his father might have been. And there’s no fortune unless he’s allowed to inherit The Reivers when I’m-dead.”
“But someone does care. For a time I considered the possibility that it had to do with the Gray fortune. Or protecting a family’s reputation. Now I’m less convinced. In my judgment, the child’s important because no one is sure exactly who he is, and either someone wants that proof-or wants to bury it with you. I’m beginning to think that the hope was, if the police investigated thoroughly enough, they’d find the answer to the question of his mother’s identity. And save someone else the trouble of doing so. Or else the court will hang you and save that someone else the trouble of getting rid of you before you speak out.”
Something in her eyes told him that he was close to the truth-but not really there. That he still hadn’t put his finger on the crux of Fiona’s secret.
As if talking to himself, he murmured, “A child who came to light at the wrong time could cheat someone out of an inheritance. Or embarrass a family on the point of contracting an important marriage. Or bring to light a liaison that has been hidden until now.” He added after a moment, “Or it might be that someone wants him rather badly but doesn’t want to step forward and admit that the boy is hers-or his. If Ian is in an orphanage, he can be adopted properly, without revealing any connection with you or him.”
Fiona said carefully, “If I told you the name of Ian’s father, you’d find nothing in the knowledge to explain what’s happening. He was an ordinary man. A very kind and a very good man. But a very ordinary man.”
“If he’s dead, then we’re left with the mother.”
“Why should his mother-who most certainly knew who that child is-fear him in any way?”
“Then why is she protecting him? At the cost of your life?”
“She’s dead. She can’t protect anyone, not even herself.”
Rutledge said, “Let’s examine another possibility. That the child is precisely what you say he is-an ordinary child with an ordinary father, threatening no one. That his mother is dead. What if-mind you, this is pure speculation, but hear me out-what if someone thinks the boy matters? And removing you from his guardianship is necessary to prevent him from ever being identified. What if someone has been searching for some time for a missing child about Ian’s age? And that someone believes, without a shadow of doubt, that he’s been found here in Duncarrick.”
“You have a wonderful imagination,” she said, smiling in spite of herself. “Or have you convinced yourself that the mother of Eleanor Gray is trying to prevent Ian from ruining her family’s reputation?”
“Imagination has often been the best and quickest way through a thicket of lies.” He made a swift decision and shifted direction. “Whose wedding ring do you wear on a chain around your neck?”
Her face flamed. “Who told you such a thing?”
“Dorothea MacIntyre. She didn’t mean to betray you. In the course of describing how well you’d cared for her when she was ill, she spoke of it. She believed it was truly yours.”
“It was my grandmother’s ring. If I was a married woman, I ought to have a ring. But it was loose, it didn’t fit my finger. So I wore it around my neck, telling my aunt that I was afraid it might fall off and be lost. You’ll find it at the inn. Unless someone has taken that as well! I put it away when I could no longer call myself Mrs. MacLeod.” She looked away. The memory hurt her.
Earnestly, he said, “Won’t you tell me which one of my guesses is closest to the truth? Because once I know, I can protect you, I can protect that child.”
“But you can’t give him back to me when it’s over!” It was a cry of anguish. “You’ve already told me that no matter how this ends, I shall never have him back again.”
He looked at her, trying to read her face. “Is that the bargain you’re making with me? If I can guarantee that you shall have your child again, you will finally tell me the truth?”
She bit her lip, torn between duty and love and hope.
He had finally found the key to Fiona MacDonald’s silence. Something she wanted more than life-even her own life. That child.
Then, to his utter astonishment, she replied, “Will you kill someone for me? Because if you can’t, promises will be useless.”
She read his answer in his face.
“No. I didn’t think you could.” There was infinite sorrow in her voice.
He waited, but she said nothing more. No explanation, no self-defense for even asking such a thing of him.
Into the silence he asked, “Do you trust Constable McKinstry?”
Surprised, she said, “Yes. I think I do. Why shouldn’t I? He wanted to marry me.”
Hamish said, “If he wed her, he’d have custody of the child. Is that what began this business, her refusal?”
“Why didn’t you marry him?” Rutledge asked. “Ian would have had a proper father.”
“I didn’t want to marry. I didn’t want to wake up in the morning and find his face on the pillow next to mine. Or anyone else’s. I don’t love him. I gave my heart away once. I never want to do it again. It hurts too much!”
He thought of Jean. Yes, it hurt far more than it should, to love.
Fiona smoothed her hands together. “Have you ever made a house of playing cards? I used to do it for the Davison children sometimes. It always falls in upon itself. That’s my dilemma, Ian Rutledge. How to keep the cards from falling in on themselves. And try as I will, I don’t see the way to prevent it. It will be better for my son to grow up hating me or not even remembering my name and face than for the cards to fall in.”
“Someone tried to kill me yesterday.” The admission was forced out of him. He hadn’t intended to say anything. “Someone shot at me and it wasn’t by accident. It was a clear line of fire and he missed by very little. A warning perhaps. And I can’t fight back because I don’t know how! How many lives will you put at risk for your son?”
She winced, then recovered with an effort. “You’re a grown man. You can fight back, even against shadows. A small boy can’t.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want you to die. Any more than I want to die. But it’s a risk that I must take. God help me! ”
Rutledge walked back to the hotel, depression settling in like a black shroud. He went to the telephone closet and began the long, wearing task of tracing the house that had been a military hospital during the war. Saxhall or Saxwold.
There was no listing for a Saxhall, but there was for Saxwold.
In the next hour, he tried to locate any staff who had served there. Chiefly the matron or doctor in charge. He found one sister, who gave him the name of three more, and the last one pointed him to Elizabeth Andrews.
In another half hour he was speaking to her. She had been the nurse in charge of Saxwold’s most seriously wounded men, and was now at a hospital in Cambridge.
Her voice came over the telephone clearly, forceful, with the slight accent of Yorkshire in it.
Rutledge explained what he was after. “I’m looking for anyone who might have been friends with a Captain Robert Burns who was at Saxwold in 1916. He was there for nearly a month, then was released to convalesce in London.”
“Ah, yes, I do recall Captain Burns. A very nice man. I heard much later that he’d returned to the Front and been killed. A waste.”
“Indeed. There was a woman, Eleanor Gray, who met him either in London or at Saxwold. Do you recall her?”
“I thought you wanted to know who among the wounded was friendly with him! I have no idea who Eleanor Gray is, Inspector. I had little time to waste on visitors. These were seriously wounded men in my care.”
“The problem is that I don’t know with any certainty whether Eleanor Gray introduced Captain Burns to the man I’m seeking or if she met him through Burns. If she met him through Burns, it might be someone he knew at Saxwold.”
“I understand now. Well, since I have no knowledge of this woman, I suggest we begin with the patients. There were a number of critically wounded men at Saxwold at the time, and they seldom mixed with the other patients. Certainly not often enough for a friendship to be formed. Therefore you must be interested in the men who were more or less able to move about or have visitors. If I remember correctly, there were at least twenty of those. Of them I would say that Captain Burns was friendly with three or four.”
She gave him names and told him how badly each was wounded. Three had lost limbs. Rutledge discounted them. Mrs. Raeburn had said she couldn’t tell how the man at her door had been wounded. The fourth had been
