Legacy of the Dead

17

LADY MAUDE RECEIVED RUTLEDGE WITH COOL DISINTEREST, as if he had come to report on the state of her drains or her roofs.

She again conducted the interview in the library, but this time had seen to it that tea arrived shortly after he did.

Pouring his cup, she said, “I knew nothing would come of this ridiculous business. There is nothing in your face that tells me you have been successful.”

“On the contrary, there have been a number of small successes. Not yet a whole. But enough to be going on with.”

She smiled, lighting the remarkable violet eyes from within.

“Then tell me. I shall be the judge.”

“Your daughter did not go to America to study medicine. We have that on the authority of a professor who had been advising her.” It was only a patchwork of truth and fiction. But he saw the small flicker of surprise in her face.

Like Mrs. Atwood, Lady Maude must also have soothed her conscience with the notion that Eleanor Gray had gone abroad to study. Against her mother’s wishes—but surely safely accounted for. Lady Maude had even closed her ears to Inspector Oliver, so certain was she. And then Rutledge had somehow raised niggling doubts. This was news she had not expected to hear. Hamish, who did not care for Lady Maude, was pleased.

“Go on,” she said curtly.

“She was last heard from on her way to Scotland with a young officer by the name of Burns. He had a small house in the Trossachs and enough leave to go there.”

Her voice was cold. “You are mistaken. Eleanor would not have gone anywhere with a strange man.”

“He wasn’t a stranger. She had known him for some time apparently, and a Mrs. Atwood believes that Eleanor was—attracted—to him. They had worked together to arrange for pipe concerts at various hospitals, to cheer the wounded. I was given the impression that your daughter had spent enough time in this man’s company to grow fond of him. Whether as a friend or more than that, I’m not able to tell you at this stage.”

Like a mask, her face remained unchanged. Her hands, holding her cup and saucer, were still quiet in her lap, too well-behaved to indicate by any movement of their own that she was unsettled. But along the firm jawline there was a small nerve twitching.

“When I requested that you be assigned to this case, Inspector, I believed I had chosen a man of intelligence and integrity. I had not expected you to be a listener to gossip and innuendo. You have disappointed me.”

He smiled. “For that I shall apologize. But the fact is, I talked to the person whom your daughter telephoned just before leaving for Scotland with Burns. She had been promised to the Atwoods for a weekend, and had—quite properly—called her hosts to explain the change in plan. You had brought your daughter up well. She remembered her manners even in a time of great distress.”

He set his empty cup on the tray. Check. And mate.

Hamish, in the ensuing silence, said only, “Well done!”

It was rare praise. Rutledge had no time to savor it.

Lady Maude said, “If your information comes from Grace Talbot-Hemings—now Mrs. Atwood—I’m sure she reported the conversation exactly as it happened. She was a truthful child and has no doubt grown into a truthful young woman. This is not to say that what my daughter told her is to be believed. On the contrary, Eleanor might well have left a false trail if she had found passage to the United States and wished to be absolutely certain that no one stopped her. This would also explain her great distress, as you call it.”

Rutledge had to admit that it did.

Lady Maude was not easily broken. She had been the mistress of a king and knew her worth. She had known her daughter’s worth as well, and lived to see Eleanor turn her back on it.

Rutledge thought: Eleanor died in her mother’s heart in 1916 . And he suddenly knew why. The daughter Lady Maude had given up her own self-respect to bear to a Prince of Wales had not been worthy, in her mother’s eyes, of such sacrifice. Eleanor had neither understood nor appreciated the burden her mother carried, and if anything had, in her youthful rebellion, mocked it.

For the most fleeting instant of time, he wondered if Lady Maude might be capable of killing her only child.

Lady Maude also set her cup on the tray with firm finality. “You must realize, Inspector, that your”—she hesitated delicately—“small successes, as you call them, are proving to be a reflection on my daughter’s character that I find unacceptable. You will not pursue them.”

“Aye, she doesna’ want to learn that her daughter was pregnant,” Hamish said. “If it damns Fiona, neither do I!”

“I have no choice in the matter,” Rutledge said, “I am trying now to locate this man Burns. He should be able to lead us to the next step. Where Miss Gray went in Scotland. And why.”

Lady Maude rose. “I must thank you for your courtesy in reporting your information to me in person. I expect we shall not meet again.”

Dismissal. Permanent dismissal, Hamish pointed out.

Rutledge stood as well. “I shall respect your wishes. Would you prefer a written report to a message by telephone when I’ve completed my investigation?”

Their eyes locked. Hers a deep violet with her anger, and his a mirror of his voice, official and unyielding.

For a full twenty seconds she said nothing, waiting for him to look away first.

Then she snapped, “I can break you, Inspector.”

“No doubt,” he answered. “But it will not change the truth, nor will it give you great satisfaction. Good day, Lady Maude.”

