Durham had been built by fighting bishops, both castle and cathedral sitting on a well-defended bluff above the winding River Wear. On the other hand, one of the earliest names in English literature was buried here: the Venerable Bede. Before the war, Rutledge had had several friends in the town, but they were gone now. It seemed odd to drive through the familiar streets and not call on one of them.
The law firm was in the center of town, second in a row of buildings that were Victorian Gothic, with even a gargoyle or two leering down at passersby. The street was busy, and Rutledge left his motorcar at The Bishop’s Arms, walking the few streets to his destination.
An elderly clerk admitted him and asked him to be seated until Mr. Warren was free. Rutledge took one of the high-backed chairs near the hearth and felt weariness wash over him. Hamish was much taken with the pair of grim-faced eighteenth-century portraits that flanked the clerk’s desk.
“Hanging judges,” he decided, “with no’ a verra high opinion of human nature. I canna’ see pity nor mercy in their eyes.” When Rutledge looked up to study their faces, he was forced to agree.
Thomas Warren was a fair man with an ugly scar across his face, running from the crown of his head into the collar of his shirt. It had healed, but time had not yet smoothed it into a thin white line. It gave him a sinister appearance.
But he greeted Rutledge with courtesy, listened to what he had to say, and answered, “Yes, I knew Rob. He was a good man. But I’ve never been to Atwood House, I’m afraid. And I didn’t serve in Palestine, I was in France. Where else would the Army put a man with some knowledge of Turkish?”
Rutledge laughed. “It was common practice, I’m afraid.” Taking out his notebook, he read aloud the list of names that the fiscal had given him. Warren steepled his fingers in front of pursed lips, noting each.
When Rutledge had finished, Warren said, “That’s fairly thorough. Offhand I can’t think of anyone to add. The first five you named died in France and to my certain knowledge never set foot in the Near East. That puts them out of the running. Morgan has flame-red hair and wouldn’t know a barrel vault from a Roman arch, much less anything about medieval stabling. He spent most of the war at sea and the only wound he suffered was a fractured thumb.” He shook his head, still finding it hard to believe. “Talbot, Stanton, and Herbert are dark and aren’t likely to be in the running. I didn’t know Edwards well enough to tell you where he served. Baldridge and Fletcher were artillery, as I remember, and MacPhee was in naval intelligence. What’s this about? Why is it so urgent to find these men? I can’t see any of them running afoul of the Yard!”
“They haven’t. But they may have information we need. We’re searching for a woman who is missing and may be dead. Eleanor Gray-”
“Good God!” Warren said, thunderstruck. “I met her once or twice, you know. In London. She and Rob were on their way to some play or other, a benefit for war orphans. She was trying to persuade him to sit down and rest, when I walked up. We had a drink together at intermission. Lovely girl. I remember asking her if she was related to the Grays over by Menton, and she smiled and said she was but indirectly. The next time I saw her, she had lunch with me, and if I’ve ever met a girl in love, it was Eleanor. Rob deserved happiness. I was glad for them. And I’d not like to think anything has happened to her!”
“We don’t know that it has. We’ve traced her movements from London to a place called Craigness, a small town on the Teith in the Trossachs.”
“That’s where Rob lived-”
“Yes. She arrived in a rainstorm with a man. They spent two days at the house and then left.” Rutledge paused. “We know she was there because she wrote something in the margin of a book that belonged to Burns. It couldn’t have been done earlier, she’d just learned he was dead. That narrows the time, you see. And it’s possible that she herself was dead by the autumn of 1916. She hasn’t been seen since.”
Warren said, “Are you telling me you think she killed herself?” He shook his head. “Not Eleanor Gray!”
“She loved him. The last notation in the book was ‘I wish I could die too.’ ”
“Yes, yes, people say that,” Warren replied impatiently. “I’ve heard them say it. But that’s a source of comfort, not a decision taken. ‘I wish I could die and end this suffering-I wish I could die and not have to think about it any longer.’ Then they straighten their backbones and get on with living. And you didn’t know Eleanor Gray. She was incredibly vivid, the kind of woman other women never learn to understand. But men do-men always find that zest for life fascinating.”
As he rose to leave, Rutledge gave Tom Warren his card. “If you should think of anything else that might help, please get in touch. You can reach me in Duncarrick, at The Ballantyne.”
He slept for nearly ten hours, roused the hotel clerk at midnight in search of food, and then slept another six. The morning he woke up to was gray with clouds, but there was no rain in them.
Hamish, at his shoulder as Rutledge turned north, was arguing the question of Eleanor Gray’s feelings for Robert Burns.
“It could ha’ been infatuation.”
“A handsome man in uniform, the excitement of war. A romance that wouldn’t have lasted with the peace.” Rutledge was reminded of Jean, who had adored his uniform, then was terrified by the reality of war. He couldn’t imagine Eleanor Gray confusing war with romance and excitement. She had seen too many of the wounded “And infatuation is more likely to lead to suicide,” Hamish persisted.
“Fiona’s mother died of a broken heart.”
“That was no’ the same! She wasted.”
“It doesn’t matter. If Eleanor was carrying Robert Burns’s child, she wouldn’t have killed herself. If she wasn’t pregnant-then who’s to say?”
“It doesna’ explain how she came to be in the glen.”
“No. And that’s a question we still must answer.”
Thinking about Eleanor Gray, Rutledge turned off the road north and made a detour to Menton.
He came up the sweep of the drive as the sun broke out of clouds and bathed the house in golden light, turning the windows to burnished copper, the stone to warm peach. It was remarkably beautiful. He pulled up to the steps and then walked a little way from them to look up at the house. This was what made David Trevor love the sticks and stones of building. The angles and shapes, the use of light and shadow, the grace and elegance of line.
We have come a long way from stone hovels and mud huts, he thought. In skill and in knowledge. But we still kill…
He went up the steps and rang the bell.
The butler came to answer it and with perfect poise informed him that Lady Maude was not at home today.
Rutledge would have wagered a year’s pay that it was a lie.
But he accepted dismissal without demur.
Lady Maude did not wish to see him.
Was she afraid that he had brought her news she couldn’t accept? He had a feeling that the quarrel with Eleanor had wounded the mother as well as the daughter who walked away. Love could be terribly hurtful.
He pulled into Duncarrick in the early hours of evening and parked the motorcar in its usual place. After lifting his luggage out of the boot, Rutledge walked toward the front of the hotel, his mind still on Eleanor Gray.
He ran into Ann Tait as he turned the corner and begged her pardon.
Recognizing the Inspector, she said, “Where have you been, then?”
Setting down his cases, he answered, “I’ve been in Durham. Where are you going?”
She lifted the hatbox in her hand, its flamboyant ribbon catching the light from the windows. “A delivery. There’s to be a christening tomorrow.”
He said, “You weren’t here in Duncarrick, were you, when those women were murdered out on the western road? In 1912, I think it was?”
“Good heavens, Inspector! What women?” She looked alarmed.
“It doesn’t matter. I’d been thinking that Duncarrick was a quiet backwater, and someone corrected me, saying that there had been several murders here before the war.”
“That’s a fine thing to tell me, walking down these streets in the dark!” She was angry with him, her face flushed.
“It was an old crime, and you have nothing to fear. If you like, I’ll just set these in the hotel lobby and walk with you.”
