Legacy of the Dead (14 page)

“There is evidence pointing in that direction, yes. It isn’t necessarily proven. That’s why I’m here. Did she have any friends in Brae? Young women she might have grown to know well?”

“No. She was grieving most of the time, you see, and she went out very little. Her brothers died one after the other, and then, in 1916, her young man. There was another woman here who used to walk with her when the weather was fine. But I wouldn’t have described Mrs. Cook as a friend. They were more—I don’t know—fellow sufferers. The newspapers pretended the war was going well, but too many people were dying. It’s a terrible weight when you worry day and night about someone. And when the news came, and Fiona knew the worst, it was hard for her to speak of it. She didn’t tell me for weeks. I think most of us pressed her to cry but she wouldn’t. Mrs. Cook didn’t press. She seemed to understand what it was like.”

“Tell me about Mrs. Cook, if you will.”

“She was ill—her lungs. As I understood it, her doctor had hoped that better air would help. The smoke of Glasgow most certainly had not. At any rate, early in 1916 she took rooms in that white house you must have passed coming into Brae. On your left. Mrs. Kerr’s sons were off to France, and her husband was away building ships. She didn’t want to live alone and advertised for lodgers. It seemed to suit both of them—Mrs. Cook was quiet and no trouble. Mrs. Kerr preferred it that way.”

“Do you know anything about Mrs. Cook’s background, where she’d come from?”

“Before Glasgow? I have no idea. Her husband was at sea, and Fiona’s young man was in France. They seemed to have very little in common other than that. I thought perhaps Mrs. Cook had come from a wealthy home and had been given advantages that Fiona hadn’t. Which is not to say that Fiona was common. She was a most unusual girl, and I found her a very pleasant companion. Her grandfather had reared her extraordinarily well!”

“How long was Mrs. Cook here?”

“Seven months, I’d say. Then her husband was invalided home, and she went to London to be with him.”

“Fiona had been living here for some time before Mrs. Cook came?”

“Of course. Over a year. And if you’re asking me if they might have known each other before moving to Brae, I seriously doubt it. Fiona left only after she’d had word that her aunt was taken ill and couldn’t manage the inn on her own any longer. She cried when she left, and my children cried with her. I was not above crying myself! That’s why I didn’t ask her to work out her time.”

Not to work out her time
—but Fiona had told her aunt that she must!

“How long after Mrs. Cook’s departure was that?”

“Three or four months, I’d say.”

Hamish pointed out that if Mrs. Cook had been expecting a child when she came to Brae, then she had had it alone and without Fiona’s help. Seven months and four months added up to eleven.

Nevertheless, Rutledge made a note of it. He said, “Did Mrs. Cook leave a forwarding address, do you know?”

“If she did, Fiona never said anything about it. Mary Kerr found a pair of gloves in the bedroom after her lodger had gone—they’d fallen under the bed. Mary wanted to send them along to her but didn’t have her direction.”

“Forgive me, but why do you think a woman of Mrs. Cook’s apparent position should wish to spend over half a year in Brae?”

Mrs. Davison smoothed the white tatted cover on the arm of her chair. “I wondered about that myself. Brae left her to herself. And I think that’s what she needed most. I wondered, once or twice, if she might be a married woman who’d had an affair and the man died. Time to heal, you see. Away from everyone who didn’t know and couldn’t understand.” She shrugged. “Perhaps that’s an overly romantic view of her. There could be any number of other reasons. Fiona gave no sign of missing her other than the occasional remark that anyone might make. When the cat had kittens, she said something like ‘Mrs. Cook told me once that she’d never had a cat or a dog of her own. It’s too bad she couldn’t have one of these.’ ”

Hamish said, “I canna’ see a child romping with a dog in Lady Maude’s house.” It was true. . . .

Rutledge said, “Do you recall her first name? Her husband’s name?”

“I don’t think I ever heard her speak of him by name. It was usually ‘my husband.’ But her name was Maude. I thought it was rather pretty.”

A coincidence . . . it was a common English name.

“Did you say anything to Inspector Oliver about Mrs. Cook?”

