Legacy of the Dead Part 21

"Something belonging to Fiona MacDonald has been found near the place where Oliver thinks the body of the child's mother was hidden. In Glencoe. Fiona told me it was safe here at The Reivers. But she was wrong." He let out a breath in frustration. "Oliver has all he needs now to convict."

"Are you telling me something has been stolen from here?"

"The police at the scene think the murderer dropped it while trying to drag the woman's body high up the slope on a mountainside. A sheepman's daughter found it. I don't know what to believe."

"I have the only other key, and it was given me by Ealasaid MacCallum herself. Fiona handed hers to Oliver when they took her away. Are you calling me a thief?" Drummond's voice was dangerously quiet.

"No, d.a.m.n it. I'm saying that what was found in Glencoe is enough to hang Fiona MacDonald. However it came to be there. And if she's right, that it was here in Duncarrick in July, then someone must have come in here secretly and taken it!"

"Fiona doesn't lie. I've never known her to lie!"

"She lied about the child."

Drummond gestured angrily, and Clarence fled over the side of the bed in a single fluid movement. "That's not the same thing. You know it isn't the same!"

Rutledge started toward the door. "Drummond. I have to leave Duncarrick for a time. Keep an eye on the inn. It wouldn't do for more-evidence-to find its way to Oliver."

Hamish warned, "It's a thin line you're walking! There's no way to know where his his loyalties lie!" loyalties lie!"

Rutledge responded silently, "Call it the Biblical casting of bread upon the waters. I need to find out if he's friend- or foe. He has custody of that child!"

Drummond let him pa.s.s. As they went down the stairs, Rutledge said over his shoulder, "If I can put a name and a history to the bones in Glencoe, I will. That's the only way to break the chains tying Fiona MacDonald to murder."

WHEN RUTLEDGE ARRIVED at the smithy, he found that the motorcar was repaired and ready to drive. at the smithy, he found that the motorcar was repaired and ready to drive.

The young mechanic came out of the small shed where he worked, rubbing his black, greasy hands on a greasier square of cloth. Grinning, he beckoned to Rutledge. "Come look at something."

"I'm not sure I want to," Rutledge answered, following him. "What's wrong with my engine?"

But the mechanic said nothing. When he got to a workman's bench full of tools and parts and a jumble of odds and ends, he reached for a grimy jar that was sitting behind a coil of rope. Holding up the jar, he said to Rutledge, "Now take a look."

The jar was full of petrol. Except at the bottom, where a layer of something else moved less sluggishly.

"Water!" Rutledge said, surprised. "There was water water in my tank!" in my tank!"

"When all else fails," the mechanic said happily, "expect the impossible. Yes, indeed, ordinary water. Stopped you as efficiently as an artillery sh.e.l.l. And with greater accuracy, I might add! I drained off the lines, let the jar's contents settle, and there you have it. A mechanical marvel." He put the jar back on the bench. "Been swimming in that motorcar, have you?"

Rutledge paid the inflated bill without comment.

AS THEY DROVE out of the smithy's yard, Hamish said, "This meddling with the car was no' the same as searching your room. And if there's anyone who will ken where to look for whoever is responsible, it's yon constable." out of the smithy's yard, Hamish said, "This meddling with the car was no' the same as searching your room. And if there's anyone who will ken where to look for whoever is responsible, it's yon constable."

"If it was mischief," Rutledge responded, "then the timing was remarkably opportune. I don't like coincidence."

McKinstry was coming out of the barbershop when Rutledge spotted him and offered him a lift as far as his house. In response to Rutledge's question about malicious property damage, the constable shook his head. "We don't see much of that. Too easy in a town this size to guess who the culprits are likely to be. The Maxwell brats, now, they're a wild lot, and it's only a matter of time before their mischief turns to something more serious. The Army might make men out of them, but their father never will-too quick with his fists." He added with curiosity evident in his face, "Any particular reason for your interest?"

"I wondered about it, that's all."

"It wasn't mischief that lay behind the notes written about Fiona. If that's what you're getting at!"

"Not at all." Rutledge changed the subject.

It wasn't until he'd dropped McKinstry at his door that Hamish said, "He didna' speak of the brooch to you."

"No," Rutledge answered. "He doesn't want to accept what it means. For that matter, neither do I. If no one took it from The Reivers-" He left the thought unfinished.

Hamish told him, "She didna' kill!" "She didna' kill!"

But the woman in the back room of the police station was not the same girl that Hamish remembered haying in the summer of 1914, the sun warm on her face and laughter in her eyes. The day war had begun in a small town in an obscure province of the Austrian empire. Hamish had carried that memory with him to the trenches. Time stood still for him. It had moved on for her. In five years, people can change. . . .

