Legacy of the Dead

15

RUTLEDGE PUT THE TIN BOX BACK WHERE HE’D FOUND it for the time being, and was already on his way to the stairs, when a thought struck him.

His sister Frances had found in a small cedar chest belonging to their mother the carefully preserved christening robes that the two of them had worn. Wrapped in tissue, these were still white and soft, with lacy bodices and a wide band of matching lace at the hem, small caps frilled with lace and the tiniest of tucks, long ribbons for bows under the chin. Little knitted boots with blue or pink ribbons to tie them. Frances, who seldom cried, had said in a husky voice, “She never held grandchildren—mine or yours. It must have grieved her.”

As if that was the ultimate wrong to the dead . . .

And in the center of each long skirt, hanging down almost to a grown man’s knees, let alone an infant’s, had been a large embroidered oval with entwined initials in white satin thread.

His had been his great-grandfather’s christening robe, carefully handed down from generation to generation. Frances had worn their grandmother’s. A family tradition that had meant much to people proud of their heritage—

And surely, even if she had abandoned her baby at birth, Eleanor Gray would have seen to it that he was christened properly, and in a long white gown. Not, perhaps, the one that had been passed down through the Gray generations, but most certainly one that was suitable to the occasion. Unless it had been borrowed—

Rutledge turned around at the head of the stairs and walked swiftly back down the passage. While Fiona had had the front room, there were two more at the back, one empty with a neatly made bed covered with clean sheets to keep off the dust, and the other a small boy’s realm, with a toy chest, a clothes chest, a dresser, and a crib.

Rutledge went first to the clothes chest. It was nearly empty. Here were only the outgrown dresses and stockings and tiny shoes kept for memory’s sake. A small, pretty blanket for a baby that had seen much service. A blue velveteen coat with a matching cap, and a threadbare stuffed horse, one ear chewed off and one leg missing. At the bottom, carefully preserved in tissue and lavender, was a christening gown. He took it out and unfolded it with gentle hands.

Hamish saw it before he did. An embroidered half-circle of entwined letters, this time in the bodice.

Rutledge carried it to the window and examined it closely. Beautifully shaped initials with tiny forget-me-nots in the spaces. MEMC.

But did it stand for Maude Cook—or Mary Cook? Or someone else?

By the time McKinstry had come back to report to Rutledge, he had already put the gown back in the bottom of the clothes chest and dropped the lid.

THE MAN THAT Rutledge had encountered in the barn was standing outside the door as the constable and Inspector stepped out on the pavement. McKinstry, key in hand, turned to greet him. At the man’s side stood a small, untidy boy of three or four. He was tall for his age and sturdy, with dark hair nearly the color of Rutledge’s, and gray-blue eyes that were darker in the sunlight than they might have been by candlelight.

“I’ve come to feed yon cat,” the man announced abruptly, his eyes on Rutledge in condemnation.

So you know who I am now, Rutledge thought, and don’t like it. I wonder why . . .

“I didn’t know you had a key,” McKinstry was answering, surprise showing in his face.

“Aye, you don’t leave a house to mind itself. I’ve had a key since Ealasaid MacCallum took her father’s place.”

“I don’t know—” McKinstry said again, but the man cut him short.

“The cat’s to be fed. Are you taking her, then? The lad will grieve for her. And he’s lost his ma already.”

McKinstry said, “Very well, then, as long as you don’t touch anything!”

The man glared at him. “I’ve no’ touched anything of anybody else’s since I was his age and didn’t know better!” He inclined his head toward the child.

Hamish had been saying something, but Rutledge had found it hard to make sense of it—he himself was silenced by the doleful stare of the child.

This, then, was Ian Hamish MacLeod.

Rutledge felt his heart turn over. A handsome child, this was. A small, lost child.

Rutledge dropped to one knee, and the man holding the boy’s hand stepped forward, tense and prepared to intervene. But something in Rutledge’s face stopped him; he stepped back again.

“Hello, Ian,” Rutledge said, trying to speak through a constricted throat. This might have been Hamish’s child if he’d lived. This might have been Jean’s if she and Rutledge had married in 1914— “Going to see your cat, are you?”

