Legacy of the Dead Part 22

"Then walk carefully. I don't have a good feeling about this, Ian. Walk carefully!"

IN THE MORNING, Rutledge left to drive north to the Trossachs. Sir Walter Scott had used the district's great beauty for the setting of his poem Rutledge left to drive north to the Trossachs. Sir Walter Scott had used the district's great beauty for the setting of his poem Lady of the Lake, Lady of the Lake, and again in the novel and again in the novel Rob Roy. Rob Roy. Whether Rob Roy MacGregor was a bandit or a Scottish Robin Hood depended on who was telling the story. But between them, he and Scott had made that stretch of lochs and hills famous. Even the Wordsworths, William and his sister Dorothy, had walked there. Whether Rob Roy MacGregor was a bandit or a Scottish Robin Hood depended on who was telling the story. But between them, he and Scott had made that stretch of lochs and hills famous. Even the Wordsworths, William and his sister Dorothy, had walked there.

Rutledge spent most of his second day searching for a Robert Burns. Ordinarily, he'd have asked the fiscal for his son's direction, but he wanted to avoid any interference with the neighbor, Mrs. Raeburn, before he got to her.

He didn't distrust the fiscal; he thought the man was probably honest and by his own lights dependable. But when it came to family secrets, even the most honest of men fiercely protected their own.

On the third morning, he found what he was looking for. Driving into a ring of spectacular barren hills, he reached a town called Craigness. It lay in a tree-rimmed bowl, east of where two rivers joined and a bridge wide enough to take motorcars crossed them. Its tall, slender church tower gleaming in the morning mists, and its houses looking far more English Georgian than Scottish, gave it an oddly graceful air, but north of it spread out the Highlands. Here Rutledge located the law office of Burns, Grant, Grant, and Fraser. It was an old building in a line of old buildings, with a first-floor bay window that jutted into the street. The bra.s.s handles and doork.n.o.b shone with polish against the dark red door.

"With prices to match the furnishings," Hamish commented as Rutledge opened the outer door to the smell of beeswax, good leather, and better cigars. An aura of respectability, timelessness, and good taste hung in the air.

Neither Mr. Grant Senior nor Mr. Grant Junior was in, he was informed by a young clerk. But Mr. Fraser would see him.

Rutledge walked into a paneled room filled with books, floor-to-ceiling shelves, volume after volume spilling over onto chairs and tables and every other flat surface, even jostling for s.p.a.ce on the windowsills and cluttering the beautiful old carpet on the floor.

The man behind the desk rose to greet him, offering his left hand. His right arm was missing. "Inspector Rutledge! I'm Hugh Fraser. I hope there's a grisly murder under our noses. I'm sick to death of wills and deeds and t.i.tle disputes." The fair face beamed at him, but the blue eyes were sharp.

"No such luck. I understand from the local police that one of your partners was a Robert Burns."

"Yes, Robbie died in France in 1916. We've left his name on the door out of respect. Although I must say, I would welcome his ghost as a partner to help me sort out this tangle." Fraser waved his left hand at the chaos.

No, you wouldn't, Rutledge silently replied. Aloud, he said, "Do you know when he was killed?" Rutledge silently replied. Aloud, he said, "Do you know when he was killed?"

"In the spring of 1916." He gave Rutledge the date. It was the same week Eleanor Gray had told Mrs. Atwood that she was going north to Scotland. "I heard it almost at once, actually. From a supply sergeant I was dealing with. He wasn't aware that Robbie was my law partner. He just said he'd been told one of the Trossachs men had bought it that morning and thought I might know him. h.e.l.l of a way to find out. Robbie was a good man." The smile had faded. "We lost too many good men. Were you out there?"

"On the Somme," Rutledge answered, his voice cold enough to ward off friendly reminiscences.

Fraser nodded. "That was the worst of a bad lot. Why is the Yard interested in Robbie? Is it to do with any of his personal affairs? We handled everything. The will was straightforward, as you'd expect. I can't imagine that three years later it might interest the police."

"Not the will, no. I'm looking for the property that Captain Burns owned here. A house, I think."

"His father hasn't sold it. As I remember, it was a family property and Mr. Burns Senior was not prepared to part with it. He hasn't changed his mind, has he?"

"Not to my knowledge. During the war, did Captain Burns's friends use the house from time to time?" If Burns was killed the week she came north, he hadn't driven Eleanor Gray to Scotland. Someone else had.

