That I’m a fallen woman?”
Alistair said, remaining where he was on the step, casting a swift glance up and down the quiet street, “Those letters? Nasty piece of work, they are. I’ve just been shown a number of them. You don’t want to hear what’s in them! Cowardly-unsigned- meant to be cruel. Mark my words, a woman’s behind it, a woman with nothing better to do than stir up trouble with lies.”
“But people are believing these lies, Alistair, and I don’t know how to put a stop to it. They’re talking about me behind my back-they must be-but no one will speak to me about it. I’m shut out, treated as if I’m invisible.”
“The best thing is not to try stopping it. It’ll wear thin in another week or two.” He cleared his throat. “No, it’s not the letters that’ve brought me here. Not directly. Fiona-now it’s said that the boy’s not yours.”
“Not mine?” She stared at him, frowning. “If I’m a fallen woman, how can he not be mine? It’s the sin I’m accused of! Wantonness.”
“I told you, it wasn’t to do with those letters. They’re no more than wicked nonsense. No, what’s brought me here is another matter. Serious enough for the police to be looking into it.” He hesitated, searching for words, awkward with his discomfort. “There’s a suspicion that-er-that you killed his mother-and took the child.”
He could see the shock in her eyes, the draining of warm color from her face. It cut him to the heart.
“I don’t believe you!” she whispered. “No, I don’t believe you-it’s all part and parcel with the whispers!”
“Fiona,” Alistair said pleadingly, “Mr. Robson sent me here, I didn’t want to come. He said, ‘No need to make a fuss. You’ll do it best.’ But I don’t know how to do anything of the sort-”
Mr. Robson was the Chief Constable. Serious, indeed.
She became aware that they were still standing in the door, where all the world could see. “Come in. There’s no one about. There never is anymore.”
Fiona led him down the narrow passage that connected the inn to the little wing built into the side of it a hundred years earlier. She’d lived there since before her aunt died. And run the inn as well, from the time her aunt fell ill until custom dried up in June.
He followed her, staring at her straight back and her trim waist. And felt sick. Removing his hat, he tucked it under his arm. His boots clattered heavily on the wooden floor. His uniform seemed to choke him.
In the small room that served her as parlor, she gestured to the best chair and said, “I haven’t harmed anyone. It’s barbarous to say that I have!”
“I’m not liking it myself, to tell you the truth!” He turned away to stare at the tall clock that ticked quietly in the corner. He didn’t feel like sitting down, nor did he want to stand there and hear his own voice speak the words. But it had to be done. “They’re saying that-” His throat seemed to close.
“That what? You may as well tell me the rest!”
He flushed darkly and said, “-that you’ve got no marriage lines. You call yourself Mrs. MacLeod, but it isn’t true, you’ve never been married.” It came out in an anguished rush. “Could I please see your marriage lines? It will stop the talk, it’s all I need.”
Alistair had liked her for years. She’d had a suspicion that he was in love with her. Now she knew it must be true.
The cat came in, twining herself about his legs, leaving a blur of hairs on the dark fabric of his trousers. White on blue. She could hear her purring. She had always been partial to Alistair. If he sat down, she would be in his lap instantly, head stretched up to rub his chin, an expression of serene self-indulgence on her face.
Dragging her thoughts back to the policeman, away from the man, Fiona said, “And what difference does it make to anybody if I did have the child out of wedlock? I’ve done no harm to anyone. And I wouldn’t be the first to have loved a man while I could! The war has butchered them without compunction-so young that most of them cried out for their mothers. Tell me why it’s the world’s business, and not my private affair?”
It was a tacit admission. Alistair recognized it and felt a great sadness for her.
Gently he said, “Well, then, could you prove the boy is your own? Could a doctor examine you and say with certainty that you’ve borne a child?”
She stared at him. Her face answered him before she could prevent it.
After a moment, he went on. “If you haven’t had a child of your own, then how did you come by this one? That’s the question, Fiona! They think the mother’s buried here in the inn-under the floor, most like, or in the cellar. That you killed her and took the child and buried her where nobody would find her.”
“In the inn-!” She blinked, disbelieving. “This inn? I had the boy with me when I first came to Duncarrick. How could the mother be buried here? It’s preposterous!”
“I told them that. I told them your aunt was alive then and would never have been a party to such a thing. They don’t want to listen.”
“Who is this ‘they’ so full of accusations! I have a right to know.”
“Mr. Elliot has seen several of the letters sent to his parishioners-”
“And done nothing about them! He didn’t speak to me once about them!”
“I know, Fiona. It was wrong of him, he should have scolded half the town for paying any heed to them. He’s a man of some weight-”
“I didn’t want him to scold the town, I wanted him to call these things lies! To tell me he didn’t believe what they said. To come here and sit with me, as proof that I am a decent woman! It would have been a comfort, Alistair! Instead he’s turned his back on me too.”
“Aye, but listen to me, Fiona. Three days ago a letter came for him, this one mailed, not left on a doorstep. It wasn’t like the others. It wasn’t accusing; in fact, it tried to defend you. It said that you couldn’t be-er-a fallen woman, that you’d never been wed and you’d borne no children of your own. The letter didn’t intend to cast doubts, it was meant to show the rumors and whispers were false. It went on to say that it wasn’t possible to produce the lad’s true mother, to prove these claims. She’d died after giving birth, and you’d taken the lad away, keeping him for yourself. The writer swore she didn’t know where you had buried the woman’s body and ended by saying your aunt had been told lies, she hadn’t taken any part in what was done.”
Fiona swallowed hard, the lump in her throat threatening to choke her. Keeping her voice steady by sheer effort of will, she asked, “Was this-this letter anonymous, like the rest of them? Or was it signed?”
“No. It claimed that the writer was fearful to speak out. She’d held her tongue for your aunt’s sake, knowing Ealasaid MacCallum had been told lies. And she’s afraid she might be brought up on charges now.”
Fiona caught her breath. “The address? Where did it come from?”
“There was a Glasgow postmark, but that’s not to say it was written by anyone living there. You’d only have to drop it in a post box, wouldn’t you? The writer might live in Lanark-Inverness-” He looked down at his boots, missing her expression, bent to touch the cat, then thought better of it. Straightening up again, he went on earnestly. “Mr. Elliot went to the Chief Constable. The Chief Constable is not a man who likes anonymous letters and innuendoes. He told Inspector Oliver to get to the bottom of it. Inspector Oliver has sent me to have a look around. Mind you, only to see if any work’s been done in the last few years. To see if any of the flagstones have been taken up or the walls repaired or the cellars changed.”
“No one has done work here-not since 1914, the start of the war. Peter, the old man who was my aunt’s handyman, can tell you no work’s been done-”
“He has that. Inspector Oliver asked him. And your neighbors as well. But it would have been a secret business, after all. You’d not have told Peter, would you, if a body was being hidden? Nor your aunt, just as the letter said.”
“It’s not true! And it doesn’t make sense-if I brought the child here with me, how could I bring its dead mother, to bury her here! In a trunk-? In the back of the carriage-? Over my shoulder?” She was feeling desperate, frightened.
He winced at her bitter humor. “Mr. Robson addressed that. He said the mother might have recovered from the birth and wanted to keep the boy after all. And you stopped her when she came here to find him. I’ve had my orders-”
“This is my inn now. I won’t have anyone tearing it apart to search for a body- there’s no body here!”
“I must look, Fiona, or they’ll send someone else with a search warrant and an ax. Will you at least let me walk about and see with my own eyes that there’s nothing to find?”
“No!” Startled by her cry, the cat tensed and then vanished behind the heavy draperies at the side window.
