Legacy of the Dead (25 page)

She stopped. “I had wondered if she had a lover. . . . No, I can’t believe it of her. She wouldn’t have been able to conceal her condition from Mrs. Kerr. And Mrs. Kerr would have told half of Brae. No. Possible, but not likely,” she ended firmly. “Give Fiona my love, will you? And tell her we are praying for her.”

“She will be grateful,” Rutledge said, and went down the walk to his car.

Hamish scolded, “You’ve broken your promise again!”

“No. I asked if Mrs. Cook could have had a child. I’ve put no one in danger!”

“It isna’ right to gie a promise and take it back when it suits!”

“It isn’t right for Fiona MacDonald to hang,” Rutledge retorted grimly.

“Aye, but she doesna’ deserve to put her faith in lies.”

RUTLEDGE REACHED GLENCOE
before Inspector MacDougal got there, and spent the time climbing back to the rocks on the heights.

How had a woman dragged the dead weight of a body up this slope?

How would
he
have done it?

People found extraordinary strength in times of grave danger. It would have taken enormous effort. And time. At night then, when darkness gave the killer a good nine hours in which to accomplish the task.

And if he’d laid the body on a blanket and pulled—

What if the frayed edges of an old blanket had been cut off and hidden under the bench in the Craigness garden? To make a sturdier corner—

Overhead Rutledge heard an eagle scream and, shading his eyes, looked up. He could just see it, circling for altitude, riding the warming air. In the far distance a car was moving in his direction. Rutledge turned and began to walk back down the mountainside.

The sound of pipes came from somewhere, a lonely shepherd passing the time. Too far for Rutledge to pick out the tune. A pibroch, he thought. Very fitting here, where the mountains gave it body and redoubled the drones. He paused to listen.

Something cracked—a shot—echoing and re-echoing against the rock faces on either side of the road.

Instinctively, Rutledge ducked, long years of war making it a swift reflex action. The stones just behind him spurted, then slid in a trickling spill toward his feet. He swore.

There was no cover here—absolutely none—he was a clear target, easy to pick off—

Where was the man with the rifle!

Crouching, he scanned the opposite slopes and saw no one.

It hadn’t been his imagination! He knew the sound of a rifle; it was clear and definitive—

Then, at the top of the ridge across from him, he caught a slight shift of light and shadow and again threw himself to one side.

But this time there was no shot. MacDougal’s car was just below, the motor’s noise rising to where Rutledge was crouching. Close enough now to hear a rifle—

Rutledge shaded his eyes, looking intently for movement.

But the sniper had vanished, ducking over the opposite ridge, invisible now.

It would be impossible to catch up with him— Furiously angry, Rutledge wheeled to look for the spent bullet. He combed the area where he was certain he had seen the small slide of rock chips. It must have struck a stone and ricocheted.

He searched carefully—but he never found it.

I
NSPECTOR MACDOUGAL, GETTING
out of his car as Rutledge reached the road again, said, “You’re a great man for the climbing!”

“Good exercise,” he answered, thinking of Mrs. Holden.

“Better you than me! What is it you’re looking for up there, that you need me to act as guide?”

“I’ve seen all I need to see on the mountain. Now I’d like to find that young girl, Betty Lawlor.”

“The one who discovered the brooch. Any particular reason you’d like to speak to her?” MacDougal looked at him speculatively.

Never infringe on another man’s turf. It was a cardinal rule Rutledge followed. “Yes. I’d like to hear how she came to have the price of a new pair of shoes.”

“As I remember, she said she’d earned them.”

“Yes, no doubt she had. I should have asked her how.”

“What does that have to do with finding the brooch?”

“It might have been the price of convincing her to turn it in. I find it hard to believe, thinking back on it, that a child as poor as that would come to you to ask if she could keep the brooch.”

“I wondered about it, of course. But the family is honest enough. The father’s a drunken sod, but the mother is proud as peacocks. And she’s taught her children to be honest as far as I can tell. Besides, how in hell’s name would anyone know that Betty Lawlor had found a brooch out here in the middle of nowhere? It’s far-fetched, Rutledge!” But he shrugged and pointed down the road. “The croft is just before the end of the glen. Shall we take both cars or leave one here?”

Rutledge had no wish to find water in his petrol again. Or a bullet through a tire. “We might as well take both.”

“Safe enough here,” MacDougal said. “But it’s your choice.”

He pulled out ahead of Rutledge to lead the way.

Hamish warned, “Watch your back!”

Rutledge said, “No. He won’t risk firing again. Not with MacDougal ahead of us. How did anyone know I was here? I told Oliver—”

Anyone could have overheard Oliver’s call to MacDougal. Anyone could have asked Oliver, “I saw Rutledge leaving town, where has he gone?”

