by Charles Todd
Twenty minutes later, Rutledge was back at the police station. Oliver wasn’t there, but Pringle was. Rutledge explained what he wanted and was allowed to go alone to the cell.
When he was sure that the door was firmly closed behind him, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the sandalwood box.
Fiona took it with trembling fingers, then smiled at him over the lid as she lifted it. “It’s so good to touch my own things again. Even if it’s for just a little while. I hate wearing these dresses, dreary and plain as this room! They are enough to make the angels despair.”
She went to the narrow bed and poured out the contents, just as Drummond had done, then gently sorted through them.
And saw that her mother’s brooch was not there.
She turned and stared at him, unsure what to say.
“There’s a brooch in the box,” he said. “Just as you told me there would be.”
“It isn’t my mother’s. It belonged to Ealasaid. I’d forgotten it was there-”
“Did you deliberately lie to me, Fiona? Or have you told me half-truths from the start?”
Her face flushed, and she bit her lip. “I haven’t lied. I have only refused to tell you secrets that aren’t mine.”
“Then what has become of your mother’s brooch? How did it come to be found miles from Duncarrick, over a year ago?”
“I don’t know. It was here! In this box. I will swear to that on my grandfather’s soul!”
He wanted to believe her. Hamish told him to believe her.
“Can you trust Drummond? Would he have stolen anything from you-would he have considered the brooch fair payment for the care of the child, then sold it?”
“No-he wouldn’t do anything of the sort-!”
“Does he owe loyalty to anyone else? Would he have taken the brooch and given it to someone else, not realizing that it might be used to incriminate you?”
“No. No, I can’t believe he would do such a thing! Not Drummond.”
“His sister, then? Could she take the key when he wasn’t looking, and use it-or allow someone else to use it?”
She hesitated. “No. She wouldn’t dare. No.”
“Are you very sure, Fiona?” Rutledge asked. “The brooch is gone, after all. When you had told me you believed it was still in the box.”
Fiona turned away and began to gather up the things on the bed, her fingers lingering over them as she felt the pull of memory. “I’m sure.”
“Then someone else may have taken it. Can you think who that might be? A cleaning woman? A patron when he thought your back was turned? Or someone who might want a souvenir of the wicked harlot?”
“There’s no one else with a key. Except for the police-”
The police. But Rutledge, standing there, facing her, was sure that the police had not had anything to do with the missing brooch. Except to retrieve it from a young girl who wanted a better life than she had had…
21
Rutledge sat down in the chair, watching Fiona while she paced, the box clasped tightly in her hands. Restless and uncertain, she asked him several times to tell her why the brooch was important, but he couldn’t. Instead he said, “You’d better give the box back to me. I don’t want Oliver to see that you have it.”
“Why not?” Reluctantly, Fiona brought it to him, and he put it in his pocket.
“Because, my dear girl, I’ve got to work with Oliver, and I don’t need to have him furious with me for interfering in his investigation. But you seem to be the key to mine.”
She said nothing.
He went on. “Do you know a Mrs. Atwood?”
“No. At least I don’t remember having heard the name.”
“What about Robert Burns?”
“He’s a poet-he lived near Ayr.”
“No. A person you might have met.”
She thought about it. “I recall someone saying that the fiscal lost his son in the war. I don’t remember whether his name was Robert.”
“I’ve been searching for a woman called Eleanor Gray. She may or may not be the person you’re accused of killing. The bones that were found in Glencoe. Eleanor Gray’s been missing since 1916. She had a quarrel with her mother over-money. And just after that she was supposed to spend a weekend near Winchester with a friend, Mrs. Atwood. Instead she came to Scotland with a man, possibly a friend of this Robert Burns, who may or may not be the fiscal’s son.”
Fiona smiled. “May or may not be-possibly a friend- supposed to spend the weekend. Hamish said you were a clever policeman.”
It was the first glimpse of natural humor he’d seen, lighting her face from within. Lighting her eyes.
