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 killed 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?”
