Legacy of the Dead Part 31

There was nothing Rutledge could do but find out.

He went to the stairwell and listened, but heard nothing.

He began to move down, one step at a time. Swift-but sure.

At the bottom, he paused again. The cat had come down after him, and he tried to see if she had heard something he hadn't. But she sat down on her haunches when he stopped. Her eyes were on his face.

He had left all the doors open behind him when he had come up the stairs. Now that served him well.

Moving quietly, he worked his way back to the bar.

And stumbled over something on the floor, nearly pitching forward, catching himself in time on the edge of the bar.

Reaching down, Rutledge groped at his feet, and touched hair. A woman's soft hair. There was a white patch beside her. The christening gown- He found her throat and searched for a pulse.

There was none.

Gentle G.o.d! Holden had killed his wife- Anger swept him, following on the heels of shock.

He remembered what Holden had told him in the rain the previous night: that there was nowhere Rutledge could consider himself safe. It was true.

Rutledge got slowly to his feet, every nerve ending alive. Eyes sweeping the black shadows. All his training in France rushing back- He was here-but where? Rutledge could feel him like a second skin. Rutledge could feel him like a second skin.

The cat's sharp hiss warned him. There was a blindingly bright flash, a deafening report, and he was already dropping. Not fast enough this time. Something spun him half around, slamming into his chest.

He had been hit- He knew the drill. It had happened before. Shock. Numbness. And then the pain.

Almost in the same instant, he acted, instinct already guiding hand and brain, throwing the dirk-aiming for the place he'd seen the flash of powder.

The Scots under his command had taught him well. The harsh intake of breath told him he'd hit his mark. Something fell heavily, taking a bar stool over with it. The clatter was appalling. And then silence.

Rutledge moved toward it, his own breathing uneven. Whoever it was still had a pistol- He reached out, felt heavy, immovable flesh, and instinctively flinched.

There was no sound except for his own breathing- Fumbling, he turned on his torch and looked down into the dead face of Alexander Holden. The knife, protruding from his throat, had severed the artery. There was a great deal of blood. Staining the scrubbed floor. Rutledge stared at it. Black and red, where the torch picked it out.

He realized he was no longer thinking clearly.

Rutledge told himself, Fiona will have to explain-or Fiona will have to explain-or they'll find my notebook-London knows about Holden too- they'll find my notebook-London knows about Holden too- He remembered the torch in his hand, staring down at it, then turning it off. Why did he have to kill her-why couldn't Why did he have to kill her-why couldn't Madelyn Holden have lived- Madelyn Holden have lived- I wanted to save her. Most of all I wanted to save Fiona- His breathing was harsh now, and his chest felt like fire. I'm bleeding, I'm bleeding, he told himself. he told himself. And there's nowhere to go for And there's nowhere to go for help. help.

He didn't want to think about Fiona. She belonged to Hamish. She always would. . . .

He found a chair and half fell, half slumped in it.

Hamish had been yelling at him, roaring in his ear. Or was it the sound of his own blood?

He couldn't tell.

From somewhere he could hear the sounds of the pipes. They were faint, and then stronger. Coming toward him.

Rutledge knew what they were playing. He'd heard it too many times not to recognize it at once.

It was "The Flowers of the Forest." The lament for the dead. He had heard it played for every dead Scot under his command. He'd heard the pipes skirling into battle, he'd heard them grieve. This was a dirge for the dying.

He was dying. was dying.

Hamish was like a trumpet in his head. "You will no' die. Do you hear me? You willna' die! You willna' die!"

"You're already dead, Corporal. You can't stop me." Rutledge was finding it hard to concentrate.

"You willna' die! I willna' let you die!"

The sound of the pipes had begun to fade. Rutledge thought, The funeral is over-they've buried Hamish. The funeral is over-they've buried Hamish. Hamish is dead, and I'm to blame-I've killed him. Hamish is dead, and I'm to blame-I've killed him. But where had this chair come from? They didn't have chairs at the Front- But where had this chair come from? They didn't have chairs at the Front- The fire in his chest was smothering him.