He had reached the door before her voice stopped him.

“You will find nothing connecting my daughter to those appalling bones!”

He turned, and for a moment looked at the room enclosing them with such elegance and formality. “That’s my hope as well. It will be a great tragedy if I do. For many people.”

As the door began to close on his heels, he heard her voice, commanding and clear but not raised. “Inspector.”

He stepped back in the room. Nothing had changed in her face. She said only, “It is fortunate, is it not, that my daughter has found a champion in you. I fear that I have been hurt too often. It is difficult to summon the courage to face another disappointment. But I shall try.”

He inclined his head. It was, in its way, a salute. And an apology.

This time she didn’t stop him as he left.

Hamish, digesting the last exchange, said only, “I canna’ say that walking with the great is the road to happiness.”

No, Rutledge silently answered. That woman has paid a dear price.

AN HOUR AFTER leaving Menton, Rutledge found a telephone in the next town and put in a call to his godfather.

Morag answered the telephone and went to find David Trevor.

He said, taking up the receiver, “Ian? I hope this means you’re coming to dinner!”

“I won’t make it to Scotland in time. It’s late and I’ve had three days of hard driving. No, it’s information I need, sir. You told me earlier that you knew the procurator-fiscal in the MacDonald case. Well enough to tell me anything about his family?”

There was an instant of silence, then David Trevor said, “Yes, I can give you what I know. He married a young woman from the neighborhood of Stirling. If I remember, her father was a lawyer, and a brother was a judge. I think I met her once or twice at some official gathering. They had three children. Cathy, the daughter, is married to an Englishman and they live in Gloucester. George, the older son, is with a London firm. The youngest, Robert, is dead.”

“Did either son serve in the war?”

“George was in the Navy. Invalided out in late ’17. Robert was killed in France. Artillery. Early 1916, I think.”

“Was Robert married?”

“No, there was a girl in Edinburgh whom he was unofficially engaged to. It was an understood thing, but no announcement had been made. Then she died of appendicitis. I don’t know quite when—well before Robert was killed, certainly. In the winter of ’15, I think it was. Why this sudden interest in Robert?”

“I don’t know,” Rutledge said truthfully. “Could you describe him?”

“He was dark, and well set up. And I’m told he had the most wonderful wit. Ross had heard him offering the toasts at a wedding, he had the guests bent double with laughter. He said that Robert could have stood for Parliament if he’d wanted to go in that direction. But he was interested in law or banking, I forget which.” Rutledge could almost hear the smile in Trevor’s voice. “Have I earned a consulting fee for my knowledge of Scottish social circles?”

“Without doubt! Thank you, I appreciate your help.”

“Will you be coming again, Ian? Before you leave Scotland?”

There was a quiet longing in the seemingly casual question.

“As soon as I can,” Rutledge promised, and said good-bye.

ANOTHER NIGHT ON the road saw Rutledge back in Duncarrick, tired and out of sorts. He stopped at the police station before he went to the hotel, and asked to speak to Fiona.

McKinstry was on duty, and he said diffidently, “You’ve been away, I think.”

“Yes, there was business outside of London to see to.”

McKinstry took him back and opened the door himself, smiling at Fiona. He said wistfully to Rutledge, “Shall I stay and take notes?”

“No, no, it isn’t necessary.” He waited until McKinstry was out of earshot down the hall before going into the small cell and closing the door behind him.

Fiona, with nothing to say, watched his face. Rutledge bade her a good morning, and then asked, “There was a Scottish officer who was well known to Eleanor Gray. Robert Burns, called Robbie by his friends. Did you ever meet him?”

She answered, “The only Burns I know is the fiscal. He isn’t young enough to have been in the war. He lives in Jedburgh.”

Rutledge said, “Yes. Well, it doesn’t matter.” He gestured for her to sit, and she looked first at the cot and then at the single chair, and chose the cot, perching herself stiffly on the edge of it. Rutledge took the chair and said conversationally, “Fiona, why do the people of Duncarrick dislike you?”

“Do they?”

“They must. They believed the scurrilous letters about you. They believe now that you’re capable of murder. Would you have picked out, say, the Tait woman at the hat shop as a murderer? Or the young woman who keeps house for the minister? Would you find it easy to believe people who claimed they were whores and worse?”

She flushed.

“But people believed these things about you. If I can discover why, I might know who is behind the lies. It will be a beginning.”

“I’ve told you before—I don’t know why. If I did, I wouldn’t be here, locked away from the sunlight and the wind on my face!”

“I accept that. Have you ever met the father of the boy you call Ian?”

The sudden shift in direction made her eyes widen. But her answer was swift and seemingly honest. “No.”

“You’re quite sure of that?”

“I have never set eyes on Ian’s father. Before God, it’s the truth.”

