Legacy of the Dead Part 18

Rutledge said nothing.

MacDougal asked Betty to take them to the place where she found the brooch, and she turned to spring up the hillside like one of the sheep she watched out for. Strong for all her thinness, and agile, she seemed to fly. Oliver, puffing in her wake, swore under his breath, but didn't ask her to slow down. McKinstry turned back to stay with the vehicles.

Rutledge was just behind her, watching the new shoes, watching her almost intuitive knowledge of where there was enough stability to place a foot. She had learned from the sheep- MacDougal, keeping pace but red-faced, said, "Fra' the top are fine views. I used to climb here as a lad, with my brothers."

"Did you know the MacDonalds?" Rutledge asked him.

"I knew one of them-brother of the accused, I'd guess. A good man. He lost his legs and bled to death before they could get him back over the wire. My brother died the same day. Machine-gun fire. I was lucky-shot three times but nothing that kept me from going back." There was a quiet irony in his voice.

They had come some distance, cutting diagonally across the mountain's face, slipping and sliding here or there, and Betty had begun to look around, as if trying to find landmarks.

Finally she paused and pointed to an area that was perhaps ten feet square. "About here, I'd guess," she told them.

It was a rocky slope that seemed to be no different from any of its neighbors for a hundred yards in any direction.

"Why are you so sure?" Oliver demanded, mopping his face with a large handkerchief. "I can't see any difference between this patch and that one-or that one over there."

"See for yoursel'. I can match that spot just above us with that one across the way-" She pointed to the great bare face opposite, and following her finger, they identified a small outcropping of rock.

If you looked, Rutledge thought, you could find your way easily. But it was always a matter of seeing seeing. To the uninitiated, this was barren ground. Above their heads, another tumbled ma.s.s of rock stood out against the sky.

Following his gaze, MacDougal said, "It was there we found the remains. In a slight crevice where water has brought down the supporting scree and left a hollow." He paused, then said, "You'd have to know it was there. The hollow. It isn't visible from the road."

In short, no one would think to leave a body there who didn't have some familiarity with these mountains.

"Want to climb up?" MacDougal asked.

Rutledge nodded and they walked on, picking their way carefully. It was hot here in the sun, and feet unused to this terrain found it difficult to know where to step with any certainty.

Carrying a body, Hamish pointed out, would not be easy. And for a woman, very nearly impossible. "Unless the corpse was dragged on a rope."

And there was no one to see such a long, laborious effort. From where he stood, Rutledge could look down at the two motorcars, Oliver standing talking to Betty Lawlor, and a ruined croft some distance away. In the far distance, he saw sheep, but no one with them.

"Hard place for a woman to carry a dead weight," MacDougal said as if reading his thoughts. "But if that brooch belongs to the deceased, it means she's not your missing woman. Eleanor Gray."

"And if it belonged to the murderer, then we have her in custody," Rutledge finished for him.

They had reached the outcropping where three heavy rocks were lying in a heap. Not so large by the standards of these mountains, but beyond a man's strength to tumble together so tidily. And where the smaller fragments had washed out from under, there was indeed a crevice. Put a body here in April, and it might be found. But put it here before the weather turns and the autumn storms begin, and it would still be here in the spring. What was left.

Rutledge squatted on his heels. MacDougal said, "You won't find anything. We were verra' thorough."

"I expect you were," Rutledge said evenly. "I was just thinking that this was a perfect place for bones. What makes you so certain that the body was not here before 1916?"

"Condition, for one thing. And I talked to all the families who run sheep. They were certain it wasna' here in the summer. A fox or dog had chewed the shoes, and what bits of clothing we found weren't of any use. First thought was that we'd found a climber. People climb here who havena' the sense of a beetle! They canna' believe on a fine day like this one that the mists can come in sae fast, you're lost before you take ten steps. And she was doubled up, as if trying to keep warm. Loose stones had washed around and over her."

"Doubled? How?"

"Head on knees, arms around them. Made the body smaller, kept heat in the middle. The bones were still in a huddle, like. The doctor found no injuries, but that's no' to say she hadna' turned her ankle or twisted her knee."