LEAVING HIS CAR at the hotel, this time in the open rather than in the shadows of the shed, Rutledge went to the shop owned by Ann Tait. at the hotel, this time in the open rather than in the shadows of the shed, Rutledge went to the shop owned by Ann Tait.

She was folding lingerie into pale lavender paper, and a box stood ready at her elbow. Lifting the paper, she laid it gently into the box and arranged it a little to make it fit snugly. Then she put the lid on the box and set it aside before turning to Rutledge.

"Have you found your Eleanor Gray?"

"Not yet. But I shall. No, I've come about another matter. I was speaking with a Mrs. Cook. I can't recall her first name. She'd stopped me on the street. A few days ago now. I must try to find her again. Can you help me?"

Ann Tait looked at him consideringly. "As far as I know, there isn't a Mrs. Cook in Duncarrick. At any rate, she isn't among my customers. There was a woman by that name I met in London. She was elderly and impossible. I didn't like her."

"Well, then," he said helplessly, "who was I speaking with?"

"Was this a large woman? Overbearing in her manner?" He smiled as if relieved. In fact, he was. "Yes. I'm afraid so."

"That was Mrs. Coldthwaite."

"Yes, that's it. Coldthwaite. I'm grateful. Or-should I be?"

Ann Tait nodded sympathetically. "Wretched woman. She comes in and tries on corsets half her size, then complains to me that my stock is ill-made. You'll find her in the gabled house next but one to the baker's shop. And I wish you joy of her!"

Outside on the street again, Hamish was roundly telling him that he had already broken his promise.

"No, I haven't."

"It's no' a name you can use with impunity here!"

"I have a feeling Ann Tait won't repeat it to anyone."

All the same, he paid a call on Mrs. Coldthwaite.

And paid the price for it. Once she had him in her parlor, her sole intent was to pry out of him whatever tidbits of potential gossip she could pa.s.s on. It was done graciously, in the name of concern for "dear Fiona." But her eyes were cold and her mouth small, tight.

A "wretched woman," Ann Tait had called her. Hamish preferred "vicious."

She did, unintentionally, give Rutledge one piece of information he had not heard. The question was, should he treat it as dependable?

"We-my husband and I-were at a lovely dinner party in Jedburgh a week ago. The Chief Constable, Mr. Robson, and the fiscal, Mr. Burns, were there too. And I distinctly heard Mr. Burns saying to Mr. Robson that many of Fiona MacDonald's sins would never come to light. 'We shall try her for murder, and leave the other unpleasant facets of her character for G.o.d to judge.' And when someone-Mr. Holden, I believe it was-asked Mr. Robson what was to be done with the child once the trial was over, Mr. Robson answered, 'Mr. Elliot has spoken with an orphanage in Glasgow that trains children in various trades. He will go there if the victim's family doesn't care to take responsibility for him.' It's my understanding that they're quite quite well-to-do and might find the child an-um-embarra.s.sment." well-to-do and might find the child an-um-embarra.s.sment."

Rutledge silently swore. Hamish called Mrs. Coldthwaite "a gossiping auld besom."

She watched Rutledge's face avidly, her smile inviting him to enlighten her further on the subject of Eleanor Gray's family.

Rutledge replied blandly, "I'm afraid Inspector Oliver is your man for word on that subject. Ealasaid MacCallum was, I'm told, a very fine woman. I had wondered if she'd confided to you any concerns she might have felt about the conduct of Miss MacDonald after her niece came to live at the inn."

In a thousand or more words, the answer appeared to be no.

He had the feeling Mrs. Coldthwaite was deeply disappointed to have to admit it.

22.

AFTER RETURNING TO THE BALLANTYNE, RUTLEDGE went to the telephone room to put in a call to Sergeant Gibson in London. went to the telephone room to put in a call to Sergeant Gibson in London.

He got Old Bowels instead.

"Rutledge? Is that you?"

Rutledge closed his eyes. Hamish was still furious with him for breaking his promise to Fiona regarding the name of Mrs. Cook. The angry rumble at the back of his mind, like a headache, had shortened his own temper.

"Yes, sir."

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing, man! This business should have been cleared up by now."

It was useless to explain the complexities involving Fiona MacDonald and Mrs. Cook. "It's difficult tracing a woman who didn't want to be found."

"I'm not interested in excuses. I'm interested in results."

The receiver was slammed down.

Hamish said, "You've lost your skills-"

"You're wrong-"

It was an old argument. The sting of it hadn't faded with time. Rubbing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, he tried to think. Gibson . . .