"I have no idea. I wouldn't be surprised. Robbie was a generous man; he often did such things. You'll have to speak to Robbie's father. But I can tell you how to find the house. Craigness is small. You'll have no trouble."

"There was a young woman Captain Burns met in London whilst on sick leave. Eleanor Gray. Did he ever speak of her to you?"

"Eleanor? Oh, yes. Often. Robbie had helped her find pipers to entertain the wounded. Quite an undertaking, that was. He sent me a witty account of it, and it reached me in the middle of a push. It was a bad time, and the laugh did me good. At any rate, he and Eleanor went on to spend a good deal of time together before he was sent back to France. Showed me her photograph, in fact, when we crossed paths the last time. I got the feeling it was fairly serious. Robbie had enormous charm, you know, people liked him. A pity he didn't make it home. I tried to look up Eleanor after the war, but no one had any idea where she might be. I wanted her to know how much he cared."

Would it have made a difference if she'd known that in 1916? Aloud, Rutledge said, "Have you kept any of his letters?"

"Regrettably, no. I needn't tell you how it was in the trenches. Paper was the first to rot in the rain and the mud-nothing lasted very long, not even boots. And what the weather didn't get, the rats did. Stinking b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!" It was said unemotionally. The rats had become so fierce and so common that not even a heavy sh.e.l.ling rid the trenches of them. You got used to them.

Rutledge nodded. "If you can tell me how to find the house, I'll be on my way."

"I'll do that if you'll come and have lunch with me. My wife's in Edinburgh for the week, and I'm d.a.m.ned tired of my own company!"

THE HOUSE STOOD in a street of houses that had well-kept gardens and a remarkable view of the hills. Two nursemaids with prams pa.s.sed him as he stepped out of the car, deep in earnest conversation while their charges slept. Rutledge studied number fourteen for a time, then went to the door of number fifteen. But no one appeared to be at home. He tried number thirteen, and an elderly woman opened the door, peering at him over the top of her spectacles, the silver chain attached to them almost the same color as her hair. in a street of houses that had well-kept gardens and a remarkable view of the hills. Two nursemaids with prams pa.s.sed him as he stepped out of the car, deep in earnest conversation while their charges slept. Rutledge studied number fourteen for a time, then went to the door of number fifteen. But no one appeared to be at home. He tried number thirteen, and an elderly woman opened the door, peering at him over the top of her spectacles, the silver chain attached to them almost the same color as her hair.

"Yes?" She looked him up and down. "If you're here to see Barbara, I'm afraid she's out."

"Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard," he told her. "Can you give me a few minutes of your time? I'm interested in the Burns house. At number fourteen."

"Inspector, are you? Why should anyone in London care about the Burns house? It hasn't been lived in since poor Robbie's death."

"Yes, that's what I'm told. He died in France. Do you remember when?"

"In the spring of 1916!" she retorted as if he had doubted her mental alertness. "It's my legs that are giving out, young man, not my brain!"

"I meant no offense, Mrs.-"

"The auld biddy-" Hamish interjected.

"Raeburn. Robbie used to tease me about that. Burns and Raeburn, he said. A better name for a law firm than Burns, Grant, Grant, and Fraser." She stepped back. "Do come in! I can't stand here the morning long."

He followed her into a sitting room cluttered with gla.s.s bells covering specimens of dead animals. Giant fish and heads of deer decorated the walls. She caught his eye and said, "My late husband liked to kill things. Birds, red deer, fish-never understood it myself, but there you are. That chair, over there, if you please. I can hear you better. Barbara-my niece-calls it barbaric. But I suppose I've grown used to seeing them. That's a particularly fine fox, you know. I'm told several of the birds are nice as well."

Hamish said, "I wonder who killed her husband?"

Catching the eye of a snarling lynx, Rutledge took the chair Mrs. Raeburn indicated. After a moment, he said, "I've just come from speaking with Mr. Fraser. He tells me Captain Burns had given you a key before he went away to France."

"Mr. Fraser is wrong. Captain Burns gave me the key in 1912, when he joined the practice. I was to let in the painters and carpenters. After they'd finished, he told me to keep it in the event more work had to be done."

"Did he have guests often?"

