She wasn’t mollified. “And ruin my reputation for good? They’ll be whispering behind their hands tomorrow. And I can’t afford it!”
He said contritely, “I’m sorry. I thought the murders were common knowledge. I’ll walk down the other side of the street and keep an eye on you.”
Ann Tait shook her head. “No. I can look after myself.” She turned to go and then swung around. “If you mention a word of this to Dorothea MacIntyre and frighten her to death, I’ll see that you pay dearly for it!”
“I spoke to you,” he said, “because I thought you might give me information. It appears that we’re both in the dark. But Dorothea MacIntyre won’t hear such things from me, I promise you.”
She walked away. He watched her for a time, the swing of her shoulders and the straight back. She had confessed to envy of Eleanor Gray. But he thought that the two women were in many ways very much alike. Independent. Willing to make a life for themselves with their own two hands. Hiding behind a brusque shell because it saved them from pain.
White lace gowns with satin sashes and broad-brimmed hats had passed with 1914, along with lawn tennis and picnics on the Thames and a much simpler world. There were thousands of Ann Taits making a living for themselves now, and hundreds of Eleanor Grays looking for a different future. Five years, and a colder, bleaker world of war had reshaped a generation of women as well as men.
As Rutledge stopped at the desk to pick up his key, the clerk handed it to him and then reached into a drawer to find a folded sheet with his name on it.
In his room he unfolded it and read the brief lines written on it.
Sergeant Gibson requests that you call him at your earliest convenience.
Rutledge took out his watch and looked at the time. Far too late to find Gibson at the Yard.
He began to unpack, with Hamish rumbling at his back.
It was nearly ten o’clock the next morning before Rutledge could reach Gibson.
The sergeant said, “It wasn’t a piece of cake. But I found the engraver.”
“That’s very good news,” Rutledge applauded. “I’m grateful.”
“You won’t be,” Gibson retorted, “when you hear what I have to say.”
The brooch had been engraved in a back street in Glasgow nearly three weeks before it had been “found” in Glencoe. It was a small shop that specialized in buying and selling jewelry. The owner was frequently asked to remove or change the engraving on items left for resale. But he seldom had the opportunity to use his skills on a piece that had no previous markings on it. He had objected when the man who brought in the cairngorm brooch insisted that the work appear older than it was. But the price agreed on helped overcome any qualms he might have had.
“Could the shopkeeper give you a description of the man who brought in the brooch?”
“Better than that. It had to be left and picked up in three days’ time. A name had to be put down on the card.”
Rutledge felt his spirits soar.
“Tell me. What was it?”
“Alistair McKinstry.”
24
Stunned, Rutledge asked Gibson to repeat the name. He did.
“I asked for a physical description as well.” But the engraver had relied on the name. “He finally told me that the man was Scots-medium height, medium coloring, medium build. He might remember more if you confronted him with McKinstry. Then again, he might not. He wasn’t interested in the man, only the work that he was being paid to do.”
Rutledge thanked him and slowly put down the telephone receiver.
He refused to believe it. In the first place, it made no sense. McKinstry had been Fiona MacDonald’s champion from the very beginning Hamish said, “He had access to a key to The Reivers.”
Fiona MacDonald had said that McKinstry had probably seen her wearing her mother’s brooch. He must have known that it existed. And it would take him only a short time to search Fiona’s room for her jewelry.
The brooch had become the final brick in a wall of evidence against her.
But why-?
It made no sense. Rutledge, a seasoned investigator, found it hard to accept. Hard to believe that he had misjudged a man so completely.
He took out his watch. And made a swift decision. His first stop was the police station. But McKinstry wasn’t there. Oliver was.
“Where have you been?” he asked jovially. “Still hunting for straws to make bricks?”
“In a way. Look, I’m going back to Glencoe. I want to see the place where the bones were found.” It was not something he wanted to do.
“You climbed up there with MacDougal. There couldn’t have been much to see. The bones are gone. The place has already been minutely examined by MacDougal’s men. A wasted trip, if you ask me.”
“I know. Put it down to stubbornness. At any rate, will you give Inspector MacDougal a call and ask him to meet me there? I’d be grateful if he can spare the time.”
“All right. If that’s what you want.” Oliver added, “I’m surprised to see you in Duncarrick again. Any news to give me on Eleanor Gray?”
“Not so far. I’ve got a list of names to sift through. That can wait until I see the glen again. I’d like to save myself all that trouble.”
Intrigued, Oliver said, “You’re saying we overlooked something.”
“No. I’m saying I might see things differently.” He took out his watch, trying to cut the conversation short. “I’ve got another stop to make before I leave.”
Oliver let him go. Rutledge walked back toward the hotel and then went on to the rectory. Mr. Elliot, Dorothea MacIntyre informed him, was out, visiting a parishioner who was ill.
“It’s just as well. Do you mind if I step in and leave a message?”
She moved back from the door, blushing, as if she had failed in her duty because she hadn’t thought to ask him for a message. He smiled at her. “It won’t take long.”
He walked past her, and she turned to a small table under the window, producing a sheaf of paper from the single drawer. It was church stationery. Rummaging, she came up with a pen as well, smiling in triumph as she handed it to him. She was almost childlike in her pleasure.
Rutledge scribbled on a sheet, I came to call this morning but must leave town for a day. If you have time when I return, I’d like to ask you a few questions. He signed his last name.
Folding the sheet, he handed it to her. Then he said, “Do you know Alistair McKinstry very well?”
“Know him?” She looked frightened.
“Does he attend services at the kirk? Is he a kind man?”
Relieved that Rutledge wanted only general information and had in no way suggested that she might be a particular friend of the constable’s, she answered shyly, “Yes, indeed, he attends regularly. And I think he’s kind. He’s always kind to me.”
“Yes, I’m sure he is.” He walked to the door. It was time for the question that had really brought him to the rectory. “When you were cared for in your illness by Miss MacCallum and her niece, do you remember a rather pretty cairngorm brooch that Fiona was fond of wearing?”
She frowned, thinking. “I don’t recall Fiona wearing a brooch. She never even wore her wedding ring. It hung on a chain around her neck, where she couldn’t lose it. I saw it sometimes when she bent down to settle the pillows or bathe my face.”
“But not the brooch.”
Trying hard to please him, she said earnestly, “But Miss MacCallum had a lovely brooch! There was a pearl in the center. She let me wear it-for courage-when I came to the rectory to be interviewed by Mr. Elliot.”
“Did it help?” he asked, unwilling to cut short her brief burst of enthusiasm. She was pretty when her face