Ian nodded. His eyes solemnly moved across Rutledge’s face and then to McKinstry’s. McKinstry must have smiled as he said “Hallo, Ian,” because the child smiled and it was as if the sun had come out. The eyes filled with light and with warmth, and the sadness vanished.

“Is Mama here? Has she come back?” he asked breathlessly.

“No, but I have seen her,” Rutledge said. “She’s well, and she misses you.” He looked at the man’s face and dared him to contradict him. But the man didn’t, and although McKinstry stirred at Rutledge’s back, he, too, said nothing.

“When will she come back?” Ian insisted, anxious now.

“Soon, I hope,” Rutledge answered. “I’ll do my best to bring her home.”

The boy’s eyes swept his face again, as if to judge how truthful he was. Then he nodded, turned to the man holding his hand, and said, “Clarence?”

“Aye, we’ll be feeding her. As soon as these gentlemen have gone away.”

“Good-bye,” the child told them, his voice firm. “Clarence is hungry.”

“Clarence?” Rutledge questioned as they walked away and left the odd pair to do their duty by the cat.

McKinstry’s eyes crinkled. “Well, there was a litter of kittens, you see, and Peter, the old man who worked in the stables, brought the boy one of them. Peter had named her Thomasina, after another cat he’d once had in the stables. But Ian has called her Clarence instead. I wondered why at the time, but haven’t thought about it since.”

Hamish, finding his voice, provided the answer. The Davison children had had a fog-gray cat by that name. And Fiona must have told Ian about the litter that Maude Cook had never seen. . . .

AS THEY WALKED back toward the hotel, Rutledge asked McKinstry who the man was.

“His name’s Drummond. He and his spinster sister live next to the inn, and Fiona chose to leave the boy with them. She said he’d be less frightened with people he knew.”

And people she trusted? It was worth bearing in mind. . . .

WHEN MCKINSTRY HAD gone on his way back to the station, Rutledge retraced his steps and came to a halt outside the house where the Drummonds lived.

It was the house he had noted before, the one with the extension in the rear and the windows with unexpected symmetry.

His instincts told him that Drummond and the child had not come back from feeding the cat. He wondered if Drummond allowed the boy to play with the toys in the chest, or sit on his mother’s bed and hold Clarence.

When Rutledge knocked at the door, a woman of middle age answered, her fair hair drawn back and tight curls adding a softness around her face. She brushed these back, as if afraid the caller on her front step might take them for a softness in her as well, and said, “If you’ve come to see Drummond, he’s not in.”

“Miss Drummond? My name is Rutledge, I’ve been sent by Scotland Yard to look into the matter of the parentage of the boy you have in your keeping.”

“Young Ian? And what interest has London got in a lad of three?” Her voice was sharp, indignant. But her pale eyes were wary, almost frightened. As if he’d come to carry the boy away.

“If his mother—the woman he calls his mother—is hanged for murder, it would be best if the child went to his own kin. I think you’d agree with me there.”

“I agree with nothing.” Her fear made her garrulous. “Ian wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t been given to us by his mother. And if Drummond hadn’t fought against that fool Elliot to keep the lad with us until—until it was all decided. He was all for sending him to the Forsters.”

“Did you know Miss MacDonald well?”

Hamish said, “She must have done, else the lad would never have been entrusted to her. Fiona would never set a child at risk!”

Miss Drummond had not invited Rutledge in, but kept him on the doorstep like a tradesman. “As to that, knowing her well, I’m thinking now that none of us did. But Ealasaid MacCallum I knew. For her sake I agreed to do what I could. Drummond’s reasons are his own. Ian’s a likely lad, and has been no trouble. And I expect we can feed and clothe him better than most, if it comes to that,” she added with some pride. “Before the war, Drummond made a fair living, working at Mr. Holden’s. A good man with horses,” she added grudgingly, as if she disliked admitting to better qualities in her brother. “They’re great beasts, the shire horses, but when he handled them, they were meek as lambs. The Army took the lot of them and brought not one of them back. There’s only sheep to be run at Holden’s now. And my brother’s not a man who cares for sheep. But Drummond can turn his hand to anything asked of him, and Mrs. Holden keeps him busy enough working about the house. He ought to be busy about the needs of his own! I can’t do it all alone.”

