by Charles Todd
Mrs. Braddock, neighbor. “I’ve seen how my husband looks at her! He’s often offering to do work at the inn. But he isn’t eager to keep up his own house, is he? I’ve been after him to paint the kitchen for six months.” Question: So you believed the letter you found? “When it said my daughter was playing with a bastard and learning nasty things at the inn? Yes, I did. I had sometimes watched Ian while Miss MacDonald was out, and she’d returned the favor. He’d been no trouble at my house, but how was I to know what went on in hers?”
The silence from Hamish was thundering.
Mr. Harris, shoemaker. “She’d come in for her shoes, and was polite as you please. I never guessed, until the letter came! I’d known Ealasaid MacCallum for fifty years-she was a good woman, a good Christian. She wouldn’t have allowed such things to go on. It’s a disgrace, that’s what it is!” Question: Had you visited the inn? Before the letter came? “Aye, that I had. It was a respectable place for a pint of an evening. There was always good company, and a man could sit and talk with his friends. The Ballantyne, now, it’s all well and good, but crowded. You can hardly hear a word said to you!” Question: And while you were sitting in The Reivers, there was no indication-as far as you knew-that Miss MacDonald might be using the upstairs rooms for indecent purposes? “I should have guessed when Fiona took over tending bar herself. None of the MacCallums ever had! I said to Mrs. Harris, it’s not right, mark my words, no good will come of it. Ealasaid would never have agreed to it. Fiona blamed it on the war, and necessity, help being so hard to find, but it still wasn’t proper.” Question: Did Miss MacDonald ever offer you an opportunity to visit upstairs? “I’m a married man!”
“Aye,” Hamish commented through clenched teeth, “and sorry for it!”
The writer of these letters, Rutledge thought, thumbing through a dozen more statements, had been very clever indeed. Possibly too clever? She-or he-had known Duncarrick well, to choose the letters’ recipients with such unerring accuracy. The seemingly untutored handwriting and the cheap stationery were no more than carefully thought-out trappings. This could not be, in his opinion, the work of a jealous wife or a jilted lover, driven to striking out.
The widow whose husband had died in the war: “I thought she might be more sympathetic to my suffering, having lost her own husband. But she wouldn’t talk about Corporal MacLeod. Now I doubt he ever existed!”
The elderly woman who cleaned the church: “I went to Mr. Elliot, I was that upset! That she should be sitting among us, a two-faced harlot. And Mr. Elliot said he’d prayed over her from the start-she hadn’t worshiped with what he believed to be sincerity-”
“Is it likely yon Mr. Elliot has written these abominations?” Hamish demanded. “He claims he sees the weaknesses of people-”
It was something Rutledge had been considering. To teach Fiona a lesson? If so, it had gotten out of hand…
Another woman with small children: “Young Ian had lovely manners. I never guessed that he was what he was- but blood tells, doesn’t it? In the end, blood tells! I’m so grateful that dear Ealasaid never lived to see this day. It would have been horrid. She was so happy when Fiona came-”
A woman who had been close to Ealasaid MacCallum: “I can’t sleep at night thinking how this would have hurt dear Ealasaid. I’ve known her since she was a girl, and it would have broken her heart to find out how she’d been-used- in this fashion. It won’t surprise me at all if Fiona is a murderess! Look how she treated her own flesh and blood-she knows no shame!-”
Hamish railed, “The shame’s hers -”
“It’s human nature we’re dealing with here,” Rutledge answered. “Don’t you see? The first stone has already been cast. When the police interview the next person, he or she wants to be counted among the righteous. It doesn’t prove anything except that people as a rule are easily led.”
Rutledge put the statements back in their original order and set them in the box. It had been unpleasant reading. Someone-Constable McKinstry, he thought-had likened Fiona MacDonald’s situation to the hysteria of witch hunts in the 1600s. And so it was. Fiona’s sin-if there was a sin- had been to keep to herself. Many people had held that against her and at the first test showed neither generosity nor trust.
In choosing so carefully, the writer of the letters had been successful in destroying Fiona MacDonald’s good name.
