness in his back and legs was turning to cramp.

Hamish had spent most of Rutledge's hours behind the wheel earnestly pulling apart the evidence against Fiona MacDonald and quarreling over the role Eleanor Gray might or might not have played.

It had been exceedingly difficult for Rutledge to explain Hamish's existence, the reality of his voice, to the doctor at the clinic. He was not a ghost-ghosts could be exorcised. Nor was he a disembodied voice repeating Rutledge's thoughts like a parrot. What was there was vivid-the nuances of thought and tone demanded answers. And Rutledge in 1916, broken in spirit and mind and nearly in body, had found it easier to answer the voice than to challenge it. He had known Hamish through two years of war- his memory was filled with conversations that had shaped new conversations-new thoughts-new fears.

In the five months since returning to the Yard, Rutledge had slowly found the courage to argue, to refute-to take on the voice in verbal battle. A painful step toward sanity, he told himself again and again-not away from it. But challenging it went beyond his courage still.

Hamish was saying, "It's those bones in Glencoe that gave Oliver an excuse to bring a charge of murder against Fiona. He wouldna' care about them, else. It's no' even his jurisdiction! It doesna' matter to him whose they are."

"True enough, but until we know how that woman died, we're bound to take them into account," Rutledge argued. "As long as her shadow-whoever she may be-falls over the evidence, it will obscure everything else."

Hamish still disagreed. And said so. Rutledge shook his head.

"Eleanor Gray's disappearance gave the police in Duncarrick a name to put to those bones. Identify the corpse- that's the first rule of a murder inquiry. And Oliver is convinced that he has. Once that's established, he has to find a clear connection between the two women. If Eleanor Gray was pregnant and came to Scotland to wait out her term, then the link begins to take shape. If that's not not true, then there has to be another explanation for her presence in Glencoe. And if it can be proved that the bones aren't Eleanor Gray's after all, Oliver is simply going to search for another ident.i.ty to give them. Named or nameless, the woman is a stumbling block." true, then there has to be another explanation for her presence in Glencoe. And if it can be proved that the bones aren't Eleanor Gray's after all, Oliver is simply going to search for another ident.i.ty to give them. Named or nameless, the woman is a stumbling block."

"Aye, I grant you. But can you no' see that named or nameless, it's happenstance that connects these bones with Fiona in the first place. What if Oliver proves they belong to the Gray woman? What if he proves she was pregnant when she disappeared? It's still a giant leap to prove Fiona killed her!"

"Or any other woman. I agree. But finding Eleanor Gray alive will eliminate her from the list. If she's dead, and Oliver does have her body, then we're back to the problem of how how she died where she did. Murder-natural causes-even suicide. Whether the answer will clear Fiona or d.a.m.n her isn't the issue. We have to look for it. By the same token, if it turns out that Eleanor Gray was murdered, then we have to prove that Fiona was the only person who might have had a reason and opportunity to kill her. Oliver may be content to jump to conclusions, but the truth is, Lady Maude won't be as easily satisfied." she died where she did. Murder-natural causes-even suicide. Whether the answer will clear Fiona or d.a.m.n her isn't the issue. We have to look for it. By the same token, if it turns out that Eleanor Gray was murdered, then we have to prove that Fiona was the only person who might have had a reason and opportunity to kill her. Oliver may be content to jump to conclusions, but the truth is, Lady Maude won't be as easily satisfied."

"Who's to say that in the end those bones are no' their own mystery-and no' ours?" Hamish countered stubbornly.

"Then you'd better pray that Eleanor Gray left the child with Fiona while she secretly went off to finish her studies. It's the only way to convince Inspector Oliver that he's got no case. Which brings me back to what I've been saying all along. Right now Eleanor Gray is the key to the investigation."

"I canna' say I like it!"

It was odd, Rutledge found himself thinking at one point, how Hamish had coped with the unexpected and sudden confrontation with Fiona MacDonald. He was vigorous in her defense, and he had never questioned her innocence. But far deeper than that ran the knowledge that her life now was separating from his. Not as Jean had left him, wanting to be free of what she feared, but in the very fact that living had drawn Fiona into new directions and new feelings and new places that Hamish would never share. He had not known about Duncarrick; he had not known about the child. The silences that followed his meeting Fiona again had been a painful reminder that time did not wait, that there was no holding on to it. That there was an emptiness in death. And yet in some sense, it was as if she was the one who had died, for Hamish mourned her loss with a heavy sorrow, with yearning and despair. And the burden Rutledge carried grew daily heavier with it.

It was Rutledge who struggled with the reality, the fact that Fiona could be found guilty of murder and hanged. He was the one who dealt with the tired face and dark-circled eyes of the woman in the cell. It was Rutledge who bore the brunt of fear and uncertainty about his own views of the evidence and the case building so tightly. Uncertainty, too, about his personal feelings.