“I saw no reason to. I told you, it wasn’t actually a friendship, it was simple loneliness. I don’t suppose they’d have spoken a dozen words to each other ordinarily! But the young women here in Brae had gone away to do war work, and the ones with children, like me, spent a rather dreary war. Fiona and Mrs. Cook, the outsiders, naturally were drawn together.”

“I’ve been trying to locate an Eleanor Gray in the hope that she might throw some light on Miss MacDonald’s situation. Has she visited Brae?”

Mrs. Davison shook her head. “We aren’t a crossroads here, though it may seem as if we are. There was never an Eleanor Gray here. I’d have known if there was.”

WITH MRS. DAVISON’S
permission, Rutledge sat at the rough kitchen table with the three children Fiona had cared for: a girl and two boys. The girl was shy, but the boys were eager to talk.

The picture they drew was of a young woman who could sit on the floor and play games with them, who read to them in the evening if they went to bed without fuss, and who knew the most fearsome tales of Highland feuds and battles.

“She spent a night once in a haunted house, and there was a man there who carried his head in his
hands
. Fiona saw him, plain as day!” the eldest boy told Rutledge with great relish. “He was a Campbell, killed by a MacLaren, and seeking revenge.” He launched into the details of the feud, but his mother, smiling, said, “Yes, that’s all very well, but I don’t think Mr. Rutledge has time for the whole story.”

He spent a quarter of an hour with the children and Mrs. Davison but came away with nothing more. He needed no further reminder from Hamish to pass on Fiona’s message to the children. The shy little girl smiled and said “Fiona” in a soft voice. “Is she coming back?”

Her mother looked over her head at Rutledge and replied, “Not for a while, dear.”

MRS. KERR, OVER
sixty and showing her years, told him what she knew of Mrs. Cook, but there was nothing new in what she had to say.

As he got up to leave, Rutledge asked, “Did Mrs. Cook and Miss MacDonald seem to be close?”

“Not close, no. They’d walk in the evenings sometimes. That was all.”

“Where did they walk most often, do you know?”

“Mrs. Cook wasn’t country bred, so they didn’t go far. About the town, mostly, or in the churchyard. It’s protected from the wind, I suppose that’s why. I had the feeling that they both felt comfortable among the graves. Odd thing to say, I know, but there you are. As if they drew strength or peace or the like from the quiet there . . . Fiona, now, I knew she’d lost the man she was to marry—she told me once that he was buried in France. Mrs. Cook’s husband was at sea. But she never spoke much about herself. At first I put it down to being too good for the likes of us in Brae, then I saw that she was not one to talk. Some folks aren’t, are they? It’s what makes the world go ’round, differences.”

RUTLEDGE CROSSED THE
street from Mrs. Kerr’s and walked as far as the small, ugly church. The early Victorian brick and stone mixture had not been successful, but it stood apart, among great old trees planted generations before for an older church. There were paths among the graves, white graveled ribbons through the green, hum-mocked grass. A number of bare plots spoke of recent burials, and he shivered, remembering his own dream.

He went through the gate and spent some time moving through the wilderness of stone, reading the inscription on first this one and then another.

Not far from the rear wall one headstone caught his eye. It was old, the dates smudged and barely discernible, but the name carved deeply into the gray face was quite legible.

Hamish MacLeod
.

Not the man he’d killed—the dates were much older, a century or more older. But Rutledge found himself wondering as he stood there and looked down at it, if Fiona MacDonald had also known about it and in some way had taken comfort from it. A gravestone for a man who had none.

A place to sit on the weedy grass while she remembered a past that had no future. It must have offered consolation as well as privacy to mourn.

He had the oddest feeling that he was right.

But what name had Mrs. Cook found here if her husband was still alive? What memories had comforted her?

He walked through the stones again, searching. There were Campbells and Lindsays, MacBrays and MacDougals, a long list of Highland and Lowland names that had no special meaning to him. He found a Trevor, and thought of Ross, then moved on. Little and Elliot, Davison and Robson, Pringle and Taylor, Henderson and one Gray. Evelyn Gray. He had died as an infant.

It was Eleanor Gray’s father’s name—the man she had called father all her life.

Had she been closer to him than to her mother in spite of the fact that he wasn’t her natural father?