“And who did Oliver tell?” Hamish said.

“Or I could have been followed to Brae and then here.”

“But if he knew and came ahead while you were in Brae, he would have the time to climb.”

“I know.” Rutledge let it go. There was nothing he could do now.

Sheep were being driven down the road, filling it with white, curly humps that bobbed ahead and then behind, crowding against the two motorcars. He could hear MacDougal shouting to the man to move them on, and the high whistles to the dogs. Moving to lower pastures before the autumn storms came.

Pulling out of them, MacDougal drove on, then turned off the road where an ancient stone croft squatted in the shelter of the hill.

It has only two rooms,
Rutledge thought,
and no water
that I can see.
Betty Lawlor was poor indeed.

Hamish said, “There’ll be a rill close by. Enough for their needs.”

A ragged child of about seven popped his head out the door and then went back inside, calling to someone, before coming to stand on the threshold. His eyes were wide as he took in the two motorcars parked in front of him.

MacDougal had gotten out and was crossing the hard-packed dirt of the yard when a man came to meet him. He was of middle height but heavy across the shoulders, and the filthy undershirt he wore was torn across the back. His trousers were held up with string, not braces. The bleary eyes and fleshy nose told the rest of the story.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Lawlor. I’ve come to have a word with Betty, if you please.”

“I thought you might be bringing her back.”

“Where’s she got to, then? Out with the sheep?”

“She’s gone.”

“Gone?”
MacDougal looked over his shoulder at Rutledge. “Gone where? Look, I want to talk to her. Tell me where she is, and I’ll be on my way.”

The ravaged face turned puce with anger. “Gone, I telt ye, and gone she is! That’s plain as plain! No skin off my backside if she’s alive or dead.”

A worn woman in a faded dress came to stand at the door behind him. MacDougal took his hat off to her, but she said nothing.

Rutledge said, “What did you do to her, Mr. Lawlor? That made her run away?” He had a feeling that he already knew.

He thought the man was on the verge of apoplexy, he was so angry.

The woman said, “She wouldna’ tell him where she got the money for the shoes. He thought he had a right to know. He thought she might have more of it. So he beat her until she couldn’t cry. And that night she left.”

“I’ve got every right to that money! I feed and clothe these brats. I keep a roof over their heads. What they have is mine.”

“Beat your children again, Lawlor, and I’ll haul you in for drunk and disorderly, and keep you in prison until you rot, do you hear me!” MacDougal’s voice was cold. “Do you hear me, man!”

“It willna’ do any good,” his wife said in a tired voice. “When he’s like this, he doesna’ remember a word.”

Lawlor swung a fist in her direction, but she moved away with the ease of long practice.

Rutledge thought of that same fist beating the thin child he’d seen on the mountainside. Whatever Betty had done, she was better off out of here.

“I want her back!” Lawlor was saying now, his voice plaintive. “There’s nobody to tend the sheep.”

“You should have thought of that before you beat her,” MacDougal answered roughly. “Mrs. Lawlor, did your daughter tell you where she earned the money for her shoes?”

She shook her head. “But she’s out wi’ the sheep noon and night. Who’s to say?”

“Whore, that’s what she was. Slut. Selling herself, I’ll be bound.”

“No, she hadn’t sold herself, Lawlor. She provided the police with some information they badly needed.” Rutledge added, “Mrs. Lawlor, do you know if your daughter has had a piece of jewelry in her possession for some months now? It was a brooch with a cairngorm center.”

She laughed. “And how’d she keep something like that where he didna’ find it? In her boudoir? I never saw her with anything more than the bit of dyed yarn she’d twisted into a bracelet for her sister and herself. If you think my Betty had anything like a cairngorm brooch, you’re mad.”

MacDougal and Rutledge exchanged glances. Rutledge said to her, “My mistake. I must have misunderstood.”

MacDougal walked with Rutledge back to his car. The small boy had come outside now and was fingering the bonnet, then running his hand over the smooth leather of the seat. MacDougal was saying, “She had the brooch. Whether her mother saw it or not. It doesn’t make a difference to your case.”

“The brooch was seen in Glasgow several weeks ago. In the shop of an engraver. Can you believe that Betty Lawlor was the one who took it there?”

“Great God, no one told
me
that! When did Oliver find out?”