He had seen Fiona through Hamish's eyes for so long that until now she had seemed rather like the Dresden figurines on Frances's bookshelf-gentle and uncomplicated, frozen in time and place, mourning her dead soldier. A woman wronged by what he, Rutledge, had been forced to do on the battlefield. The martyr, as it were, to his own guilt. Even in the dream in London she had been connected to the death of Hamish, with no existence all her own.

He had, he realized suddenly, seen her through Hamish's memories. memories. . . . . . .

Now he had his own.

A flesh-and-blood woman, somehow attractive and, right or wrong, displaying remarkable strength in her lonely defiance of the law. Mourning Hamish still and giving that pent-up love to a child . . . The courage of innocence-or guilt? Rutledge found that she had brought out the protective streak in him, and he couldn't be sure whether it was for her own sake or Hamish's that he felt bound to do his best for her.

There was confusion and emotion in his mind fraught with his own bitterness, his own loneliness. It was, he thought, forcing him to think without the clarity and objectivity he tried to bring to every investigation a.s.signed to him.

Hamish, G.o.d d.a.m.n it, was right- "And where was your objectivity in Cornwall-or Dorset?" Hamish demanded. "Where was your clarity then? Those women touched you too. How can you be sure it is Fiona and not you you who's on trial here!" who's on trial here!"

Rutledge had no answer.

RUTLEDGE STOPPED IN Winchester long enough to bathe and change his clothes and then found his way to Atwood House. Winchester long enough to bathe and change his clothes and then found his way to Atwood House.

It was a small manor house built of mellow stone by a sure hand in the 1700s. The architect had set it on a knoll that offered splendid views to the south and an old grove of trees to the north, offering privacy and a barrier against cold winds. A stream meandering through the property was lined with wild roses, thick with hips now. Rutledge could see a pair of swans swimming regally on a pond created for the rowboat tied to a post. Someone had opened out the stream to fill the pond, and created a lovely effect at the bottom of the western gardens, a mirror of the sky that barely rippled as the swans floated above their own images.

The drive swept him up to the Georgian front with its dressed stone and pedimented windows. He got out of the car, nodding to the gardener trundling a handbarrow filled with spades and hoes and trimmers across the lawn toward the drive, and walked to the door. A bra.s.s knocker, which looked to be a more modern copy of an earlier iron one, clanged mightily as he let it fall.

After a proper pa.s.sage of time, an elderly butler answered the door.

Rutledge identified himself and asked to speak to Mrs. Atwood.

The butler, noting his crisp collar and the set of his suit across his shoulders, said, "I'll ask if Mrs. Atwood is at home this afternoon."

He led Rutledge to a coldly formal room and left him there for nearly seven minutes. The walls, sheathed in blue silk, shimmered in the light from the long windows, and the French chairs that set off the white marble of the mantel were arranged for elegance, not comfortable conversation. There was no carpet on the floor, and on closer inspection, the walls as well as the fabric covering the chairs were worn. But over the mantel was a wonderful painting of the view he'd seen coming up the drive. It was a younger time, the trees were not yet mature, there were sheep grazing the smooth lawns, and the house did not have the patina of age, but the serenity was there, unchanged.

The butler returned and conducted him down the pa.s.sage to a sitting room that also showed wear. Well-worn chintz, a faded carpet on which an elderly spaniel slept noisily, and an air of comfortable, genteel shabbiness told him that the house had suffered much use during the war and had not yet reclaimed its former elegance. But the windows faced the pond and the stream, framing the view and bringing in the soft light of afternoon. It was peaceful.

Mrs. Atwood was standing by the empty hearth as he came in. A pale woman in every sense, slim and willowy in pastel green, pale of hair and eyes and skin, as if all the color had been washed away in the long, careful years of family breeding.

He discovered very quickly that the character had not been washed away.

She said with graciousness that was backed by steel, "I have spoken to-um-a Sergeant Gibson. There is nothing more I wish to say to the police."

"That's quite possible," he answered. "Sergeant Gibson was here as a duty. I have come as an emissary of Lady Maude Gray."

Something unexpected stirred in the pale blue eyes. They were the color of faded lupines, hardly differentiated from the white surrounding them. "I have not heard from Lady Maude in some years." Her voice was neutral, giving nothing away.

Hamish, silent until now in the shadows of Rutledge's mind, said softly, "She doesna' care for yon Lady Maude. . . . "

Making a note of it, Rutledge answered, "It isn't surprising. She quarreled with her daughter. I cannot say she regrets that quarrel, but she has come into information now that has disturbed her. It's very possible that Eleanor Gray is dead. How and where she came to die we don't know. I am doing what I can to find answers."

Surprise flared in the long face. "Dead! "Dead! But your sergeant-" But your sergeant-"

"-said nothing about that. Yes, I know. On my instructions."

He let the silence fall and gave her time to digest his curt answer.

"I don't see how I can help you. I haven't seen Eleanor since the middle of the war. I thought-Humphrey and I were quite convinced she'd gone to America when she couldn't take up medicine here. It would have been so like her!"