“Then,” he said with cold reason, “the trouble you are in today must come from the boy’s mother—”

“No! She’s dead. I have told you that.”

The interruption was so swift that she hadn’t allowed him to finish what he had planned to say—the boy’s mother’s family.

“She isn’t dead,” he said gently. “And that’s the problem, I think. She’s afraid of you. Afraid that you might tell her new husband about the child she bore out of wedlock. Afraid that you might grow weary of caring for the child, and decide one fine day to bring him to her doorstep. She is afraid of you, and she’s here in Duncarrick. Or close by. And it is she who has poisoned the town against you.”

Fiona was standing now. “Please leave.”

“Because I’m too close to the truth?”

“No,” she said, her eyes meeting his with firmness. “Because you are so very far from it that you frighten me. I thought—I thought once that you had believed me. I thought you might help me.”

“You refuse to help me.”

There were sudden tears rising in her eyes but not spilling through the thick lashes. “I have done nothing wrong except to love a child that is not mine. If you want my help, you will have to promise that nothing touches Ian. Nothing! I have kept silent for his sake. I have tried to protect him, not myself.”

“From what? What is there that could harm him?”

“The people who might take him if they knew he existed. Who would want to punish him for what his mother did. Who would make him suffer because of what she had done.”

“What had she done?”

“She loved someone. Terribly. Deeply. It was wrong, but she—There were reasons why she did. And there was a child of that love. A woman in her position couldn’t go home with an infant in her arms and say ‘Forgive me, I couldn’t help myself. Let me pick up the pieces of my life and go on as if nothing has happened!’ ”

“Why haven’t you told the police this? The fiscal?”

“They’d demand her name to prove that I was telling the truth! And I was given Ian to guard and love and protect. Not to betray!” The tears spilled, running like quicksilver down her cheeks. “I am lost,” she said, “whatever I do. And it is better to hang than it is to fail. At least I would die knowing—knowing I had kept my promise to the end.”

He fumbled for his handkerchief and handed it to her. “Surely she would come forward if she’s alive. And spare you. For the boy’s sake—”

“No, I tell you, she’s dead. It’s her family I fear, not her!” Choking back a sob, she repeated, “I am not afraid of the dead.”

While Hamish argued fiercely in his mind, Rutledge said quietly, “I can see that you might have taken the child and given promises. But what would you have told Hamish MacLeod if he’d come home from the war and found you with a child you claimed to be your own?”

She stared at him, wretched. “He would have loved us both. He would have trusted me and loved us both!”

And for once, to Rutledge’s shame, the truth rang clearly in the little cell.

HE WENT TO see the procurator-fiscal late in the afternoon. Jedburgh was busy. The heart of the town was crowded, the shops doing a bustling trade along with the pubs and the hotel, people spilling out into the street in the path of carts and wagons jammed with goods. There had been a cattle market in the morning, and farmers in for the day seemed to be making the most of it. To Rutledge’s eye, the population of Jedburgh had nearly doubled, and no one seemed to be in any haste to go home again. Finding a place to leave his vehicle took nearly twenty minutes, and even then he had to pay a grinning, gap-toothed man for the privilege.

The procurator-fiscal’s office, overlooking the center of the town, was dark-paneled and furnished with mahogany and leather. The books lining the shelves above the handsome old desk were a blend of law and science and literature.

Burns was tall, stooped, and thin. A handsome head of white hair was brushed back from his forehead, and gold pince-nez concealed sharp blue eyes. A man used to command and discipline.

“Inspector Rutledge. It’s good of you to come. May I offer you tea? A sherry?”

Rutledge, judging him rightly, accepted the sherry, and lifting the golden liquid in its slim glass, he saw that the pattern etched around the base of the cup was of thistles.

“Have you made any progress in the matter of Eleanor Gray?”

“I know more about her now. She was a wealthy young woman with a taste for rebellion and an intense desire to study medicine. She worked with the wounded during the war, providing entertainment for them where possible and taking an interest in their care. She was invited to a house party near Winchester early in 1916 and accepted. But the officer she was bringing with her discovered he had more leave than he’d expected. She came north with him instead, apparently intending to spend a few days at his house. Whether she got there or not no one seems to know. Where she may have gone after that week no one seems to know. But the information I have is reliable, and puts Miss Gray in Scotland in the spring before the child was born. If she had just learned that she was pregnant, she could have arranged to wait for the birth of the child here, where she wasn’t as well known.”

“Yes, yes, that makes sense to me. Who was the officer, do you know?”

There was nothing in the procurator’s face to show that he was in any way prepared for the shock that was to come. Interest and a natural curiosity were there. Nothing more.

“We have reason to believe that the officer she had been friends with for some time was a Scot,” Rutledge said carefully. “I’ve been told by a reliable witness that his name was Robert Burns.”