Hamish said, “She doesna’ approve of her brother. But they live together like two peas.”

“That’s most likely the root of it,” Rutledge replied silently. He thought the pair must have inherited this barn of a house together, and neither had wanted to move out. Or sell up. It could make for bad feelings over the years.

“Can you tell me anything about Miss MacDonald’s family?”

“Everyone knew her grandfather. He was respected. He’d played the pipes for the old Queen in his day, when first she came up to Balmoral. And the MacCallums have owned The Reivers for four—five—generations. We’ve been neighbors for nearly three, the Drummonds and the MacCallums. Always honest, God-fearing. Minded their own business. Kept the inn in good order, never any rowdiness or drunkenness allowed. Still, all I knew about Fiona was what her aunt told me—that she was a hard worker and tidy and had no eye for the men. Not thinking to find another father for Ian, you understand.”

“Then, why,” Rutledge asked quietly, “did the town of Duncarrick turn their backs on her?”

“Ah!” Miss Drummond said it as an exclamation and a sigh. “If we knew what was at the bottom of that, we’d be wise, wouldn’t we? Is that all you’ve come to ask?”

Rutledge said, “Tell me about the boy. Is he bright? Does he mind?”

“He does. I will say this for her, Fiona raised him proper. I’ve told that fool Elliot as much, but he sees only what he wants to see. I’m thinking it’s no surprise he’s a widower— drove his wife to an early grave, if you want my opinion! Ealasaid gave him the benefit of the doubt, but I had no patience with him! The old minister who was before him, he was a man of God, and he preached a mighty sermon of a Sunday. Mr. Hall, his name was, come from Dunfermline and married a Croser from over to Hawick. We went to kirk every Sunday, and were proud of it. But this fool Elliot, now, he’s besotted with sin. He doesn’t care a whit about redemption, only in setting blame. And what good’s that, I ask you!”

“I’ve been led to believe that Fiona never confided in her aunt—never told her, for instance, that she wasn’t the boy’s mother. Surely she must have told someone? A woman she trusted—a friend or neighbor—your brother—”

Miss Drummond stared at him consideringly. “Any secret’s best kept if it’s kept. You should know that as a policeman! Fiona was friendly in a quiet fashion, respectful to her elders. Nice ways about her, as if she’d gone to school to learn them. But all I’ve ever heard was that she’d loved her grandfather and he was a bonny piper. Oh, and that she’d been happy with her soldier before he died. More than that I never asked and she never spoke of. Now, it’s time you went, or Drummond will be home and shout at both of us. He doesn’t like anyone prating about Fiona or the lad. ‘Least said, soonest mended.’ That’s his view!”

“There’s only one other question before I leave,” Rutledge said, holding his ground. “I’ve been told that men were attracted to Fiona MacDonald. Was that true?”

He was met with stony silence. Miss Drummond’s face had changed, the color shifting to a mottled red, as if some emotion had risen swiftly and as swiftly been stamped down. Anger? Or jealousy? After a few seconds, the woman before him, her voice very different, said tightly, as if the truth had been forced out of her, “They say still waters run deepest. I don’t know. Fiona’s not by nature a talkative woman, the kind you’d sit and gossip comfortably with. I never could tell what to make of her. I never got close to her. Men, on the other hand, they saw something else. I can’t put a name to what it was. They’d watch her, and wait for her to smile, and then their faces would light up. I’ve seen my own brother staring at her, mesmerized by something I couldn’t feel or understand. As if he thinks he’s found the core of her and wants it. If you ask me, Drummond’s besotted with her. And if you want the whole truth of it, Elliot is as well. He raves on about sin like a man who knows what it means to burn with desire at night!”

“But surely the police haven’t fallen under her spell—”

“Haven’t they now? McKinstry would save her if he could, he’s in hopes of marrying her. Oliver used to stop by the inn of an evening before he went home, sitting there like a suitor, and him with a wife. And what troubles the Chief Constable and the fiscal is that she refuses to bow her head and confess to what she’s done, and beg for mercy, the way a woman should. They see it as defiance of their authority, and it unsettles their faith in their own importance. I’m not surprised they all want her hanged. Don’t you see? It’s the best way to be free of her!”

