She stared at him, wretched. “He would have loved us both. He would have trusted me and loved us both!”
And for once, to Rutledge’s shame, the truth rang clearly in the little cell.
He went to see the procurator-fiscal late in the afternoon. Jedburgh was busy. The heart of the town was crowded, the shops doing a bustling trade along with the pubs and the hotel, people spilling out into the street in the path of carts and wagons jammed with goods. There had been a cattle market in the morning, and farmers in for the day seemed to be making the most of it. To Rutledge’s eye, the population of Jedburgh had nearly doubled, and no one seemed to be in any haste to go home again. Finding a place to leave his vehicle took nearly twenty minutes, and even then he had to pay a grinning, gap-toothed man for the privilege.
The procurator-fiscal’s office, overlooking the center of the town, was dark-paneled and furnished with mahogany and leather. The books lining the shelves above the handsome old desk were a blend of law and science and literature.
Burns was tall, stooped, and thin. A handsome head of white hair was brushed back from his forehead, and gold pince-nez concealed sharp blue eyes. A man used to command and discipline.
“Inspector Rutledge. It’s good of you to come. May I offer you tea? A sherry?”
Rutledge, judging him rightly, accepted the sherry, and lifting the golden liquid in its slim glass, he saw that the pattern etched around the base of the cup was of thistles.
“Have you made any progress in the matter of Eleanor Gray?”
“I know more about her now. She was a wealthy young woman with a taste for rebellion and an intense desire to study medicine. She worked with the wounded during the war, providing entertainment for them where possible and taking an interest in their care. She was invited to a house party near Winchester early in 1916 and accepted. But the officer she was bringing with her discovered he had more leave than he’d expected. She came north with him instead, apparently intending to spend a few days at his house. Whether she got there or not no one seems to know. Where she may have gone after that week no one seems to know. But the information I have is reliable, and puts Miss Gray in Scotland in the spring before the child was born. If she had just learned that she was pregnant, she could have arranged to wait for the birth of the child here, where she wasn’t as well known.”
“Yes, yes, that makes sense to me. Who was the officer, do you know?”
There was nothing in the procurator’s face to show that he was in any way prepared for the shock that was to come. Interest and a natural curiosity were there. Nothing more.
“We have reason to believe that the officer she had been friends with for some time was a Scot,” Rutledge said carefully. “I’ve been told by a reliable witness that his name was Robert Burns.”
The procurator was startled enough to tip his glass of sherry. He swore under his breath as a golden river trickled onto the papers in front of him, and he took out his handkerchief to stanch the flow. The room smelled heavily of the richness of the wine, and Rutledge set his own glass down, untouched.
“That is, as you may know, my late son’s name.”
“Yes. But there are, I should think, many men called Robert Burns to choose from,” Rutledge replied.
“Where was this house you spoke of?”
“I’m told it was in the Trossachs.”
Burns dropped the wet handkerchief into the paperfilled wastebasket at the side of his desk.
“My son had a house in the Trossachs. Not far from Callander. But I have never heard that he was acquainted with Eleanor Gray. If I had, I should have said something to Inspector Oliver and the Chief Constable. Furthermore, my son was to be married. If-if he survived the fighting. He was not likely to be in the company of other women in London. Nor was he likely to bring them to his house!”
Rutledge said soothingly, “If she was a friend, and in need, he might. Whether he was the father of the child or not.”
It offered a way out. The fiscal seized it. “He would indeed have given what help he could. But I cannot believe he would allow her to use his house. It was his mother’s house before we were married. She had left it to him. Robert was close to his mother. He would not have dishonored her memory.” He looked distastefully at the remainder of the sherry in his glass, as if he blamed it for spilling. “Besides which,” he said, rather spoiling the lofty effect of his earlier words, “if there had been anyone living in the house, I would have heard. There is a neighbor who looks in on it from time to time, has a key and all that. I would most certainly have heard! Mrs. Raeburn is very particular.”
Hamish said, “Aye, if the neighbor is an auld biddy who would ha’ relished telling his father tales, I canna’ think Robert was sae foolish.”
“Indeed,” Rutledge said aloud, answering both of them. “Then he could have found another place for her to live until she was able to return to London. If it was your son. Did he have an interest in piping?”
“He studied the pipes as a child. But he didn’t continue. What has that to do with Eleanor Gray?”
“I recall someone telling me that this same officer was helpful in finding pipers to play for the wounded.”
“You needn’t play the pipes to like them. Or to know pipers.”
Rutledge said nothing.
After a moment, Procurator-Fiscal Burns said, “What, pray, has any of this to do with the young woman in Duncarrick? If the Gray woman came north in the spring, she might have gone anywhere in Scotland in the weeks following!”
“That’s true, of course. But it is a beginning, and I’m hopeful that we’ll eventually trace Miss Gray to Glencoe, if that’s where she died.” Rutledge paused, then said almost as an afterthought, “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know the name of the father of the child Fiona MacDonald has had in her keeping. It’s a pity, really. He’s a fine lad, and if he had been mine and I’d died, I’d have hoped my family would claim him in my place.”
Burns regarded him coldly and said nothing.
Rutledge rose and then asked, “Would you have any objections, sir, if I took the prisoner to the place where the bones in question were found?”
“There’s no provision in the law for that!”
“No, sir, I’m well aware that there isn’t. All the same, I need to find the truth about Eleanor Gray, and what the link is between the two women. In a prison cell, it’s very easy for the accused to remain silent and stubborn. Faced with her victim’s grave, she might well break down and confess. It would save a good deal of trouble if she did. I think the case as it stands would be difficult to prove in court.”
“Nonsense! It’s a very sound case indeed.”
“Is it? If I were her lawyer, and clever, I would make it very clear to the jury that while there is living proof of a child, there has been no proof of murder. And the jury might well agree with me.”
There was a startled look in the blue eyes, as if Burns had never considered anything but a guilty verdict.
Leaving, Rutledge was reminded that Drummond’s sister had insisted that the fiscal had been angry with Fiona for refusing to cooperate with Inspector Oliver.
Hamish said, “He didna’ want to hear his son was involved.”
“Yes, I know. Well, that may be true, he may not be involved. Or the fiscal may have been very good at concealing his own suspicions. Still, I don’t think the fiscal was protecting his son when he ordered Fiona held for trial. It would have been the wrong move-if I hadn’t come across Robert Burns’s name, someone else might have. No, there was more behind the decision.”
“Then turn it another way. What’s the use of a trial? No’ to discover the child’s name or parentage but to punish Fiona for killing the mother. To put the blame on someone for a woman’s death. So that when the body is found, it won’t point a finger at the true killer. The likes of the fiscal and the Chief Constable and their friends would protect their own!”
Making his way back to his motorcar, Rutledge shook his head. “No. It can’t be that. But the fiscal’s an intelligent man, and he should have said ‘If someone is claiming my son’s involved in this business, I want you to look into it.’ And then given me a list of people who knew the son well enough to tell me the truth. But he didn’t. And that’s what’s odd.”
As he bent to turn the crank, Rutledge added, “Don’t you see? McKinstry is absolutely right. The verdict on Fiona MacDonald is already in.”