Girls were often attached to their fathers, and if Evelyn Gray had accepted her publicly as his daughter, he would have brought her up to the best of his ability. Even if he had not loved her for her own sake, he would have treated her well for King Edward’s sake. The men had been close friends.

And he might have been the only warmth in Eleanor’s life. Rutledge could not envision Lady Maude holding a squirming child in her lap to read it a story, as Fiona had done with her charges in the Davison household.

But then, he might be doing Lady Maude an injustice. He had met her after the quarrel with Eleanor. Her daughter’s refusal to acknowledge her duty to her blood and heritage had hurt deeply. There might have been a very different relationship between mother and child before that.

Otherwise, why had Lady Maude insisted that he, Rutledge, take charge of this question of identifying the bones?

“She might,” Hamish said, “be wanting to protect her family’s honor—”

14

RUTLEDGE DROVE TOWARD GLASGOW WITH HIS MIND
busy. Hamish was making comments on the evidence as well, but he tried to ignore them.

Such small things—the name on a grave—the Christian name of a woman—the fact that Fiona had told her aunt she was working out her time at Brae . . .

Where had she gone for that brief, unaccounted-for span of weeks?

And did it have anything to do with Maude Cook?

He spent Sunday in Glasgow, asking the police there for any information they might have had on anyone by the name of Cook, but the half-dozen families he was sent to see were unable to help him. They shook their heads when he asked them about a Maude Cook. As one middle-aged man put it, “It’s a pretty enough name, Maude, but not one of ours.” Nor had relations to their knowledge spent part of the war years in the village of Brae. “It’s not likely, is it?” a woman asked him. “So close by? Besides, I’d have sent any daughter or daughter-in-law of mine to our kin, not to live on the charity of strangers!”

But as Hamish pointed out, if Maude Cook’s connection with Glasgow was through her own family, Rutledge didn’t have her maiden name and would never find her in the welter of people in the city. It would require a door-to-door search. An enormous amount of manpower.

Driving back to Duncarrick on Monday morning, he reached the outskirts of Lanark and stopped the car, rubbing his face. Lanark—

He considered Lanark for a time. That it was close to Brae. That it was large enough that a woman using a false name might not be noticed and gossiped about. Especially if she was already certain there were no acquaintances living there who might see her in the street and recognize her. And it would offer adequate medical care to a woman on her own. . . .

Rutledge continued into the heart of the town, finding the local police station and then searching for a place to leave his motorcar. It was a busy morning; the town seemed to be full of people and lorries, carts and wagons. Men were setting up a pavilion near the church for a fete or exhibition. Others were carrying potted palms from the hotel, walking trees that wove their way along the pavement like Great Birnam wood come to Dunsinane and about to attack the waiting Macbeth.

When Rutledge made his way back through the crowds some fifteen minutes later, he had the information he needed.

The lying-in hospital was in a back street, a small but well-kept building that had potted geraniums in front of its door and a woman in a dark dress at the desk in the small reception hall.

Rutledge asked for the doctor in charge and was soon ushered into a chilly office at the back, where a tired elderly man turned from the window to greet him. On the desk were stacks of folders waiting to be sorted.

“I’m Dr. Wilson. I was up until five this morning with a difficult delivery. If you’ll make your call a brief one so that I can sleep, I’ll help in any way I can.”

“What kind of cases do you take here?”

Surprised, the doctor said, “Difficult ones that can’t be safely delivered at home. The well-to-do, who want more comfort than an upstairs bedchamber. And the rest are female complaints where surgery or other remedies are required. I deal with a goodly number of women who are ill. Tumors or excessive bleeding. Miscarriages. Stillbirths. I find that a number of husbands don’t heed me when I tell them a wife should bear no more children. I save the woman if I can. I also deal with botched abortions, where infection is rampant and the woman has waited too long to seek medical help. I don’t see how any of this is of use to the police!”

“You don’t handle lung complaints—”

“Not if they don’t bear on a pregnancy or other reproductive problem.” He was impatient now.

“Can you give me the names of women who came here in 1916? I can’t tell you with any certainty what the date was. But the woman I’m seeking was delivered of a healthy son.”

“No, I can’t.” It was short and curt.