The procurator was startled enough to tip his glass of sherry. He swore under his breath as a golden river trickled onto the papers in front of him, and he took out his handkerchief to stanch the flow. The room smelled heavily of the richness of the wine, and Rutledge set his own glass down, untouched.

“That is, as you may know, my late son’s name.”

“Yes. But there are, I should think, many men called Robert Burns to choose from,” Rutledge replied.

“Where was this house you spoke of?”

“I’m told it was in the Trossachs.”

Burns dropped the wet handkerchief into the paperfilled wastebasket at the side of his desk.

“My son had a house in the Trossachs. Not far from Callander. But I have never heard that he was acquainted with Eleanor Gray. If I had, I should have said something to Inspector Oliver and the Chief Constable. Furthermore, my son was to be married. If—if he survived the fighting. He was not likely to be in the company of other women in London. Nor was he likely to bring them to his house!”

Rutledge said soothingly, “If she was a friend, and in need, he might. Whether he was the father of the child or not.”

It offered a way out. The fiscal seized it. “He would indeed have given what help he could. But I cannot believe he would allow her to use his house. It was his mother’s house before we were married. She had left it to him. Robert was close to his mother. He would not have dishonored her memory.” He looked distastefully at the remainder of the sherry in his glass, as if he blamed it for spilling. “Besides which,” he said, rather spoiling the lofty effect of his earlier words, “if there had been anyone living in the house, I would have heard. There is a neighbor who looks in on it from time to time, has a key and all that. I would most certainly have heard! Mrs. Raeburn is very particular.”

Hamish said, “Aye, if the neighbor is an auld biddy who would ha’ relished telling his father tales, I canna’ think Robert was sae foolish.”

“Indeed,” Rutledge said aloud, answering both of them. “Then he could have found another place for her to live until she was able to return to London. If it was your son. Did he have an interest in piping?”

“He studied the pipes as a child. But he didn’t continue. What has that to do with Eleanor Gray?”

“I recall someone telling me that this same officer was helpful in finding pipers to play for the wounded.”

“You needn’t play the pipes to like them. Or to know pipers.”

Rutledge said nothing.

After a moment, Procurator-Fiscal Burns said, “What, pray, has any of this to do with the young woman in Duncarrick? If the Gray woman came north in the spring, she might have gone anywhere in Scotland in the weeks following!”

“That’s true, of course. But it is a beginning, and I’m hopeful that we’ll eventually trace Miss Gray to Glencoe, if that’s where she died.” Rutledge paused, then said almost as an afterthought, “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know the name of the father of the child Fiona MacDonald has had in her keeping. It’s a pity, really. He’s a fine lad, and if he had been mine and I’d died, I’d have hoped my family would claim him in my place.”

Burns regarded him coldly and said nothing.

Rutledge rose and then asked, “Would you have any objections, sir, if I took the prisoner to the place where the bones in question were found?”

“There’s no provision in the law for that!”

“No, sir, I’m well aware that there isn’t. All the same, I need to find the truth about Eleanor Gray, and what the link is between the two women. In a prison cell, it’s very easy for the accused to remain silent and stubborn. Faced with her victim’s grave, she might well break down and confess. It would save a good deal of trouble if she did. I think the case as it stands would be difficult to prove in court.”

“Nonsense! It’s a very sound case indeed.”

“Is it? If I were her lawyer, and clever, I would make it very clear to the jury that while there is living proof of a child, there has been no proof of murder. And the jury might well agree with me.”

There was a startled look in the blue eyes, as if Burns had never considered anything but a guilty verdict.

Leaving, Rutledge was reminded that Drummond’s sister had insisted that the fiscal had been angry with Fiona for refusing to cooperate with Inspector Oliver.

Hamish said, “He didna’ want to hear his son was involved.”

“Yes, I know. Well, that may be true, he may not be involved. Or the fiscal may have been very good at concealing his own suspicions. Still, I don’t think the fiscal was protecting his son when he ordered Fiona held for trial. It would have been the wrong move—if I hadn’t come across Robert Burns’s name, someone else might have. No, there was more behind the decision.”

“Then turn it another way. What’s the use of a trial? No’ to discover the child’s name or parentage but to punish Fiona for killing the mother. To put the blame on someone for a woman’s death. So that when the body is found, it won’t point a finger at the true killer. The likes of the fiscal and the Chief Constable and their friends would protect their own!”

Making his way back to his motorcar, Rutledge shook his head. “No. It can’t be that. But the fiscal’s an intelligent man, and he should have said ‘If someone is claiming my son’s involved in this business, I want you to look into it.’ And then given me a list of people who knew the son well enough to tell me the truth. But he didn’t. And that’s what’s odd.”

As he bent to turn the crank, Rutledge added, “Don’t you see? McKinstry is absolutely right. The verdict on Fiona MacDonald is already in.”