But were there other people, reluctant to step forward in the face of overwhelming public opinion, who privately might help?
Rutledge went back to the square and at random stopped several women doing their day’s marketing. The first one was red-faced, with graying hair straggling out of the tight bun at the nape of her neck.
Introducing himself, he explained that he was searching for anyone who could give him information about Fiona MacDonald’s history before coming to Duncarrick.
The red-faced woman assured him that she had no knowledge of “that person.”
He thanked her and moved on. His next choice was a middle-aged woman in a neat blue coat and a hat with a modicum of style. A schoolmistress, he thought, walking the narrow line of decorum required by her position.
She was flustered by his question, and he wondered if she had known Fiona better than she wished people to remember.
“No-no, I really didn’t know her well. A passing-acquaintance. I accepted her for her aunt’s sake, of course, believing that Ealasaid’s family must be above reproach. It was a terrible shock when I heard-my first thought was ‘Oh, I’m glad her aunt isn’t alive to see her taken up by the police!’ ”
“You knew nothing about where Miss MacDonald lived before coming here? Her aunt never spoke of her niece in your hearing?”
“Well-that is, I believe-er-Miss MacDonald lived with her grandfather until his death. Ealasaid must have said something about that. I-I seem to remember that she- Ealasaid, of course!-thought very well of him. A good man-well-respected in the Highlands. Which made it all the more shocking that his granddaughter should-well, disappoint the family so horribly.”
She had managed to appear totally ignorant of any facts-aware only of hearsay and half-remembered gossip. Her pale brows and lashes fluttered as she asked plaintively, “Is there anything else, Inspector?”
He shook his head and thanked her.
Hamish was pointing out, “That one hasna’ the courage to stand alone. She’s too afraid of people turning their faces fra’ her.”
A harried young woman with boisterous twins dragging at her heels blushed when he stopped her, and turned her face away to speak to the boys. They were just old enough- three? four?-to have been playmates for Fiona’s son. “I saw her sometimes on the street, and for her aunt’s sake tried to be nice. But she wasn’t a woman I was likely to be friends with.”
“Did your children ever play together?”
“Oh-! Well-sometimes, when I called on Miss MacCallum. That is, it was not a usual thing, you understand. But young children-they don’t play very much at this age, do they? They- It was more a matter of sitting and staring at each other across the room and-um-sometimes passing a toy back and forth.”
“Did you feel that the MacDonald child was not a proper companion for your children? After all, his mother worked at The Reivers.”
“It was a very respectable inn! Miss MacCallum would never have allowed any impropriety there. No-it’s just that we live on opposite ends of the town. It was not convenient…” She let the words trail off.
Rutledge asked again, “Do you know where Miss MacDonald resided before she came to stay with her aunt?”
The woman scowled, and disentangled one boy’s chubby hand from the edge of her coat. “No, Donald, you mustn’t pull at me. We’ll be walking on presently.” She turned back to Rutledge. “I remember she said something about a family she’d lived with. How much she’d cared for the children.”
“Can you tell me who her friends were in Duncarrick?”
“No-of course I wasn’t close to her-she-I have no idea.”<
br />
Which was another way of washing her hands entirely of the matter. Hamish said, “She’s repeating what her husband has told her to say.”
Rutledge tended to agree with his assessment. There was neither warmth nor anger in her responses, only a determined effort to keep clear of the tangle of Fiona MacDonald’s affairs.
He let her go and crossed the street. Outside the milliner’s shop he met a tall, thin woman coming from the other direction. She had an air of fragility, as if she was recovering from an illness, but she moved with grace. When he removed his hat and spoke to her, she stopped with courtesy and waited for him to ask his question.
“I’m sorry,” she answered in a pleasant voice. “I’ve been unwell, and find it difficult to go into society as I used to. I don’t believe I have met Miss MacDonald. I can tell you Miss MacCallum was both respected and admired. She was very active in charity work and had a reputation for honesty in all her dealings. And as far as I knew, Miss MacDonald was a very fine young woman. The charge of murder against her is beyond belief.”
Hamish said, “Aye, it’s guid to hear the truth!”