“He doesn’t know. I’d rather tell him myself. I just learned the news from my sergeant in London.” He smiled at the boy and lifted him into the driver’s seat, where the child instantly made motor noises and gripped the wheel like a racer. “But it means that most of Betty’s story is a lie. She didn’t have that brooch for a year or more—nor did she find it on the hillside. My belief is that the person who gave it to her and taught her a story meant to be told to the police also gave her the money to buy shoes. And there was enough extra to help her escape her father and this place. She would have bargained hard. She carried out her part very well indeed. It will be Oliver’s headache to track her down to testify at the trial. I’ve no doubt he’d do it.”

“I don’t believe it. You’re pulling at straws!”

The horn blew. Rutledge and MacDougal winced.

MacDougal went on. “It’s no more than speculation. You can’t be sure it’s the same brooch! No, until there’s proof to the contrary, I put my faith in young Betty.”

“I think there’s enough proof already to put some doubt into a jury’s mind.” Rutledge waited, then said, “Will you search for her?”

MacDougal gestured to the croft and the parents still standing in the doorway. “And bring her back to this?” He took a deep breath. “I suppose I shall have to. But it won’t be easy. Still, there aren’t many ways she could have gone from here. Even with her new walking shoes. Inveraray, most likely, where she could beg a lift in a wagon.” He turned away, settling his hat back on his head. “I’ll let Oliver know when she turns up.”

“Thanks.” Rutledge said to the boy, “Will you sit there while I turn the crank?”

The child nodded vigorously. Rutledge started the engine and then let him stay for a moment longer to feel the power of the car under him. MacDougal had already turned around in the yard and was heading back the way they’d come. Rutledge lifted the child down.

With a glowing face he said, “I’ll have mysel’ one of them!”

“I’m sure you will,” Rutledge answered.

And then, as if in payment for the special treat, the boy leaned toward him, standing on tiptoe. “There
was
a man with Betty—I saw him. Even though she claimed it was only the sun playing tricks.”

“What did he look like?” Rutledge asked quickly, suddenly intent.

The boy backed away, already regretting his confidence. “Fair,” he mumbled, and then ran back to the croft door, slipping between his mother’s skirts and his father’s legs. Disappearing into the house.

Rutledge nodded to the Lawlors, then turned the car around. He had lost his escort back through the glen. But it had been worth it.

25

WARY OF BEING FOLLOWED, RUTLEDGE DIDN’T STAY THE
night in Lanark as he’d intended. The last thing he wanted to do was lead someone to the small clinic and Dr. Wilson. Instead he drove some distance beyond the town, then decided to continue to Duncarrick through the night. With scones, pork pies, and tea he bought at a pub, and Hamish to keep him awake, he let the smooth sound of the engine form a backdrop to his thoughts. His headlamps picked out road signs and the dark fronts of towns and farms as he mentally went back through all his notes, looking at every word with a fresh eye.

Well, reasonably fresh, he told himself as he finished the last of the scones. He stopped several times to stretch his legs or clear his head, the night air cool on his face and the moonlight turning the landscape into stark shapes of deep shadows and brighter patches. It was a far cry from France, he thought, where the long line of the battlefield had no natural definition, the trees blasted into black fingers of ruined trunks and the gentle roll of the fields destroyed in the shelling, with man-made twists of wire and humps of shell-tortured earth the only landmarks. A bizarre black-and-gray world where only the scavengers lived.

Except for a lorry or two, a skittering of hares racing across his headlamps, and once a wagon filled with crates of chickens on their way to market, there was less and less traffic on the road as the hours passed.

Hamish said, “Any decent man is at home in his bed!”

But Rutledge was at peace with the night. It was, he thought, a sanctuary of sorts, where there was no one else to overhear the voice in his head or the long conversations that sometimes tricked him into answering aloud.

Nor did he fear that the sniper might try again. In the night even a marksman would find it impossible to shoot at a moving target, a tire or a radiator, to send Rutledge careering into a ditch. But it helped to keep him awake, thinking about that as well.

“It’s a foolish man—or a desperate one—shooting at a policeman.”

“It was a warning,” Rutledge answered. “I’ve come too close to something. Or to someone. I’ve breached the outer defenses of a wall of silence.”

Hamish said, “It wasna’ a woman, to climb that far with a rifle.”

“There’s no way to be sure of that. But I rather think you’re right. I would give much to know when the first cracks appeared in that wall.” Rutledge smiled to himself. “I’d take great pleasure in widening them!”

WHEN HE REACHED
Duncarrick, he bathed and shaved, went to bed, and slept two hours. Then he went in search of Constable McKinstry.

Rutledge ran him to earth making his rounds, coming back from the east end of town with a clutch of small boys in his wake. Their faces were long, downcast. Truants by the look of them. McKinstry dropped them off at the school, where a stern school-master had been watching for him. The boys went in through the door with the air of the condemned, dragging their feet.

