He had come here to search for Eleanor Gray. If Oliver was right, she must be somewhere in Fiona MacDonald’s past. He had to find out where their paths had crossed-and if they had crossed. And why something that had not even happened in Duncarrick-the birth of a child-should cast such a long and deadly shadow over the lives of two women who should have had nothing in common. Oliver wasn’t going to like Scotland Yard meddling As if conjured up by his thoughts, down the square Rutledge saw Oliver coming toward him, in the company of a man in a well-cut gray suit. A second glance identified Oliver’s companion as the sheep farmer Rutledge had met that first day close by the pele tower. They were speaking earnestly, and then Oliver looked up, lifted a hand to hail Rutledge. He excused himself and, leaving the farmer, strode toward Rutledge.
“You look like a man in need of his lunch,” Oliver said.
“I feel like a man in need of a drink. But what I need now is to learn more about Fiona MacDonald’s whereabouts before her arrival in Duncarrick.”
Oliver studied him. “I should think the logical place to begin would be with Eleanor Gray’s movements after the quarrel with her mother in 1916.”
“Logical, yes,” Rutledge replied patiently. “But that’s a wider investigation and will take far more manpower. Why not narrow it by starting at this end?”
“Yes, I see. Well, the best person to tell you what you need to know is Constable McKinstry. But I’ve already been to the town of Brae, and I’ve been to Glencoe. There can’t be much left to find in either place!”
“You didn’t know to ask for Eleanor Gray.”
“No, that’s true. But I did ask about any other place the accused might have visited about the time the boy was born. For I can tell you this much-a woman with the Gray name and money would never have chosen backwaters like Brae or Glencoe to live in. The two must have met in Glasgow- or Edinburgh. And there’s your needle in the haystack again!”
Rutledge said thoughtfully, “If you were the daughter of Lady Maude Gray and expecting a child out of wedlock, a backwater might offer obscurity as well as seclusion. The larger the town, the greater the risk of being recognized.”
Oliver took a deep breath. “You may be right, of course. It’s possible. But not likely. Still, talk to Constable McKinstry. Tell him to let you read my notes.” Then, echoing a remark Rutledge had already heard that day, he added, “Too bad, in my view, that her aunt is dead. Or convenient-who’s to say?”
He walked on.
Constable McKinstry was on duty at the station, his chair back on two legs and a book in his hands. It was on Scottish law.
McKinstry, closing the book and lowering the feet of the chair to the floor, looked wretchedly at Rutledge as he listened to his request. “Fiona never confided in me. I’ll tell you what I can, sir, and what Inspector Oliver wrote in his report.” He put the book on a shelf behind him and added, “Did he send you? Aye, I thought so.” Wryly, he confessed, “It’s my punishment to be made to talk about her! The Inspector hasn’t forgiven me for the fiasco with the first skeleton. If I’d been thorough, it would have been my embarrassment, not his.”
“I need dependable facts. You’re most likely the only inhabitant of Duncarrick who isn’t afraid to admit you knew her. Man or woman.”
“That’s true enough.” McKinstry sighed. Considering how to begin, he looked at the ceiling, smudged with smoke from the stove, and arranged his thoughts.
“I was in France when Fiona arrived in Duncarrick. I remember my mother writing that Ealasaid MacCallum was having trouble with her right arm shaking and had sent for her niece to come and help out at the inn. Later she told me that in her view Mrs. MacLeod was a respectable young widow with a baby to care for, but strong and capable for all that. She’d lived in Brae, and if I should hear any news of men from there, my mother would be glad to pass it on.”
He stopped, squaring the blotter and moving the ink pot to the other side of the desk. Then, absently, he moved it back again.
“To be honest, I never asked Fiona about her life before she came to Duncarrick. I was jealous, if you want the truth, of her husband. Only he wasn’t, was he?” He sighed. “Fiona left her grandfather’s croft in the spring of 1915, I do know that. She couldn’t run the farm on her own. It’s inhospitable country at best, but the old man had made it pay.”
“Aye,” Hamish said unexpectedly. “He knew the land better than anyone I ever saw.” There was a wistfulness in the voice at Rutledge’s shoulder. “Fra’ him I learned how to handle a team and to find water, when we needed to dig a well. I took a forked willow stick, skinned and dried. He said I had the gift-I could feel the stick stir and bend in my hands. And it was sweet water I found!”
McKinstry had gone on, unaware of the interruption. “Some cousins were willing to take it over-they were too old for the war, but still able-bodied. She said once that she wished the lad’s father could have been buried there in the glen, because he loved it so. At any rate, Fiona was glad of the position she found in Brae. It took her mind off the war. A Mrs. Davison was looking to hire a nanny for her children.” He paused. “Brae’s south of Glasgow. Just above Lanark.”
“Yes, I have a general idea where it is. Go on!”
“When her aunt wrote asking Fiona to come to Duncarrick, she was sad to leave Brae. But she promised to come as soon as Mrs. Davison found a replacement for her. She and the boy.”
“Miss MacCallum said nothing to your mother about the boy’s-history?”
“Her only worry was that Ian was so young and might distract Fiona from her duties at The Reivers. I thought it was a selfish view, but then, no one knew just how ill Miss MacCallum was.”
Rutledge made a note of Mrs. Davison’s name and asked, “What did the people in Brae tell Inspector Oliver?”
“Not much. That Fiona minded her own business, was friendly enough, and worked hard. No one was aware that she was expecting a child when she left there. And we’ve traced all the children born to residents in 1916. A woman named Singleton had a child in Glasgow that spring, but it’s accounted for, and the three born in Brae are accounted for as well. I never knew Fiona to mention any particular friend there-though she spoke often of Mrs. Davison and her children.”
“I’m considering driving on to Brae. To see if there’s any connection to Eleanor Gray to be found there.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, it’s a waste of time. I’ve seen Brae. A woman like Eleanor Gray would stand out like a sore thumb. It’s not the kind of place she’d be hiding herself away in.”
“Still, we must begin somewhere,” Rutledge answered. “All right, is there any other name you can give me?”
McKinstry took out a folder and opened it. When Rutledge had finished taking down two or three other names, he closed his notebook and said, “I’d like to speak to the accused again before I leave.”
“I don’t know-” McKinstry began doubtfully.
“It will take less than five minutes.”
And McKinstry, capitulating, took out the keys and handed them to Rutledge.
He unlocked the door for a second time and walked into the cell. Fiona MacDonald was sitting in the chair, her hands folded in her lap. But her eyes flew to his as he entered.
“I’m driving to Brae today,” he said, watching her face. There was a very slight tightening of the skin, as if she was not happy with the news.
“You will be seeing Mrs. Davison. Please tell her-” She stopped and shook her head. “No, I don’t suppose she’d want a message from me now.” Her fingers folded and smoothed a pleat in her skirt. “I forget, sometimes, that a murderess has no past. But if the children should ask about me-please, will you tell them that I’m well and think of them often?”
“I will.”
She managed a smile. “They’re too young to know about murder. They’ll be glad to be remembered. And I do think about them. It takes my mind off other-other things.”
He said without stopping to think, “I wish you could trust me and tell me the truth.”
“It isn’t a matter of trust,” she answered quietly. “It’s a question of love.”
“Love?”
“Yes.” She looked away. “I can’t explain it, except to say that there are many faces of love, and sometimes they can be cruel. My mother loved my father so deeply that she grieved herself to death for him. And left me with