“Then can you tell me if a Mrs. Cook was your patient in that time period? Mrs. Maude Cook. We are investigating a murder that might have a connection with her.”

“My patients don’t commit murder!” the doctor said indignantly.

Rutledge had heard many people express the same certainty. It was a common reaction, a natural one.
No one
I know could do such a thing!
But murderers came in all shapes and sizes, all denominations and races, all social strata. And more often than not, they had friends who were appalled. . . .

“I’m sure they don’t, Doctor. In this case, we’re speaking of a victim. And of a three-year-old child who may have been orphaned. We need to contact the parents of the woman, or her husband.”

“A victim.” Wilson regarded him differently. “I don’t recall anyone by the name of Maude Cook. But let me check my files.”

He went to an oak cabinet against the side wall and pulled out a drawer. It was stuffed with folders and papers. He thumbed through some dozen of them, and did it again, then finally shook his head.

“I don’t find a Maude Cook at all. Are you quite sure you have the right name? There’s a Mary Cook here. And she gave birth to a male child.”

“In 1916? What was the date?”

Wilson gave it to him. It was a month too early. Still—

“Can you tell me where she lives? Or give me the direction of any family?”

Wilson turned back to the files. “She gave London as her home. There’s no other information. The father was dead. In the war. She cried when I told her she had a son. She said he would have been proud. A good many women tell me that. I have tried to grow accustomed to it, and failed. Children need fathers. Too damned many of them in these last years had none to go home to.” He rubbed his eyes. “Is that all you want of me?”

“Did Mrs. Cook have lung disease of any kind?”

“No. She was young and healthy. There was a complication, however. It was a difficult birth. Long and tiring, and there was a good deal of trouble. Breech birth, you see. Touch and go, but I saved her and the baby. Infection set in. She was quite lucky she was here—she’d have died otherwise. The fact remains, she’ll not be able to conceive again. Well, she has her child and I doubt she’ll marry again. So many men died. . . .”

It was cold comfort, but all the doctor had.

“Why did she come to Scotland to have this child if she lived in London?”

“She was traveling. Foolishness on her part at that late stage, but she was on her way to London when the bag of waters broke.”

But Wilson had no idea what had brought Mary Cook north from London or how long she might have lived in Lanark before consulting him. “I don’t have time to question my patients about their private lives. Still, there’re any number of Cooks in the neighborhood of Loch Lomond. She might well have been visiting one of them.”

IF MAUDE COOK
was the mother of Fiona’s child, she had had the boy in a clinic, not on some windswept mountainside. And left there well enough to travel.

Was she in fact Eleanor Gray? And had she given Fiona a child she did not want to keep? In exchange for a sworn promise never to reveal the boy’s parentage?

It was possible—but not very likely. As for Mary—

Where had they met? Why had the mother so readily given up her son to a comparative stranger?

There was absolutely no certainty that Maude Cook and Mary Cook were the same person—Cook was a common name, as the doctor had pointed out.

Rutledge drove back to Duncarrick feeling the long hours at the wheel of the motorcar and in no mood to confess he’d found only the most tenuous threads to account for the number of miles covered. Or endure the constant hammering of Hamish’s questions.

The woman at the desk of The Ballantyne smiled at him as he came into the lobby and then turned to a drawer, where apparently she kept messages for hotel guests.

There was one for him, but not from Old Bowels, as he’d expected.

It was a politely couched request for him to telephone Lady Maude.

She wanted a report of his progress.

And so far he had nothing to tell her.

HER VOICE CAME
clearly down the line—imperious and cold. “I expected you to keep me apprised of your investigation,” Lady Maude said accusingly. “You have disappointed me.”

“I had only mundane details to report until today. Tell me, do you know a Mrs. Cook, Maude Cook?”

“And who is she?” Lady Maude parried.

“I can’t be sure,” he admitted. “I’m exploring every possibility, and her name has come up in the course of inquiries.”

“I have no interest in a Maude Cook!”

“Did your daughter have friends in Glasgow whom she might have visited for a period of time? People who would let her stay for several months?”

“Certainly not. I can’t think of any reason why my daughter might wish to go to Scotland at all. It’s very unlike her. But I’ve told you that before.”