“Yes, sometimes I wonder myself,” he said, returning the smile. “The odd thing about Eleanor Gray is that no one appears to have cared for her. Ann Tait knew of her-and en-vied her. Mrs. Atwood was jealous of her. Her mother saw to it that she couldn’t pursue medicine, which was Eleanor’s passionate interest. She may have died in 1916, and the only person who has tried to find her was a solicitor who wanted her to sign papers relating to her inheritance. You are accused of killing her-and yet you don’t know her.”
“And that’s true.” She was serious again, resuming her pacing. “Why should I choose a woman at random, kill her, and take her child? A stranger I knew nothing about! It makes sense to the police because they’re men; they believe that because I wanted a child, I wouldn’t care who or what it was.”
“Their response would be, you knew Eleanor Gray was alone and in hiding. The perfect choice. There was no one to come looking for her.”
“To learn that much about her, surely I’d have learned her name as well. I don’t know how people behave in France or Canada. In Scotland we don’t confide in strangers!”
“Perhaps you met her as someone else. Using another name.” He paused. “Mrs. Cook-”
She went so white that her knees buckled, and he sprang from his chair to catch her as she fell. Carrying her to the bed, he laid her gently on the rough surface of the blanket. “Fiona-”
Her eyelids fluttered, then shut. Her voice when she spoke trembled. “I don’t know a Mrs. Cook.”
“Yes, you do,” he said, pulling the chair closer to the bed. “You know precisely who she is. She gave birth in Lanark to the child you called Ian Hamish MacLeod. I’ve spoken to her physician, his name is Wilson. I know that she had a hard birth and a very difficult recovery. I know, too, that it will be impossible for her to bear other children.” He stopped, then added the last bit of information that sealed his certainty. “You told your aunt you were expected to work out your notice at Mrs. Davison’s. But you didn’t. You explained to her why you were being sent for-that your aunt in Duncarrick was ill-and Mrs. Davison, a compassionate woman, released you immediately. She cared enough about you to make it easier for you to leave her family. And so there was nearly a month between the time you promised to come to Duncarrick with your child and the time you arrived here. You spent that time somewhere with the boy and his mother. But you lied to your aunt, you lied to Mrs. Davison, for all I know you have lied to Mrs. Cook. But you can’t lie to me, Fiona. I know too much.”
She reached out and caught his hands. “Please. I don’t know a Mrs. Cook. This woman you’ve just told me about- she has nothing to do with me or with my child! You mustn’t- there is no need to search for her. Because she doesn’t exist.” Her face was earnest now, her eyes wide. “It was Eleanor Gray I killed. I will swear to it! Bring my barrister to me-Inspector Oliver-the fiscal. In front of them I will tell you everything that happened. I didn’t mean to kill her-I didn’t want to kill her. But she told me I could have Ian, and then she changed her mind. I loved him, I’d held him, I wanted him. And so when she said she intended to take him after all, I pulled the pillows out from under her head and I held them over her face until she stopped struggling. And then I dragged her to the head of the stairs and-”
She broke off, crying, her tears hot against his hands. “Oh, please, I kill
ed Eleanor Gray! Please go back to London and leave me to die in peace!”
“Fiona, listen to me!”
“No, I’ve listened long enough! I want you to bring Inspector Oliver to me, and Mr. Armstrong. Please-I don’t want to talk about it anymore!”
“If you killed Eleanor Gray, what did you do with her body?”
“I buried it. In a field somewhere along the road. It was dark, and I couldn’t see to dig, and there was a dog barking somewhere, and I was so frightened. Then Ian began to cry, and I shut my ears and kept digging until I could roll her into the hole I’d made. Someone had piled branches and tree limbs nearby, ready for burning. I pulled them over the raw grave and left them there. It was at the edge of a field, near a wall, where no one would plow-”
“You’re lying-!”
“No, I’m telling the truth at last-Mr. Elliot said to me that confession would free my soul, and it has-I’m ready to die… I want to die -! ”
It took Rutledge nearly ten minutes to stop Fiona’s tears and make her listen to him. Shaking her lightly, he forced her to look at his face. Her eyes, rimmed red from crying, were the saddest he’d ever seen. Dark pools of anguish in her white face.