WHEN RUTLEDGE WALKED into the hotel, the man at the desk said, “There’s been a telephone call for you, sir. From London.”

He took the message and read it.

Call Sergeant Gibson.

One of the best men at ferreting out information of any kind, Gibson had a reputation for being thorough as well.

Rutledge went into the telephone closet, set his hat on the little table there, and put in his call to the Yard.

Gibson came on very shortly to say, “Inspector Rutledge, sir?”

“Yes. I’m in need of good news. I hope you’re going to tell me you have found Eleanor Gray.”

“No, sir, that I haven’t. But I talked to suffragettes she’d marched with and was known to be friends with. They haven’t seen her in some three years. What they tell me is that she went off to Winchester one weekend and never came back to London. At least not as far as anyone knows. Most of the women thought Lady Maude had had enough of her daughter’s wild ways and sent for her.”

“Are they certain she actually went to Winchester? She could have lied about her plans.”

“Yes, sir, I thought of that, and took the liberty to call on the people she was to stay with. Miss Gray never got there. She was set to drive down with an officer she’d known in London. But she changed her mind at the last minute and said the two of them would be going to Scotland instead— he was on sick leave and it wasn’t up for another week. She promised to call back when she returned to London, but never did.”

Scotland! “Did you ask the name of this officer?” Rutledge asked.

“That I did, sir!” Gibson’s voice came strongly down the line. “But they’ve forgotten it. Still, it was someone she’d met before. Not a stranger, or she wouldn’t have asked to bring him to Winchester with her. They tell me she was not one to impose on her hostess in that way.”

“Well done, Gibson!” Rutledge said. “Do you have a number where I can reach these people in Winchester?”

He could hear down the line the shuffling of papers. “Yes, sir, here it is! A Mrs. Humphrey Atwood. She was the Honorable Miss Talbot-Hemings. Went to school with Miss Gray for a time and stayed friends.” There was a pause. Rutledge could hear a door shut. And then with a note of triumph, Gibson added, “The Chief Superintendent told me I wasn’t to bother talking to the suffragette ladies. Addled, all of them, he said. A waste of time.” There was another pause. “Bit of luck, wasn’t it, sir!”

If he hadn’t known Gibson better, Rutledge would have imagined him grinning ear to ear. It was there in the voice. But Gibson seldom smiled. He was also seldom wrong in his findings or his conclusions. He was the kind of man who took pride in himself and in his work, and was bulldog tenacious when he wanted to be. Only his eyes warned that inside the beefy, middle-aged body was a brain sharp as a razor. Rutledge had always suspected that Old Bowels and Gibson were enemies from years back.

That didn’t put Gibson in Rutledge’s column at the Yard. But it meant that an opportunity to blacken Chief Superintendent Bowles’s eye was savored by the man, and often produced information that Rutledge found valuable.

As in this case.

Rutledge thanked him and put up the receiver, standing there for all of a minute, thinking.

Here was the first tie between Eleanor Gray and Scotland. Secondhand it might be, but it was better than none.

Why would a man bring a woman some months pregnant from London to Scotland—unless he was the father of her child?

Hamish said, “Unless there wasna’ anyone else she could turn to, and he felt sorry for her.”

There was also that possibility, Rutledge acknowledged, opening the door of the little room and taking a deep breath of fresher air. But he thought it was more likely that the officer must have known the father, if indeed he wasn’t the father himself. He himself would have done as much for a friend at the Front.

He closed the door again and was on the point of asking for the number Gibson had given him, when he realized that he ought to go to Winchester himself.

It would mean a long, fast drive there and back, but it had to be done. A telephone was a device that allowed people to hide behind distance. Nothing said into the telephone could match the nuances of expression and tone of voice that he used so often to judge information and people.

Hamish said, “It’s been close to three years. It’s likely true they canna’ remember the officer’s name now.”

On the way to his room to pack what he needed, Rutledge answered, “Very likely. But you never can tell what other information they still have.”