“Future criminals,” McKinstry said, catching sight of Rutledge standing in a shop doorway. “But they’re not bad, really, they just have no taste for learning. I probably didn’t either at that age. And they’re fatherless. It doesn’t help.”

“It’s an excuse they’ll hear until they believe it.”

“Still, we make allowances.” The constable grinned ruefully. “The headmaster, now,
he
won’t.” As the grin faded, he added, “I thought you’d finished with us.”

“Not finished, no.” They turned to walk along together. “Do you remember, when you came to ask Morag if you could speak to me, what you told me about solving crimes in Duncarrick? You said you knew the people, and that that was often the key to finding who had stolen a horse and why—who had killed a lamb and why.”

“Yes. It’s true—”

“But in Fiona’s case, you were at a loss. You couldn’t draw on your knowledge of this town to find out who was persecuting her.”

“That’s right. I don’t have the experience to put with the knowledge.”

They crossed the square and dodged a milk dray lumbering past. Rutledge said, “I’m working at a disadvantage also. Eleanor Gray is pulling me in one direction, and Fiona MacDonald is pulling me in another. I can’t find the link between them. In life, I mean. How they met, why they met, when and where they met.” He took a deep breath. “If Fiona didn’t murder Eleanor Gray, then whose bones do we have on a mountainside in Glencoe? And if those bones belong to Eleanor Gray, then how did she come to die there in a wilderness four or five months after she arrived in Scotland?”

“The brooch—”

“Yes.” Rutledge stopped outside the hotel. “The brooch. It’s damning. But it doesn’t put a name to the bones, does it? Only to the killer.”

McKinstry rubbed his eyes. “I lay awake at night and try to find an answer. Inspector Oliver says she admitted that the thing belonged to her mother. He came to me later and asked if I’d seen Fiona wearing it after she moved here to Duncarrick.
And I can’t remember!
”

“Why not?” It was curt, accusing.

“Because I want so badly to remember that I can’t be sure it’s true. She wore a green dress, I remember that very well. But I can’t be sure if she had a scarf at her throat, or that damned brooch! And sometimes she wore her aunt’s pin. It wasn’t something a man would think was important, and I’m not much with women’s clothing anyway. The green dress was wonderful with her eyes. The rose one brought out the darkness of her hair. And in the summer there was a very soft cream-color affair with a wide collar and sprigs of some flower in a print. Lavender, like lilacs or heliotrope. I can’t tell you how they were cut or what she wore with them. Or whether she had on that one brooch—” There was anguish in his face.

“Then what did you tell Oliver?”

“I told him the truth—I couldn’t remember!”

“You might have lied, for her sake.”

“Yes,” McKinstry said with heavy sorrow. “I thought of that too. But I’m trained to duty.” He started to walk away, then turned around again. “Would
you
lie to save her?” Whatever he saw in Rutledge’s face, he continued, “If I have to, I’ll change my testimony in the courtroom. I’d hoped—I thought you might have looked into it. But you went away and did nothing. Damning as it was, you did nothing!”

“Oliver made it plain it was none of my business.” Rutledge smiled wryly. “And I’ve been occupied with Eleanor Gray. I told you.”

“Yes, well, if the Gray woman is dead, she’s well out of it. If she’s alive, I wish to God she’d show her face before it’s too late.”

This time he turned away and kept walking.

Rutledge looked after him. Hamish taunted, “You didna’ confront him with what you’ve learned about yon brooch!”

Passing through the lobby, Rutledge responded silently, “No. It was more useful to see if he’d bring up the brooch— and in what context. Persuasive, was he, do you think?”

“He left it sitting at your door. I wouldna’ call that a verra’ brave defense of the accused!”

“Well, then, if he didn’t put the brooch in the hands of Betty Lawlor, he must have come close to losing his own belief in Fiona’s innocence when he heard the story Betty had to tell! He didn’t have much to say on the drive back from the glen, and he didn’t have much to say just now.”

“If he’s behind yon business of the brooch, then it was clever of him to make the Yard an ally—as you pointed out the holes in the charges, he set about filling them in!”

Climbing the stairs, Rutledge answered: “Then he shouldn’t have given his own name to that Glasgow jeweler! Was it McKinstry who drove Eleanor Gray north?”

“He was in France in 1916.”

Rutledge stopped at the head of the stairs. “No. He told Morag that he had met me there. Until now I’ve had no reason to doubt what he’d said. It will have to be checked.”

“He had a verra’ good reason to fire at you in the glen. To prevent you from talking to Betty Lawlor.”