This woman’s appearance and manner indicated that she might have been educated at one of the better schools. Or perhaps lived for a time in England. Rutledge asked, “Did you-do you know anyone by the name of Eleanor Gray?”
She frowned, considering his question. “Eleanor Gray? No, I can’t say that I ever met anyone by that name. I did know a Sally Gray.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“In Carlisle at a party given for my husband. But that was before the war. I haven’t seen her in years. Her husband was something in shipping, I think.”
A dead end. He thanked her and walked on, immersed in his own thoughts.
Realizing that he’d arrived at the stone monument at the top of the square, Rutledge stopped there for a time, listening to Hamish comparing this town with the scattered houses that comprised his own small village. Like most Highlanders, Hamish had been used to the silences of the mountain glens and the long, smooth mirrors of the lochs. These had given him, as a soldier, a resilience and a strength of mind that had raised him from the ranks.
Idly watching the medley of activity that gave life and color to the street, Rutledge considered the townspeople of Duncarrick. If anyone here had had close ties with Fiona MacDonald, they were busy now burying them as deep as possible.
It also seemed unlikely that Fiona had confided in her aunt.
But then, it was two secrets that Fiona held close. That the boy was not hers-and that she knew the identity of the child’s mother. For some reason, the latter must have been the darker of the two. Fiona had taken the very grave risk of going to trial for murder to protect it.
And if the mother was still alive As Mr. Elliot had so cleverly pointed out, she hadn’t stepped forward.
Why not? And where was she?
Hamish sighed. “Anywhere in England or Scotland, for starters.”
Rutledge turned toward the monument, one hand reaching up to touch the surface. This face was cold at this time of day, waiting for the sun to reach it. Like the town itself in some ways. Waiting for enlightenment.
The stone was a rough-hewn monolith set in the pavement. Links of heavy iron chain attached to four short iron posts encircled the stone, marking it as a shrine of sorts. On the side of the monolith that looked down the length of the square was a relief carved coarsely but tellingly into the stone. Houses, buried nearly to their rooftops in flames, jutted from the surface, and around the scene reivers sat on their horses, dressed in trews and leather jerkins, hats jammed on their heads as they watched the town burn. At the feet of the horses lay sacks of plunder and sheep milling about in fright.
Beneath the relief, three dates were incised in the stone-the three times Duncarrick had gone up in flames at the hands of English raiders. It was a powerful memorial, and Rutledge made a rough guess at the number of dead.
Or had the inhabitants been warned in time and found sanctuary somewhere in the fields or behind the stout walls of the pele tower, watching the night sky as their homes and possessions went up in black smoke, filling the cold air with choking ashes.
Small wonder the people here were a different breed from the citizens of southern English towns that had settled into quiet prosperity centuries before-where the tread of armies and the threat of fire and sword were a far distant memory. Small wonder that a stranger was welcomed for her aunt’s sake-and not her own. Small wonder that suspicion was so easily aroused, and trust was snatched back so readily.
Someone had known how to use Duncarrick’s entrenched character to reach out and anonymously destroy Fiona MacDonald. But to what end?
For what purpose?
Hamish said, “When I went to France, she was living with her grandfather. But when he died, she left the land and went to Brae-her last letter was fra’ Brae.”
It was where Rutledge had sent the only letter he had written to Fiona MacDonald. To tell her of Hamish’s death. He said, “Then I’ll have to go to Brae…”
He had come here to search for Eleanor Gray. If Oliver was right, she must be somewhere in Fiona MacDonald’s past. He had to find out where their paths had crossed-and if they had crossed. And why something that had not even happened in Duncarrick-the birth of a child-should cast such a long and deadly shadow over the lives of two women who should have had nothing in common. Oliver wasn’t going to like Scotland Yard meddling As if conjured up by his thoughts, down the square Rutledge saw Oliver coming toward him, in the company of a man in a well-cut gray suit. A second glance identified Oliver’s companion as the sheep farmer Rutledge had met that first day close by the pele tower. They were speaking earnestly, and then Oliver looked up, lifted a hand to hail Rutledge. He excused himself and, leaving the farmer, strode toward Rutledge.