"At first he did. His fiancee and her family came to dinner any number of times. After the war started, there was less entertaining. But he came home when he could and sometimes brought friends."

"Do you recall hearing the name Eleanor Gray?"

"He was in mourning. His fiancee died unexpectedly in late 1915. There was never any other young lady. The Captain never said anything to me me about another young lady!" about another young lady!"

"Fellow officers, then," Rutledge amended hastily.

"Oh, yes, he sometimes offered them the house. There was a blind officer who stayed for a month. And a flier with severe burns on the face and hands. Better off dead, if you ask me. And one or two others on leave, with no place of their own."

"Was there an officer here-just about the time word came that Captain Burns was a casualty? I believe he might have brought a woman with him."

"There was an officer about that time. From London. I can't tell you his name. But he came alone, arriving quite late. That's why I remember him."

"Because he came later than expected?"

"No, no. He woke me out of a sound sleep, all but knocking the door down. It was raining, and he was wet through. I handed him the key, then slammed the door shut against the wind. But I watched from the window to see he got in all right. The lock is sometimes stiff in bad weather. I'd have known if he'd had a woman with him, wouldn't I? I'd have seen her go in with him!"

"How long did he stay at the Burns house?"

"He was to stay a week, and left after two days."

"Did he tell you why he was leaving?"

"I didn't ask. He brought back the key and thanked me. But it had rained every day. I suppose he found that depressing."

"How was he wounded? Shoulder? Leg?"

"Sometimes it isn't possible to tell, and I never care to ask. He was very brown. I did ask about that. He'd served in Palestine, he said."

"Was he Scots?"

"Yes. He told me he was English, but he was Scots."

"Would you recognize him if you were to see him again?"

She shook her head. "I expect I wouldn't. He didn't have a remarkable face." She studied Rutledge, pushing her spectacles up on her nose. "You do. I'd remember meeting you."

Rutledge said, "If you still have the key, would you allow me to go in and look through the house?"

She stared at him suspiciously. "Why should you wish to do that?"

"I'm sorry. I'm not at liberty to say."

"Oh, very well. Come along. But I warn you, I can't stand on my feet while you take your time about it!"

She went off to fetch the key, and led him to a gate in the middle of the low hedge between the two properties. He looked at the house carefully as they made their way around back. If the bedrooms were on this side, Mrs. Raeburn might well know who had come to stay here. But if they were on the other side- Mrs. Raeburn unlocked the garden door and bade him wipe his feet before he came into the house. He did as he was told, then followed her down a short pa.s.sage to the kitchen.

As they walked in, Hamish objected, "There's nithing to find here-"

He was right, the house would have been cleaned many times since Eleanor Gray had come here-if indeed she'd come at all. But Rutledge thought now he could guess the reason why she might have wished to. With news of Robbie Burns's death, she had wanted to see the house where he lived. Where she might have lived as his wife. But where would she have gone from here?

Rutledge and Mrs. Raeburn walked from room to room. The dining room, the parlor, a small study. The furnishings were comfortable, with a number of lovely old pieces that Burns must have inherited, and a wonderful mantelpiece in the parlor. Upstairs there were two bedrooms, one on Mrs. Raeburn's side of the house, and one on the other, with a sitting room in between. The far bedroom appeared to be the master bedroom, and Rutledge studied it with particular interest.

It held a large spindle bed, a wardrobe of carved mahogany, a maple desk under the window, several comfortable chairs, and a tall bureau that matched the wardrobe. He went to that and was about to open one of the drawers, but Mrs. Raeburn stopped him.

She didn't hold with police prying into people's lives, and told him so. "Not without a warrant!"

He turned to the bookcase. Law books for the most part. He touched the spines of several novels, a three-volume history of Scotland, and a collection of six works recounting travels to Europe. He pulled one out at random, expecting to hear Mrs. Raeburn scold him. But apparently books were not as intimate as the contents of a drawer.