Hamish said, "Doubled o'er, she'd fit behind the seat of a car, out of sight."

Rutledge said, "If she was already dead, rigor had pa.s.sed."

"Aye, that's right. Or hadna' set in. The birds and foxes must have stripped the body in a matter of days. We couldn't find one hand or the best part of a foot. Other bones had been pulled apart to get at the meat. The skull had rolled into her lap." MacDougal sighed. "We've had a walker or two lost in these parts. But we always ken how they got into the glen. They'd be seen and reported. One left a bicycle. Another begged a lift on a crofter's wagon. With this one, there's no way of establishing when-or how-she came to be here. We don't know the question to ask, do we? And it's possible she came over the top, from the other side."

"What's your opinion of the engraving on the brooch?"

"I have none. It spells out 'MacDonald,' and that's your patch, is it no'?" MacDougal grinned, then shrugged. "It could hae come from the dead woman's clothing, if she was murdered and dragged up here. Climbers don't wear much jewelry as a rule. Or it came from the murderer's, trying to drag up that corpse. We do na' have well-dressed middle-cla.s.s women promenading up this mountainside, losing the odd brooch or two."

"The center stone of the brooch isn't scratched enough to have been washing down a mountainside since 1916."

"Yes, I ken what you're suggesting. Still, if it lodged somewhere for a time, then came down in the rains Betty spoke of, it might not have tumbled about all that much."

If-if-if- Investigations were made and lost on "ifs."

"We'll have to take the brooch back with us. Oliver will give a receipt to Betty."

"It's a valuable piece to her," MacDougal agreed. "I'm surprised she brought it to me in the first place. But her father's a devil when he's drunk. If he found she had such a thing, he'd beat her for stealing it and use that as an excuse to take it from her. She was probably counting on me to speak up for her if that happened. Betty spends the summer wi' the sheep, as far away from him as she can get. I've seen her out here in all weathers, a small figure with naething but a dog for companionship."

Rutledge got to his feet and looked around. This was a very beautiful valley-and very bleak. "Wild" was the word most often used to describe it. He thought about the February night when the ma.s.sacre had begun, and how the soldiers had run through the darkness with torches, searching for those who had fled. Driven by blood l.u.s.t. A nightmarish way to die . . .

"Is there any other?" Hamish asked quietly.

Rutledge shivered in the warm sun.

"Did you come here?" he asked Hamish silently. "You and Fiona? When there was no work to be done on the farm?"

"Aye, we came. With horses. Sometimes we climbed. Or we'd find a place out of the wind and eat the bannocks we'd brought wi' us. She liked the glen. The silence, but for the wind. And the closeness to her kin . . ."

MacDougal was asking if Rutledge had seen enough. He nodded and they started back down, slipping once or twice.

"The Lawlor girl. What sort of family does she come from? Aside from the drunken father?"

"Poor enough. She's the middle girl. They work hard and go hungry sometimes, I've no doubt."

"Why didn't she bide her time and quietly sell the brooch for whatever it might bring? Even a little money would allow her to escape from the glen and her father and her poverty."

"She's too young," MacDougal said simply. "In another year or two she might have. That's why she wants it back. If you take it, she's locked into this life. There won't be other brooches waiting for sharp eyes to pick them out!"

Joining Oliver and Betty Lawlor, they descended to the road. Oliver bent to brush off his trousers where the cuffs had collected a fine pattern of dust.

Rutledge said to the girl, "I've been admiring your shoes."

There was a flare of fear in Betty Lawlor's eyes, then she said defiantly, "I earned the money for them!"

IT WAS A silent journey back to Duncarrick. McKinstry was wretchedly weighing the damage the brooch would do to Fiona MacDonald's case. Rutledge, in the rear seat, could see the fine lines around his eyes, as if his head ached. But he drove with skill and attention to the road, wherever his mind was. silent journey back to Duncarrick. McKinstry was wretchedly weighing the damage the brooch would do to Fiona MacDonald's case. Rutledge, in the rear seat, could see the fine lines around his eyes, as if his head ached. But he drove with skill and attention to the road, wherever his mind was.