He called the Yard again and this time reached the sergeant.

"I need to know who might have had a brooch engraved-" He described the brooch in minute detail, the letters on the back. "It could be very important."

"Where do you want me to begin?"

"Edinburgh. Glasgow. Not the fashionable shops." The engraved letters had seemed worn, their shapes elegant but their depth shallow. "A middle-cla.s.s shop, where a cairngorm brooch wouldn't cause comment." He paused, considering all the possibilities. "It's going to be the proverbial needle, Sergeant, but I need the answer. And I know for a fact that the engraving was done within the past five weeks." He remembered the water in his petrol. Not vandalism- time bought? "Possibly within the past two or three. That should help."

Gibson sounded dubious. "It's a tall order."

"Yes." Rutledge tried to think. Hamish wouldn't let him. He said, "Gibson-try England first, will you? Just over the border from Duncarrick. I have a feeling-"

"Feelings are all very well, sir, but they don't help very much, do they?"

"This time, Sergeant, I think they just might!"

EARLY THE NEXT morning, Rutledge pulled out of Duncarrick with his luggage in the boot of the motorcar. morning, Rutledge pulled out of Duncarrick with his luggage in the boot of the motorcar.

But he had kept his room at The Ballantyne, and made it clear to Constable Pringle, whom he met in the hotel yard, that he would be gone no more than a few days.

Heading east, he reached David Trevor's house in time for dinner, and Morag greeted him with the warmth lavished on lost sheep. Lost black sheep, Hamish corrected him.

Trevor was also happy to see him. "I was looking forward to a lonely meal and only Morag's company," he told Rutledge. "Have you finished your work in Duncarrick? Is this visit a farewell before leaving for London?"

"No. I haven't found Eleanor Gray. And Ha-" He was about to say, "Hamish is giving me no peace!" But he stopped in time, and instead ended lightly, "-and I'm not going to be very pleasant company in this mood!"

"Nonsense. You're always good company, Ian."

As they sat in the drawing room after dinner and drank whiskey that Trevor had stocked before the war, Rutledge waited until a comfortable silence fell, and then said, "I've come for a reason. I need to talk to someone sensible who isn't connected with the investigation that's under way."

"I'll listen. I might not have sensible answers."

"Listening is enough." Rutledge launched into the events of the past week, and in the process of putting them into coherent order found himself thinking more clearly as well.

"And that's where it stands."

Trevor said, "Yes, I see your point. There could be two separate investigations here. Or only one. And if there's only one, then Fiona MacDonald will be found guilty of the charges brought against her. If there are two, then the woman on the hillside may have nothing to do with Duncarrick. And you won't be able to answer that until you find out who she is. It's going to be nearly impossible after all this time, isn't it? I don't envy you the hunt! But it seems to me that you've come a long way in establishing that Eleanor Gray reached Scotland."

"Yes. If I weren't a d.a.m.ned stubborn policeman, I'd have concluded yesterday that Oliver is right, it's finished, and gone back to London satisfied."

Trevor looked consideringly at him. "You like this MacDonald woman. You would like to see her proven innocent."

"You're telling me I'm not objective," Rutledge answered, feeling himself flush. "Is that a fair judgment?"

"Oh, I think you are objective. What I see from my own vantage point, not knowing any of these people well enough to be anything but objective, is that you may well be in danger. Have you considered the possibility that from the start of this business, Fiona MacDonald was going to be sacrificed? And your questions are getting in the way of that. Take care that you don't threaten someone who believes he-or she-is well hidden behind the scenes."

"That's an odd warning." Rutledge rubbed the bridge of his nose. His head still ached. But Hamish had fallen silent. "I can't find any reason for someone to hate Fiona MacDonald deeply enough to concoct such a mound of evidence against her. I've searched."

"Yes, I'm sure you have. Which leads me to believe that the girl is a scapegoat for someone else."

"The child's mother. I've considered that, yes. Fiona won't tell me who she is. If the woman is dead, then surely it doesn't matter?"

"Turn it another way. Who is that child's father? Is he alive? If so, why mustn't he be told he has a son? Or, if he's dead, his family. Why should it be so important to keep someone in ignorance? So important, in fact, that Miss MacDonald is willing to hang and leave the child to the tender mercies of an orphanage."

Rutledge said tiredly, "If the mother is alive, she's sacrificing Fiona and the child as well. Willingly. And that makes no sense either!"

"Then that's where the secret lies. The one you have to dig out."

He had left Mrs. Cook out of the story. He said, "Before I can find the father, I have to find the mother. And before I can be sure I've found her, her, I must track down Eleanor Gray." I must track down Eleanor Gray."