“That’s possible, yes.” He opened the door to his room and threw his hat on the chair beside the bed. Crossing to the window, he looked out at the clouds moving in from the west. “I don’t know. I’m a better judge of character, I think, than to be taken in by McKinstry—” He shook his head. “I haven’t finished it. It may never be finished.”

“Your meddling is no’ making someone happy.”

Rutledge turned from the window and took a deep breath. “If it isn’t Fiona who matters, and it isn’t the inn, where’s the pawn in all of this?”

“The boy.”

“Yes,” Rutledge said slowly. “The legacy of the dead. Why is that so very important?”

But Hamish had no answer to give him.

RUTLEDGE ATE A
hurried lunch and then went to the police station, requesting to see Fiona MacDonald.

Pringle, on duty, protested, “I don’t know that I can give you the key, sir! Inspector Oliver says you’ve finished with this part of the investigation.”

“I thought I was,” Rutledge said easily. “I have here a list of names, men who might have known Eleanor Gray. We haven’t asked Miss MacDonald if any of them mean anything to her. If Oliver complains, send him to me.”

Pringle reached behind the desk for the key and handed it over.

Rutledge found Fiona standing, as if she’d been restlessly pacing her cell. Little enough exercise for a woman accustomed to having her days filled with activity at The Reivers. Prisoners often complained about that—the sheer, wasting boredom of waiting for trial.

He shut the door behind him and began by saying, “I saw the child the other day. He had been feeding the cat with Drummond.”

“Did he look well? Happy?” she asked anxiously. “I wonder often if he’s sleeping properly. Or if he has nightmares—”

“He seemed happy enough.” He took out his list of names and slowly read them to her, watching her face. But Fiona shook her head.

“I can’t identify any of them. I’m sorry.”

Closing his notebook, he said, “Fiona. If you didn’t kill the mother of that child—if you’re being persecuted for no reason that either of us can put a finger on—then I’m forced to ask myself what there is about that child that threatens someone’s peace enough to get at him through harming you.”

“How could such a small boy threaten anyone!” she parried, surprised.

“I don’t know. But the deeper I go into this mystery of yours, the more certain I am that he’s the key.”

“He’s only a little boy who thought he belonged to me. He doesn’t know or care who his real mother was—who his father might have been. And there’s no fortune unless he’s allowed to inherit The Reivers when I’m—dead.”

“But someone does care. For a time I considered the possibility that it had to do with the Gray fortune. Or protecting a family’s reputation. Now I’m less convinced. In my judgment, the child’s important because no one is sure exactly who he is, and either someone wants that proof—or wants to bury it with you. I’m beginning to think that the hope was, if the police investigated thoroughly enough, they’d find the answer to the question of his mother’s identity. And save someone else the trouble of doing so. Or else the court will hang you and save that someone else the trouble of getting rid of you before you speak out.”

Something in her eyes told him that he was close to the truth—but not really there. That he still hadn’t put his finger on the crux of Fiona’s secret.

As if talking to himself, he murmured, “A child who came to light at the wrong time could cheat someone out of an inheritance. Or embarrass a family on the point of contracting an important marriage. Or bring to light a liaison that has been hidden until now.” He added after a moment, “Or it might be that someone wants him rather badly but doesn’t want to step forward and admit that the boy is hers—or his. If Ian is in an orphanage, he can be adopted properly, without revealing any connection with you or him.”

Fiona said carefully, “If I told you the name of Ian’s father, you’d find nothing in the knowledge to explain what’s happening. He was an ordinary man. A very kind and a very good man. But a very ordinary man.”

“If he’s dead, then we’re left with the mother.”

“Why should his mother—who most certainly knew who that child is—fear him in any way?”

“Then why is she protecting him? At the cost of your life?”

“She’s dead. She can’t protect anyone, not even herself.”

Rutledge said, “Let’s examine another possibility. That the child is precisely what you say he is—an ordinary child with an ordinary father, threatening no one. That his mother is dead. What if—mind you, this is pure speculation, but hear me out—what if someone
thinks
the boy matters? And removing you from his guardianship is necessary to prevent him from ever being identified. What if someone has been searching for some time for a missing child about Ian’s age? And that someone believes, without a shadow of doubt, that he’s been found here in Duncarrick.”

“You have a wonderful imagination,” she said, smiling in spite of herself. “Or have you convinced yourself that the mother of Eleanor Gray is trying to prevent Ian from ruining her family’s reputation?”

“Imagination has often been the best and quickest way through a thicket of lies.” He made a swift decision and shifted direction. “Whose wedding ring do you wear on a chain around your neck?”