Legacy of the Dead

by Charles Todd

  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 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 shell. 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.”

  “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!”

  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.

  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 pass 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 God 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 well-to-do and might find the child an—um—embarrassment.”

  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.

  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 hell 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-class 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.

  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 damned 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, I must track down Eleanor Gray.”

  “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 Lady of the Lake, and again in the novel 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.

  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 brass handles and doorknob 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 space 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 title 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 replie
d. 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. Hell 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.”