It was the volume on traveling in Italy, many of the pages still uncut. He put that back and took out one of the law books. Robert Edward Burns Robert Edward Burns was inscribed in handsome copperplate on the flyleaf. The novels held nothing of interest, and he moved on to the volume of travels in France. These pages had been cut, and from the way the spine fell open to "Paris," the chapter had been read a number of times. He flicked through the pages, admiring the line drawings of cathedrals, chateaux, and statues, found nothing of interest, and was on the point of closing the book, when something in the margin of one page caught his attention. The chapter heading was for the north of France. What had become, in fact, the battlefields of the war. was inscribed in handsome copperplate on the flyleaf. The novels held nothing of interest, and he moved on to the volume of travels in France. These pages had been cut, and from the way the spine fell open to "Paris," the chapter had been read a number of times. He flicked through the pages, admiring the line drawings of cathedrals, chateaux, and statues, found nothing of interest, and was on the point of closing the book, when something in the margin of one page caught his attention. The chapter heading was for the north of France. What had become, in fact, the battlefields of the war.

There were brief notations here, in a woman's handwriting. He took the book to the window, his back to Mrs. Raeburn, and read one after the other.

Here he was wounded. Ypres had been underlined on the page. Ypres had been underlined on the page. Here he met one of the pipers we found to play for us. Here he met one of the pipers we found to play for us. The name of a small village had been marked. It had become an aid station, Rutledge remembered, and finally abandoned because the smell of death had soaked the ground. The name of a small village had been marked. It had become an aid station, Rutledge remembered, and finally abandoned because the smell of death had soaked the ground.

Rutledge moved through the chapter. There were a number of other notes here and there, each relating to some personal event the reader had connected with a place in the guide. Small landmarks in the life of a dead man. A retracing of his journey to death.

On the last page of that chapter was another note, in a hand that was shaking. Here he died. Here he died. And then below that, a last, touching line. And then below that, a last, touching line. I wish I could die too. E.G. I wish I could die too. E.G.

Eleanor Gray had been here.

Rutledge closed the book with triumph.

She had reached Scotland. The question was, had she ever left it?

23.

MRS. RAEBURN WAS BECOMING IMPATIENT. RUTLEDGE opened the wardrobe door before she could protest but saw that it was empty. He moved on to the other bedroom, and then the sitting room. opened the wardrobe door before she could protest but saw that it was empty. He moved on to the other bedroom, and then the sitting room.

There was no longer anything in the house of a personal nature. A new occupant could move in that afternoon and never have an inkling of the previous owner. His interests or tastes-loves or disappointments-childhood or death. Except for the books, it appeared that the dead man's belongings had long since been removed for storage or a missionary barrel.

Had Eleanor Gray left other small tokens of her presence here that had been swept away unnoticed in the general cleaning?

"It wasna' what she intended," Hamish said softly.

"No," Rutledge answered silently. "And that's very sad."

He added aloud, "Does the fiscal-Mr. Burns-come to stay often?"

"He did when he went through his son's clothes and such, after. I think the house holds too many memories now, and business doesn't often bring him this way. I've a mind to make an offer for it if my niece settles down. I'm not as young as I used to be, and it will be a comfort to have her next door."

"But not in the same house," Hamish said, interpreting the tone of voice.

"I'd hoped she might marry the Captain. But then he went and got himself engaged to someone else. A pity. Still, she died of appendicitis, Julia did. If he'd come home from the war fancy-free, I'd have tried my hand at matchmaking."

They went out the way they'd come in, and while Mrs. Raeburn locked the garden door, Rutledge walked toward the garden.

"It was once quite lovely," Mrs. Raeburn told him, following down the path among the beds. "Now the gardener keeps it up but doesn't go out of his way. But then, who's to see it, I ask you!"

She turned around, a broad hint that it was time for him to accompany her back through the gate.

He went on, ignoring her. It was in fact a lovely garden- peaceful and secluded. A high wall marked the end.

It was Hamish who noticed the bench.

It had been dragged from its low stone dais by the wall and set in the midst of a bed of annuals. It looked out of place here, like a whale stranded on a foreign beach. The dimensions were somehow wrong, and the plants set in around it lacked the symmetry of other beds, as if having to compensate for the awkwardness of the bench.

The gardener's doing-or someone else's?

Mrs. Raeburn, complaining of her legs, had stopped by the sundial. Rutledge called to her, "How long has this bench been set here? It appears to belong over there by the wall."

"How should I know? I never come that far-my legs, you know."

Rutledge squatted on the gra.s.s and looked at the soil of the bed. It was loose, friable. As if it had been dug up each spring and restocked with plants that would grow contentedly in this corner shaded by the wall. There were forget-me-nots and pansies and a pair of small ferns set in a half-moon around the bench. But nothing was planted under the bench.