Oliver, on the other hand, was a satisfied man. His investigation had borne fruit, and he could see the end of it now. There was a smugness in his face, and from time to time his head dropped to his chest, relaxed into sleep.

Rutledge, remembering Betty Lawlor's face when Oliver had offered her a sc.r.a.p of paper in exchange for the brooch, wondered if she could read.

Fiona MacDonald's lawyer could argue that the brooch was found in a part of Scotland where the MacDonald clan had lived for centuries. The brooch might well have belonged to any one of them.

But a jury could find it d.a.m.ning evidence. . . .

The three men stopped for the night in Lanark, finding a small hotel where they were served a dinner of mutton soup with barley and a roast chicken. Oliver, fidgety and eager to be back in Duncarrick, called it an early night. McKinstry, poor company at best, excused himself as well.

When they had disappeared up the stairs, Rutledge went out for a walk. Relieved to be out of the glen, relieved to be alone-except for Hamish. The night was clear though cool, and the smell of wood smoke followed him out of the hotel. He was restless, thinking of Wilson and the clinic, thinking of the brooch and Betty Lawlor's new shoes, thinking of Fiona.

The town was tranquil, lights shining from windows in the houses along side streets, shop fronts dark, a pub noisy with singing and laughter, a dog scavenging in an alley. Several men pa.s.sed him, and then a couple arm in arm, intent on their soft conversation, and the sound of a carriage echoed down the main street. He could see the stars overhead, and the first threads of clouds winding among them.

Hamish hadn't relished the journey to the glen. And it had awakened memories that Rutledge had convinced himself he was beginning to forget. Instead Scotland had revived them with a vengeance. He had been right not to want to come here.

Wishful thinking, that time might heal-it seldom healed anything, only making scars that were often tender to the touch, and ugly.

Without knowing how he got there, he found himself outside the local police station. He had come here the last time he was in Lanark, asking for information about private clinics and hospitals. The constable on duty had sent him to Dr. Wilson. He stopped, looking up at the lamp above the door, his mind not really taking in his surroundings.

Cook. Maude or Mary. Two names. A woman in Brae, a woman in the private clinic here . . . Separated by a matter of miles- He went up the steps and through the door.

The sergeant on duty, a bluff man growing stout with years, looked up and said, "What might I do for you, sir?"

"Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard. I need some information."

"Are you here on official business?" the sergeant asked warily.

Someone was banging a metal cup against the bars of a cell, the clanging echoing through the building like a berserk, off-key bell. The sergeant appeared not to notice the racket.

"Indirectly. I've been trying to trace several families. What can you tell me about anyone by the name of Cook living in or around Lanark in 1916? Late summer, at a guess."

"There's a number of Cooks. Mostly from Loch Lomondside. Tell me what they've done and I'll tell you what matches."

"As far as I know, they've done nothing. We're searching for a missing woman. She called herself Mary Cook. Or possibly even Maude Cook. There's some indication she was in Lanark in 1916 for a period of several weeks. After that we seem to have lost track of her."

The sergeant nodded. "Before the war I could have given you the history of nearly every family in Lanark, and a good bit of the countryside around it. It's harder now. Even a small town like Lanark has seen its changes. But I don't recall a woman by either name going missing. It was 1916, you said?" He gave the matter some thought. "An inheritance involved, is there?"

"Possibly. We won't know until we find her."

"My guess is, there's nothing here for you. Unless someone reported her missing, we'd have no record of her."

A constable came in from his rounds, nodded to the sergeant, and went through a door on the far left.

"Still, if you come back in the morning, I'll have it nailed down. I wouldn't raise my hopes too high if I were you-but I'll look into it."

"Fair enough." Rutledge took out a card and wrote the number of The Ballantyne Hotel on it. "You can find me there tomorrow night. I'd appreciate any help you can give me."

The sergeant grinned. "Duncarrick? That's Inspector Oliver's turf. Good man, Oliver. I worked with him on a case in 1912. A series of murders that were never solved. Took it hard, he did."