He said, “Did your daughter know a Fiona MacDonald?”

“I think not. It isn’t a name I’m familiar with.” She paused, then made—for her—a difficult concession. “The war unsettled accepted social behavior. In London Eleanor must have met any number of people outside our own circle of friends. I can’t be expected to know all of them.” It was the closest she had come to admitting that for three years she had no knowledge at all of the people who might have been important in her daughter’s life. And then, behind the coldness, there appeared a brief glimmer of warmth. “Inspector. I am waiting for news of my daughter. Something that will prove that it’s impossible for her to be connected in any way with this sordid business of murder!”

“The police here are still convinced that the—er—remains that have been found must be your daughter’s. I’m not as sure, for a number of reasons. But it isn’t something I can prove in a matter of days. The woman accused of the murder has been less than helpful. We are having to trace her movements over a period of three years. Until that’s completed, I can’t promise you any news.”

She considered that in silence.

Then she said, “I shall expect regular reports.” It was as far as she could go, admitting that she was worried.

“I understand.”

He put down the phone and considered going into the saloon bar for a drink. But he thought better of it and climbed the stairs wearily to his room.

Hamish was a dull murmur in his ear as he fell deeply and dreamlessly asleep.

OLIVER’S FIRST QUESTION was “Did you learn anything?”

Rutledge hesitated and then decided on discretion. Oliver was protective of his own investigation, and any evidence that might conflict with his carefully constructed case would immediately be suspect. “Enough to convince me that if the accused met Eleanor Gray in Brae, there is no evidence to prove it.”

It was a cool morning, the kind of day that reminded people in the north that winter would be long and dark and dreary. Rutledge hadn’t finished his breakfast when Oliver strode in and joined him, going directly to the point.

He said now, “Well, I did tell you that we’d been thorough.” He studied Rutledge for a moment, rubbing the menu he’d been given against his freshly shaven chin. “If the movements of the accused are accounted for, then we’re left with the time it took her to travel from Brae to Duncarrick. And the road she took. It must have been there that the two women met. A matter of days, surely!’’

Rutledge weighed the fact that Fiona had not worked out her time in Brae, though she’d told her aunt she must do so.

Where had she gone for those few weeks? Back to the glen where she’d been born? Or down to Lanark to meet someone?

No, it couldn’t have been planned ahead. She hadn’t known she would be summoned to Duncarrick by her aunt.

But what if—what if she’d been aware for some time that she was to meet someone on or about a certain date— and the summons from her aunt had given her the perfect opportunity to leave Brae at the right moment, without excuses or explanations? She had loved the Davison children, she had cried when she left them—but leave them she did.

No lies told to Mrs. Davison. No lies told to her aunt. Just the simple fact that suddenly Fiona MacDonald had been given a gift of time.

And therein lay the mystery of Eleanor Gray and the child.

If she wouldn’t tell him what she knew, there might be another way of examining her past. . . .

Rutledge said to Oliver, “I’d like to search the inn if I may. Can you arrange it?”

“What on earth for?” Oliver demanded.

“I don’t know. Yet. But it’s worth looking to see whether—for the boy’s protection if not her own—she left something there that might help us. A connection to the child’s background that might have been overlooked because at the time no one understood what it represented.”

Oliver shook his head. “I’ve been through the inn. Upstairs and down, the public and the family quarters. There’s nothing.”

But Rutledge knew more about Fiona MacDonald than Oliver did—and what he wanted to find, if they still existed, were any letters that Fiona had written to her aunt before she came to Duncarrick.

HE WAS GIVEN
the key and Constable McKinstry as an observer, and allowed to inspect the inn.

McKinstry moved with nervous apprehension, a man torn between two duties. He showed Rutledge the way the inn was laid out, and then hovered at his shoulder like a second Hamish, both of them carrying on a desultory conversation with him as he moved from room to room of the private wing. By the time they’d finished with the small parlor, then walked into the dining room behind it, and the kitchen beyond that, Rutledge said, “The boy’s room. Have you searched it thoroughly? If I were hiding anything, I’d put it in among his toys, or perhaps at the bottom of a drawer filled with outgrown clothes—”