in an obscure province of the Austrian empire. Hamish had carried that memory with him to the trenches. Time stood still for him. It had moved on for her. In five years, people can change…
LEAVING HIS CAR at the hotel, this time in the open rather than in the shadows of the shed, Rutledge went to the shop owned by Ann Tait.
She was folding lingerie into pale lavender paper, and a box stood ready at her elbow. Lifting the paper, she laid it gently into the box and arranged it a little to make it fit snugly. Then she put the lid on the box and set it aside before turning to Rutledge.
“Have you found your Eleanor Gray?”
“Not yet. But I shall. No, I’ve come about another matter. I was speaking with a Mrs. Cook. I can’t recall her first name. She’d stopped me on the street. A few days ago now. I must try to find her again. Can you help me?”
Ann Tait looked at him consideringly. “As far as I know, there isn’t a Mrs. Cook in Duncarrick. At any rate, she isn’t among my customers. There was a woman by that name I met in London. She was elderly and impossible. I didn’t like her.”
“Well, then,” he said helplessly, “who was I speaking with?”
“Was this a large woman? Overbearing in her manner?” He smiled as if relieved. In fact, he was. “Yes. I’m afraid so.”
“That was Mrs. Coldthwaite.”
“Yes, that’s it. Coldthwaite. I’m grateful. Or-should I be?”
Ann Tait nodded sympathetically. “Wretched woman. She comes in and tries on corsets half her size, then complains to me that my stock is ill-made. You’ll find her in the gabled house next but one to the baker’s shop. And I wish you joy of her!”
Outside on the street again, Hamish was roundly telling him that he had already broken his promise.
“No, I haven’t.”
“It’s no’ a name you can use with impunity here!”
“I have a feeling Ann Tait won’t repeat it to anyone.”
All the same, he paid a call on Mrs. Coldthwaite.
And paid the price for it. Once she had him in her parlor, her sole intent was to pry out of him whatever tidbits of potential gossip she could pass on. It was done graciously, in the name of concern for “dear Fiona.” But her eyes were cold and her mouth small, tight.
A “wretched woman,” Ann Tait had called her. Hamish preferred “vicious.”
She did, unintentionally, give Rutledge one piece of information he had not heard. The question was, should he treat it as dependable?
“We-my husband and I-were at a lovely dinner party in Jedburgh a week ago. The Chief Constable, Mr. Robson, and the fiscal, Mr. Burns, were there too. And I distinctly heard Mr. Burns saying to Mr. Robson that many of Fiona MacDonald’s sins would never come to light. ‘We shall try her for murder, and leave the other unpleasant facets of her character for God to judge.’ And when someone-Mr. Holden, I believe it was-asked Mr. Robson what was to be done with the child once the trial was over, Mr. Robson answered, ‘Mr. Elliot has spoken with an orphanage in Glasgow that trains children in various trades. He will go there if the victim’s family doesn’t care to take responsibility for him.’ It’s my understanding that they’re quite well-to-do and might find the child an-um- embarrassment.”
Rutledge silently swore. Hamish called Mrs. Coldthwaite “a gossiping auld besom.”
She watched Rutledge’s face avidly, her smile inviting him to enlighten her further on the subject of Eleanor Gray’s family.
Rutledge replied blandly, “I’m afraid Inspector Oliver is your man for word on that subject. Ealasaid MacCallum was, I’m told, a very fine woman. I had wondered if she’d confided to you any concerns she might have felt about the conduct of Miss MacDonald after her niece came to live at the inn.”
In a thousand or more words, the answer appeared to be no.
He had the feeling Mrs. Coldthwaite was deeply disappointed to have to admit it.
22
After returning to the Ballantyne, Rutledge went to the telephone room to put in a call to Sergeant Gibson in London.
He got Old Bowels instead.
“Rutledge? Is that you?”
Rutledge closed his eyes. Hamish was still furious with him for breaking his promise to Fiona regarding the name of Mrs. Cook. The angry rumble at the back of his mind, like a headache, had shortened his own temper.
“Yes, sir.”
“What the hell are you doing, man! This business should have been cleared up by now.”
It was useless to explain the complexities involving Fiona MacDonald and Mrs. Cook. “It’s difficult tracing a woman who didn’t want to be found.”
“I’m not interested in excuses. I’m interested in results.”
The receiver was slammed down.
Hamish said, “You’ve lost your skills-”
“You’re wrong-”
It was an old argument. The sting of it hadn’t faded with time. Rubbing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, he tried to think. Gibson…
He called the Yard again and this time reached the sergeant.
“I need to know who might have had a brooch engraved-” He described the brooch in minute detail, the letters on the back. “It could be very important.”
“Where do you want me to begin?”
“Edinburgh. Glasgow. Not the fashionable shops.” The engraved letters had seemed worn, their shapes elegant but their depth shallow. “A middle-class shop, where a cairngorm brooch wouldn’t cause comment.” He paused, considering all the possibilities. “It’s going to be the proverbial needle, Sergeant, but I need the answer. And I know for a fact that the engraving was done within the past five weeks.” He remembered the water in his petrol. Not vandalism- time bought? “Possibly within the past two or three. That should help.”
Gibson sounded dubious. “It’s a tall order.”
“Yes.” Rutledge tried to think. Hamish wouldn’t let him. He said, “Gibson-try England first, will you? Just over the border from Duncarrick. I have a feeling-”
“Feelings are all very well, sir, but they don’t help very much, do they?”
“This time, Sergeant, I think they just might!”
Early the next morning, Rutledge pulled out of Duncarrick with his luggage in the boot of the motorcar.
But he had kept his room at The Ballantyne, and made it clear to Constable Pringle, whom he met in the hotel yard, that he would be gone no more than a few days.
Heading east, he reached David Trevor’s house in time for dinner, and Morag greeted him with the warmth lavished on lost sheep. Lost black sheep, Hamish corrected him.
Trevor was also happy to see him. “I was looking forward to a lonely meal and only Morag’s company,” he told Rutledge. “Have you finished your work in Duncarrick? Is this visit a farewell before leaving for London?”
“No. I haven’t found Eleanor Gray. And Ha-” He was about to say, “Hamish is giving me no peace!” But he stopped in time, and instead ended lightly, “-and I’m not going to be very pleasant company in this mood!”
“Nonsense. You’re always good company, Ian.”
As they sat in the drawing room after dinner and drank whiskey that Trevor had stocked before the war, Rutledge waited until a comfortable silence fell, and then said, “I’ve come for a reason. I need to talk to someone sensible who isn’t connected with the investigation that’s under way.”
“I’ll listen. I might not have sensible answers.”
“Listening is enough.” Rutledge launched into the events of the past week, and in the process of putting them