“You look like a man in need of his lunch,” Oliver said.
“I feel like a man in need of a drink. But what I need now is to learn more about Fiona MacDonald’s whereabouts before her arrival in Duncarrick.”
Oliver studied him. “I should think the logical place to begin would be with Eleanor Gray’s movements after the quarrel with her mother in 1916.”
“Logical, yes,” Rutledge replied patiently. “But that’s a wider investigation and will take far more manpower. Why not narrow it by starting at this end?”
“Yes, I see. Well, the best person to tell you what you need to know is Constable McKinstry. But I’ve already been to the town of Brae, and I’ve been to Glencoe. There can’t be much left to find in either place!”
“You didn’t know to ask for Eleanor Gray.”
“No, that’s true. But I did ask about any other place the accused might have visited about the time the boy was born. For I can tell you this much-a woman with the Gray name and money would never have chosen backwaters like Brae or Glencoe to live in. The two must have met in Glasgow- or Edinburgh. And there’s your needle in the haystack again!”
Rutledge said thoughtfully, “If you were the daughter of Lady Maude Gray and expecting a child out of wedlock, a backwater might offer obscurity as well as seclusion. The larger the town, the greater the risk of being recognized.”
Oliver took a deep breath. “You may be right, of course. It’s possible. But not likely. Still, talk to Constable McKinstry. Tell him to let you read my notes.” Then, echoing a remark Rutledge had already heard that day, he added, “Too bad, in my view, that her aunt is dead. Or convenient-who’s to say?”
He walked on.
Constable McKinstry was on duty at the station, his chair back on two legs and a book in his hands. It was on Scottish law.
McKinstry, closing the book and lowering the feet of the chair to the floor, looked wretchedly at Rutledge as he listened to his request. “Fiona never confided in me. I’ll tell you what I can, sir, and what Inspector Oliver wrote in his report.” He put the book on a shelf behind him and added, “Did he send you? Aye, I thought so.” Wryly, h
e confessed, “It’s my punishment to be made to talk about her! The Inspector hasn’t forgiven me for the fiasco with the first skeleton. If I’d been thorough, it would have been my embarrassment, not his.”
“I need dependable facts. You’re most likely the only inhabitant of Duncarrick who isn’t afraid to admit you knew her. Man or woman.”
“That’s true enough.” McKinstry sighed. Considering how to begin, he looked at the ceiling, smudged with smoke from the stove, and arranged his thoughts.
“I was in France when Fiona arrived in Duncarrick. I remember my mother writing that Ealasaid MacCallum was having trouble with her right arm shaking and had sent for her niece to come and help out at the inn. Later she told me that in her view Mrs. MacLeod was a respectable young widow with a baby to care for, but strong and capable for all that. She’d lived in Brae, and if I should hear any news of men from there, my mother would be glad to pass it on.”
He stopped, squaring the blotter and moving the ink pot to the other side of the desk. Then, absently, he moved it back again.
“To be honest, I never asked Fiona about her life before she came to Duncarrick. I was jealous, if you want the truth, of her husband. Only he wasn’t, was he?” He sighed. “Fiona left her grandfather’s croft in the spring of 1915, I do know that. She couldn’t run the farm on her own. It’s inhospitable country at best, but the old man had made it pay.”
“Aye,” Hamish said unexpectedly. “He knew the land better than anyone I ever saw.” There was a wistfulness in the voice at Rutledge’s shoulder. “Fra’ him I learned how to handle a team and to find water, when we needed to dig a well. I took a forked willow stick, skinned and dried. He said I had the gift-I could feel the stick stir and bend in my hands. And it was sweet water I found!”
McKinstry had gone on, unaware of the interruption. “Some cousins were willing to take it over-they were too old for the war, but still able-bodied. She said once that she wished the lad’s father could have been buried there in the glen, because he loved it so. At any rate, Fiona was glad of the position she found in Brae. It took her mind off the war. A Mrs. Davison was looking to hire a nanny for her children.” He paused. “Brae’s south of Glasgow. Just above Lanark.”