He wanted to hold her and comfort her. Instead he said, “Fiona. If you confess to murder, there is nothing I can do to save you. Do you understand that? You will be hanged. With joy and thanksgiving in Duncarrick. If I swear that I won’t speak Mrs. Cook’s name again, will you promise me to say nothing to Oliver or Armstrong? Nothing! ”
She said wearily, “I’m tired. I want this to end. I don’t want to remember Hamish and I don’t want to think about Ian, and I can’t bear -” She stopped, shaking her head.
“It will only be for a short time. I have to search for Eleanor Gray. Do you understand that? And if I find her, you won’t have to tell anyone about Mrs. Cook. Will you trust me a little longer?”
After a moment, she said, “I don’t want to trust you. I don’t want to see you again.”
“If you won’t do it for me, then for your grandfather- and Hamish.”
“They are dead. I’d rather be dead with them. It hurts too much to live.” Then she pushed him away and said, “Very well, then. As long as you keep your promise, I shall keep mine. But I haven’t the strength to sit here in this silence, alone and afraid, much longer! If I am going to die, I want to do it before I disgrace myself!” She caught her breath on a sob. “Courage is elusive in the dark of the night.”
He stood up. She seemed very small and helpless. He knew how confinement shredded the soul. But he had seen her strength. And he was touched by it.
“I’ll send word as soon as I can. Through McKinstry. You can trust him.”
“He’s- Yes, I trust him.”
Rutledge took a handkerchief from his pocket and held it out to her. She took it gratefully.
He walked to the door, wanting to say something. To offer her courage. Or to tell her she’d be safe. But he didn’t turn.
And Fiona MacDonald didn’t stop him as he left.
Leaving the cell key with Pringle, Rutledge went to The Reivers, summoning Drummond en route to unlock the door again.
Rutledge took the stairs two at a time, intent on restoring the sandalwood box to Fiona’s room.
Drummond lumbered after him, far lighter on his feet than a man his size ought to be. “I did what you asked. Now you owe me an explanation,” he said at Rutledge’s heels.
Rutledge set the box in the drawer, carefully arranging it among the gloves and the handkerchiefs. Then he turned to Drummond with his answer ready. The man was blocking the doorway. Clarence, half rising from the pillow on the bed, looked at both of them with wary eyes. A sudden move and she would be gone, out of sight.
“Something belonging to Fiona MacDonald has been found near the place where Oliver thinks the body of the child’s mother was hidden. In Glencoe. Fiona told me it was safe here at The Reivers. But she was wrong.” He let out a breath in frustration. “Oliver has all he needs now to convict.”
“Are you telling me something has been stolen from here?”
“The police at the scene think the murderer dropped it while trying to drag the woman’s body high up the slope on a mountainside. A sheepman’s daughter found it. I don’t know what to believe.”
“I have the only other key, and it was given me by Ealasaid MacCallum herself. Fiona handed hers to Oliver when they took her away. Are you calling me a thief?” Drummond’s voice was dangerously quiet.
“No, damn it. I’m saying that what was found in Glencoe is enough to hang Fiona MacDonald. However it came to be there. And if she’s right, that it was here in Duncarrick in July, then someone must have come in here secretly and taken it!”
“Fiona doesn’t lie. I’ve never known her to lie!”
“She lied about the child.”
Drummond gestured angrily, and Clarence fled over the side of the bed in a single fluid movement. “That’s not the same thing. You know it isn’t the same!”
Rutledge started toward the door. “Drummond. I have to leave Duncarrick for a time. Keep an eye on the inn. It wouldn’t do for more-evidence-to find its way to Oliver.”
Hamish warned, “It’s a thin line you’re walking! There’s no way to know where his loyalties lie!”
Rutledge responded silently, “Call it the Biblical casting of bread upon the waters. I need to find out if he’s friend- or foe. He has custody of that child!”