He could feel Hamish taking hold of him.

It was what Rutledge had feared for such a long time that now he was grateful for the dark so that he didn't have to look up and see the dreaded face bending over him. He said to Hamish, "It's too late. I'm dead. You can't touch me now. I'm free of you-"

"YOU SHALL NOT DIE!"

30.

IN THE LAMPLIT DRUMMOND PARLOR, THE TICKING OF the mantel clock competed with the soft patter of rain beyond the lacy curtains and gla.s.s panes that shut out the night. The soothing quiet was broken only by the dry rustle of the Edinburgh paper Drummond was reading and the regular the mantel clock competed with the soft patter of rain beyond the lacy curtains and gla.s.s panes that shut out the night. The soothing quiet was broken only by the dry rustle of the Edinburgh paper Drummond was reading and the regular click click of his sister's ivory knitting needles. It was late, the child already asleep, the clock's hands nearly touching half past the hour of eleven. of his sister's ivory knitting needles. It was late, the child already asleep, the clock's hands nearly touching half past the hour of eleven.

A sound, heavily m.u.f.fled but unmistakable, brought Drummond to his feet, the newspaper flying in all directions.

A shot- He waited, but only for an instant. The image in his mind sent him headlong out into the small hallway. Brushing past the mirrored hat stand, he flung open the outer door and plunged into the rain, running hard.

His sister, calling his name, reached the door he'd left standing wide and leaned out, demanding to know what he thought he was doing.

Over his shoulder he shouted, "Go back inside, woman!"

But at the door of The Reivers, Drummond stopped, putting out his hand cautiously to touch the latch.

He'd seen her only that morning, she'd surely do nothing so rash-it wouldn't save Fiona- rash-it wouldn't save Fiona- The latch lifted, and his heart began to thud.

She had the other key- Kicking off his shoes, he swung the door open, tensed for whatever stood behind it. What if there were the two of them What if there were the two of them here-what if she had shot him? They'd hang her too! here-what if she had shot him? They'd hang her too!

Nothing happened. There was nothing in the darkness.

He listened intently, begging the silence to talk to him, to tell him if one person-or two-had come here. . . .

No sound except for his own breathing, and the blowing of the rain against his back. The wind was picking up a little; he could feel it across his shoulders.

Making his way into the entry, he moved forward one step at a time, soft-footed in his stocking feet. The hair on the back of his neck standing on end, his eyes wide against the pitch-blackness, concentrating on the stairs just ahead of him.

But it wasn't dark enough here- Another step. On his wet skin he could feel the air from the open door that led from the family's quarters into the side of the bar.

It had been closed before-he'd closed it when he fed the white cat.

Stretching out his hand, he could feel the frame of the door. Moving cautiously, he leaned forward to stare into the bar.

For an instant he thought he heard a word spoken softly.

A white smudge on the floor at the far end of the bar- The cat, then.

He took another step, unsure where the voice had come from, and in the same instant, his toe nudged something blocking the threshold, immovable, nearly tripping him up.

Startled, Drummond dropped swiftly to his knees, praying hard now.

"Don't let it be her-please, G.o.d-"

His fingers found the rough fabric of a man's overcoat.

A sudden gust of wind and rain blew into the open doorway behind him, shaking him, crouched and defenseless there. He flinched away.

Even as he realized that it was only the rain, his heart seemed to choke him, rising in his throat like a stone.

He reached for the coat again, found an arm-the warm blood soaking a shoulder-a face. Trying hard to find a pulse, he thought, She She has has shot him-not herself. shot him-not herself.

But his fingers touched the blade and then the handle of a knife instead. Protruding grotesquely from the throat.

Someone spoke.

Drummond jerked to his feet, and then saw in the pale square of light from a window that someone sat in a chair twenty feet away.

"Madelyn?" Drummond called softly, unconsciously using her given name as he'd done when she was a child. "What's been done, then? Are you hurt?"

His voice seemed to roar through the stillness of the room.

The slumped figure in the chair didn't answer.

