He inclined his head. It was, in its way, a salute. And an apology.
This time she didn’t stop him as he left.
Hamish, digesting the last exchange, said only, “I canna’ say that walking with the great is the road to happiness.”
No, Rutledge silently answered. That woman has paid a dear price.
An hour after leaving Menton, Rutledge found a telephone in the next town and put in a call to his godfather.
Morag answered the telephone and went to find David Trevor.
He said, taking up the receiver, “Ian? I hope this means you’re coming to dinner!”
“I won’t make it to Scotland in time. It’s late and I’ve had three days of hard driving. No, it’s information I need, sir. You told me earlier that you knew the procurator-fiscal in the MacDonald case. Well enough to tell me anything about his family?”
There was an instant of silence, then David Trevor said, “Yes, I can give you what I know. He married a young woman from the neighborhood of Stirling. If I remember, her father was a lawyer, and a brother was a judge. I think I met her once or twice at some official gathering. They had three children. Cathy, the daughter, is married to an Englishman and they live in Gloucester. George, the older son, is with a London firm. The youngest, Robert, is dead.”
“Did either son serve in the war?”
“George was in the Navy. Invalided out in late ’17. Robert was killed in France. Artillery. Early 1916, I think.”
“Was Robert married?”
“No, there was a girl in Edinburgh whom he was unofficially engaged to. It was an understood thing, but no announcement had been made. Then she died of appendicitis. I don’t know quite when-well before Robert was killed, certainly. In the winter of ’15, I think it was. Why this sudden interest in Robert?”
“I don’t know,” Rutledge said truthfully. “Could you describe him?”
“He was dark, and well set up. And I’m told he had the most wonderful wit. Ross had heard him offering the toasts at a wedding, he had the guests bent double with laughter. He said that Robert could have stood for Parliament if he’d wanted to go in that direction. But he was interested in law or banking, I forget which.” Rutledge could almost hear the smile in Trevor’s voice. “Have I earned a consulting fee for my knowledge of Scottish social circles?”
“Without doubt! Thank you, I appreciate your help.”
“Will you be coming again, Ian? Before you leave Scotland?”
There was a quiet longing in the seemingly casual question.
“As soon as I can,” Rutledge promised, and said good-bye.
Another night on the road saw Rutledge back in Duncarrick, tired and out of sorts. He stopped at the police station before he went to the hotel, and asked to speak to Fiona.
McKinstry was on duty, and he said diffidently, “You’ve been away, I think.”
“Yes, there was business outside of London to see to.”
McKinstry took him back and opened the door himself, smiling at Fiona. He said wistfully to Rutledge, “Shall I stay and take notes?”
“No, no, it isn’t necessary.” He waited until McKinstry was out of earshot down the hall before going into the small cell and closing the door behind him.
Fiona, with nothing to say, watched his face. Rutledge bade her a good morning, and then asked, “There was a Scottish officer who was well known to Eleanor Gray. Robert Burns, called Robbie by his friends. Did you ever meet him?”
She answered, “The only Burns I know is the fiscal. He isn’t young enough to have been in the war. He lives in Jedburgh.”
Rutledge said, “Yes. Well, it doesn’t matter.” He gestured for her to sit, and she looked first at the cot and then at the single chair, and chose the cot, perching herself stiffly on the edge of it. Rutledge took the chair and said conversationally, “Fiona, why do the people of Duncarrick dislike you?”
“Do they?”
“They must. They believed the scurrilous letters about you. They believe now that you’re capable of murder. Would you have picked out, say, the Tait woman at the hat shop as a murderer? Or the young woman who keeps house for the minister? Would you find it easy to believe people who claimed they were whores and worse?”
She flushed.
“But people believed these things about you. If I can discover why, I might know who is behind the lies. It will be a beginning.”
“I’ve told you before-I don’t know why. If I did, I wouldn’t be here, locked away from the sunlight and the wind on my face!”
“I accept that. Have you ever met the father of the boy you call Ian?”
The sudden shift in direction made her eyes widen. But her answer was swift and seemingly honest. “No.”
“You’re quite sure of that?”
“I have never set eyes on Ian’s father. Before God, it’s the truth.”
“Then,” he said with cold reason, “the trouble you are in today must come from the boy’s mother-”
“No! She’s dead. I have told you that.”
The interruption was so swift that she hadn’t allowed him to finish what he had planned to say- the boy’s mother’s family.
“She isn’t dead,” he said gently. “And that’s the problem, I think. She’s afraid of you. Afraid that you might tell her new husband about the child she bore out of wedlock. Afraid that you might grow weary of caring for the child, and decide one fine day to bring him to her doorstep. She is afraid of you, and she’s here in Duncarrick. Or close by. And it is she who has poisoned the town against you.”
Fiona was standing now. “Please leave.”
“Because I’m too close to the truth?”
“No,” she said, her eyes meeting his with firmness. “Because you are so very far from it that you frighten me. I thought-I thought once that you had believed me. I thought you might help me.”
“ You refuse to help me.”
There were sudden tears rising in her eyes but not spilling through the thick lashes. “I have done nothing wrong except to love a child that is not mine. If you want my help, you will have to promise that nothing touches Ian. Nothing! I have kept silent for his sake. I have tried to protect him, not myself.”
“From what? What is there that could harm him?”
“The people who might take him if they knew he existed. Who would want to punish him for what his mother did. Who would make him suffer because of what she had done.”
“What had she done?”
“She loved someone. Terribly. Deeply. It was wrong, but she-There were reasons why she did. And there was a child of that love. A woman in her position couldn’t go home with an infant in her arms and say ‘Forgive me, I couldn’t help myself. Let me pick up the pieces of my life and go on as if nothing has happened!’ ”
“Why haven’t you told the police this? The fiscal?”
“They’d demand her name to prove that I was telling the truth! And I was given Ian to guard and love and protect. Not to betray!” The tears spilled, running like quicksilver down her cheeks. “I am lost,” she said, “whatever I do. And it is better to hang than it is to fail. At least I would die knowing- knowing I had kept my promise to the end.”
He fumbled for his handkerchief and handed it to her. “Surely she would come forward if she’s alive. And spare you. For the boy’s sake-”
“No, I tell you, she’s dead. It’s her family I fear, not her!” Choking back a sob, she repeated, “I am not afraid of the dead.”
While Hamish argued fiercely in his mind, Rutledge said quietly, “I can see that you might have taken the child and given promises. But what would you have told Hamish MacLeod if he’d come home from the war and found you with a child you claimed to be your own?”