Drummond let him pass. As they went down the stairs, Rutledge said over his shoulder, “If I can put a name and a history to the bones in Glencoe, I will. That’s the only way to break the chains tying Fiona MacDonald to murder.”
When Rutledge arrived at the smithy, he found that the motorcar was repaired and ready to drive.
The young mechanic came out of the small shed where he worked, rubbing his black, greasy hands on a greasier square of cloth. Grinning, he beckoned to Rutledge. “Come look at something.”
“I’m not sure I want to,” Rutledge answered, following him. “What’s wrong with my engine?”
But the mechanic said nothing. When he got to a workman’s bench full of tools and parts and a jumble of odds and ends, he reached for a grimy jar that was sitting behind a coil of rope. Holding up the jar, he said to Rutledge, “Now take a look.”
The jar was full of petrol. Except at the bottom, where a layer of something else moved less sluggishly.
“Water!” Rutledge said, surprised. “There was water in my tank!”
“When all else fails,” the mechanic said happily, “expect the impossible. Yes, indeed, ordinary water. Stopped you as efficiently as an artillery shell. And with greater accuracy, I might add! I drained off the lines, let the jar’s contents settle, and there you have it. A mechanical marvel.” He put the jar back on the bench. “Been swimming in that motorcar, have you?”
Rutledge paid the inflated bill without comment.
As they drove out of the smithy’s yard, Hamish said, “This meddling with the car was no’ the same as searching your room. And if there’s anyone who will ken where to look for whoever is responsible, it’s yon constable.”
“If it was mischief,” Rutledge responded, “then the timing was remarkably opportune. I don’t like coincidence.”
McKinstry was coming out of the barbershop when Rutledge spotted him and offered him a lift as far as his house. In response to Rutledge’s question about malicious property damage, the constable shook his head. “We don’t see much of that. Too easy in a town this size to guess who the culprits are likely to be. The Maxwell brats, now, they’re a wild lot, and it’s only a matter of time before their mischief turns to something more serious. The Army might make men out of them, but their father never will-too quick with his fists.” He added with curiosity evident in his face, “Any particular reason for your interest?”
“I wondered about it, that’s all.”
“It wasn’t mischief that lay behind the notes written about Fiona
. If that’s what you’re getting at!”
“Not at all.” Rutledge changed the subject.
It wasn’t until he’d dropped McKinstry at his door that Hamish said, “He didna’ speak of the brooch to you.”
“No,” Rutledge answered. “He doesn’t want to accept what it means. For that matter, neither do I. If no one took it from The Reivers-” He left the thought unfinished.
Hamish told him, “She didna’ kill!”
But the woman in the back room of the police station was not the same girl that Hamish remembered haying in the summer of 1914, the sun warm on her face and laughter in her eyes. The day war had begun in a small town in an obscure province of the Austrian empire. Hamish had carried that memory with him to the trenches. Time stood still for him. It had moved on for her. In five years, people can change…
LEAVING HIS CAR at the hotel, this time in the open rather than in the shadows of the shed, Rutledge went to the shop owned by Ann Tait.
She was folding lingerie into pale lavender paper, and a box stood ready at her elbow. Lifting the paper, she laid it gently into the box and arranged it a little to make it fit snugly. Then she put the lid on the box and set it aside before turning to Rutledge.
“Have you found your Eleanor Gray?”
“Not yet. But I shall. No, I’ve come about another matter. I was speaking with a Mrs. Cook. I can’t recall her first name. She’d stopped me on the street. A few days ago now. I must try to find her again. Can you help me?”
Ann Tait looked at him consideringly. “As far as I know, there isn’t a Mrs. Cook in Duncarrick. At any rate, she isn’t among my customers. There was a woman by that name I met in London. She was elderly and impossible. I didn’t like her.”
“Well, then,” he said helplessly, “who was I speaking with?”
“Was this a large woman? Overbearing in her manner?” He smiled as if relieved. In fact, he was. “Yes. I’m afraid so.”
“That was Mrs. Coldthwaite.”
“Yes, that’s it. Coldthwaite. I’m grateful. Or-should I be?”