Reading the awkward angle of the one shoulder he could see, Drummond hurried forward, right hand outstretched as if to ward off a blow.

The figure didn't move. Drummond leaned down to touch the shoulder, and the head fell back. In the pale light, Drummond made out Rutledge's profile.

His eyes were open-dark patches in a bone-white face- Drummond, startled, fumbled for Rutledge's throat, fingers slipping beneath the collar.

A pulse, faint, erratic. His hands moved down the front of Rutledge's coat, where the white shirt was black with wet blood.

Shot, then, and barely alive. They'd all but killed each other- Relief flooded through him, so sudden and wild, he felt light-headed with it. But not her. She was safe.

He bent to s.n.a.t.c.h up the crumpled white cloth he could just make out beyond Rutledge's feet, and too late realized that it was gripped in hands that were soft, long-fingered. A woman's- Drummond began to pray again, raggedly and disjointedly, pleas tumbling over each other in his head. His hands ran over the body, the shoulder, the face, the silken hair.

He sprang to his feet, made his way to the lamp that was always kept on the bar, found it, and managed to light it on the second try.

Its gold-and-blue flame leapt up so brightly, he was blinded.

And then his gaze moved beyond the gla.s.s chimney and he saw the carnage all too clearly.

Holden, in the doorway. A pistol still clutched in his right hand, a skean dhu skean dhu piercing his throat, projecting at an odd angle from front and back, cutting the great artery as cleanly as b.u.t.ter. Drummond whistled softly. piercing his throat, projecting at an odd angle from front and back, cutting the great artery as cleanly as b.u.t.ter. Drummond whistled softly.

Rutledge, in the chair. Shot and barely alive, head forward now, his eyes closed.

And Madelyn Holden, lying almost at the Londoner's feet, what appeared to be a child's lacy christening gown still strained to her breast.

The men were soaked in their own blood.

There was none on her- Drummond went to her, kneeling beside her, lifting her into his arms, crooning to her as a mother would croon to an ill child.

But the weight of her body, without buoyancy and life, the open eyes that didn't focus on his face, told him the truth.

A surge of primeval pain ripped through Drummond, and he cried her name again, pulling her against his chest, bending his head over her, rocking her body with his, shaking with tremors that broke into deep, harsh sobs.

And he nearly missed the words.

He'd forgotten the man in the chair. Looking up, he realized that Rutledge must have spoken. But not to him.

Hardly words, more a murmur. "The pipes have stopped-"

Here was the only one left alive to tell him what had been done in this dark room- Tears wet on his face, Drummond gently lowered Madelyn Holden's body to the floor again, stumbled to his feet, and went to Rutledge.

The pulse in his throat was no more than a thread now, the breath so shallow, it seemed not to exist.

"You shall not die!" Drummond thundered in unconscious echo of Hamish's voice. "Not here! Not till I've finished with you-!"

He curled his arms under Rutledge's shoulders and then his knees, grunting as he lifted the unresisting weight.

Muscles straining, Drummond made his way to the door, stepping uncaring over Holden.

Tommy Braddock stood just outside, a large black umbrella over his head. The rain had subsided, but a cold wind blew, whipping the skirts of the coat he'd thrown on over his nightclothes.

"What the h.e.l.l-" he exclaimed as Drummond stepped out into the drizzle, a man's body gripped in his arms.

"Keep the rain off him!" Drummond ordered. "My house. Then the doctor. Bring him back as soon's you can!"

Braddock slammed the inn door shut behind them and tilted the umbrella over the burden Drummond carried, recognizing the man from London and swearing in surprise under his breath. But one look at Drummond's face and he said nothing, keeping pace as best he could.

Drummond paid no heed, concentrating on walking back the way he'd come barely ten minutes before. "You'll live. Do you hear me?" he said once to Rutledge.

Ahead they could see the house door wide open and Drummond's sister leaning out into the wet night, a lamp in her hand. The flame danced and shifted, then burned stark and straight.

He saw it, a beacon, his grief so heavy that the flame seemed to flicker through his tears.