"In Lanark?"

"No, Duncarrick. Five women found with their throats cut. There was a sc.r.a.p of paper pinned to each of the corpses. Right over their b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Called them wh.o.r.es. Harlots. They weren't, of course, just young, pretty in a way. Lively. Working-cla.s.s women. The bodies were found over a matter of months, but always on the same day day of the month. Odd business. Had Duncarrick in a sweat, I can tell you! But the killer must have moved on. We never caught him." of the month. Odd business. Had Duncarrick in a sweat, I can tell you! But the killer must have moved on. We never caught him."

"What was the reaction of the public to the accusations on those pieces of paper?"

"What you'd expect-where there's smoke, there's bound to be fire. Unfair, but the belief was that such things didn't happen to nice nice women." women."

Rutledge said, "Can you recall any other details?"

"That's the whole of it. Two were servant girls, one was a scullery maid at The Ballantyne, and the other two worked on outlying farms. Clever b.a.s.t.a.r.d, left no evidence behind. None we could use, at any rate. Just words on a sc.r.a.p of paper. And the bodies out on the western road."

BACK ON THE pavement outside the station, Rutledge listened to Hamish, savagely drawing conclusions of his own. pavement outside the station, Rutledge listened to Hamish, savagely drawing conclusions of his own.

The five dead women had no connection with Fiona MacDonald. She had been in Glencoe in 1912, a young girl living with her grandfather. All the same, their deaths had paved the way for her persecution. "Wh.o.r.e" was a charge that the good people of Duncarrick already a.s.sociated with murder.

20.

BY THE TIME RUTLEDGE REACHED DUNCARRICK THE next day, there was a message waiting from Sergeant Bowers in Lanark. next day, there was a message waiting from Sergeant Bowers in Lanark.

"No one by either name shown as missing in the year in question. The only Mary Cook living in the district is sixty. There is no record of a Maude Cook. Sorry."

It had been a long shot, but he'd already taken the advice Bowers had given him. He hadn't raised his hopes.

FIONA'S LAWYER WAS summoned to Duncarrick and the brooch was shown to him. He was a dyspeptic man, with lines incised deeply in a dark face. Even his eyebrows, thick and wiry, seemed to be set in a permanent frown. His name was Armstrong, and he seemed more English than Scottish. summoned to Duncarrick and the brooch was shown to him. He was a dyspeptic man, with lines incised deeply in a dark face. Even his eyebrows, thick and wiry, seemed to be set in a permanent frown. His name was Armstrong, and he seemed more English than Scottish.

Hamish took an instant dislike to him and said so clearly. "I wouldna' have him defend my dog!" Rutledge winced.

Oliver was inquiring after someone in Jedburgh who was an acquaintance, and Armstrong responded with unconcealed relish, "Not likely to last the month out, I'd say. The cancer is spreading too fast. You'd be advised to visit if you want to find him coherent. Now, what's this nonsense about a brooch found on a mountainside?"

Oliver took it out of his desk drawer and pa.s.sed it to Armstrong.

The lawyer examined it with care, squinting at it through spectacles he strung across his nose. "There's an inscription, you say?"

With the nib of his pen, Oliver pointed it out. "MacDonald." He rummaged in his desk drawer and came up with a large magnifying gla.s.s. "See for yourself."

Armstrong studied the back of the brooch for some time. "MacDonald is a common name in the Highlands. And how do we know that the name wasn't put there by someone other than my client?"

"Well, of course it was put there by someone else!" Oliver was losing patience. He had found exactly what he wanted, and he would brook no opposition to the conclusions he'd drawn from it. "The engraver."

"I meant," said Armstrong, looking up at him with a sour expression, "that the name could have been engraved on the back just before the brooch was put where it might be found, to please the police."

Oliver held on to his temper and said, "Which is exactly why you are here. We want to show it to the accused and ask her its history."

"Ah, yes." Armstrong handed back the gla.s.s and took off his spectacles. But he held on to the brooch. "I don't think I can allow that. Her answer might be self-incriminating."