Charles Todd - Legacy of the Dead

“Aye,” Hamish commented through clenched teeth, “and sorry for it!”

The writer of these letters, Rutledge thought, thumbing through a dozen more statements, had been very clever indeed. Possibly too clever? She-or he-had known Duncarrick well, to choose the letters’ recipients with such unerring accuracy. The seemingly untutored handwriting and the cheap stationery were no more than carefully thought-out trappings. This could not be, in his opinion, the work of a jealous wife or a jilted lover, driven to striking out.

The widow whose husband had died in the war: “I thought she might be more sympathetic to my suffering, having lost her own husband. But she wouldn’t talk about Corporal MacLeod. Now I doubt he ever existed!”

The elderly woman who cleaned the church: “I went to Mr. Elliot, I was that upset! That she should be sitting among us, a two-faced harlot. And Mr. Elliot said he’d prayed over her from the start-she hadn’t worshiped with what he believed to be sincerity-”

“Is it likely yon Mr. Elliot has written these abominations?” Hamish demanded. “He claims he sees the weaknesses of people-”

It was something Rutledge had been considering. To teach Fiona a lesson? If so, it had gotten out of hand…

Another woman with small children: “Young Ian had lovely manners. I never guessed that he was what he was- but blood tells, doesn’t it? In the end, blood tells! I’m so grateful that dear Ealasaid never lived to see this day. It would have been horrid. She was so happy when Fiona came-”

A woman who had been close to Ealasaid MacCallum: “I can’t sleep at night thinking how this would have hurt dear Ealasaid. I’ve known her since she was a girl, and it would have broken her heart to find out how she’d been-used- in this fashion. It won’t surprise me at all if Fiona is a murderess! Look how she treated her own flesh and blood-she knows no shame!-”

Hamish railed, “The shame’s hers -”

“It’s human nature we’re dealing with here,” Rutledge answered. “Don’t you see? The first stone has already been cast. When the police interview the next person, he or she wants to be counted among the righteous. It doesn’t prove anything except that people as a rule are easily led.”

Rutledge put the statements back in their original order and set them in the box. It had been unpleasant reading. Someone-Constable McKinstry, he thought-had likened Fiona MacDonald’s situation to the hysteria of witch hunts in the 1600s. And so it was. Fiona’s sin-if there was a sin- had been to keep to herself. Many people had held that against her and at the first test showed neither generosity nor trust.

In choosing so carefully, the writer of the letters had been successful in destroying Fiona MacDonald’s good name.

But were there other people, reluctant to step forward in the face of overwhelming public opinion, who privately might help?

Rutledge went back to the square and at random stopped several women doing their day’s marketing. The first one was red-faced, with graying hair straggling out of the tight bun at the nape of her neck.

Introducing himself, he explained that he was searching for anyone who could give him information about Fiona MacDonald’s history before coming to Duncarrick.

The red-faced woman assured him that she had no knowledge of “that person.”

He thanked her and moved on. His next choice was a middle-aged woman in a neat blue coat and a hat with a modicum of style. A schoolmistress, he thought, walking the narrow line of decorum required by her position.

She was flustered by his question, and he wondered if she had known Fiona better than she wished people to remember.

“No-no, I really didn’t know her well. A passing-acquaintance. I accepted her for her aunt’s sake, of course, believing that Ealasaid’s family must be above reproach. It was a terrible shock when I heard-my first thought was ‘Oh, I’m glad her aunt isn’t alive to see her taken up by the police!’ ”

“You knew nothing about where Miss MacDonald lived before coming here? Her aunt never spoke of her niece in your hearing?”

“Well-that is, I believe-er-Miss MacDonald lived with her grandfather until his death. Ealasaid must have said something about that. I-I seem to remember that she- Ealasaid, of course!-thought very well of him. A good man-well-respected in the Highlands. Which made it all the more shocking that his granddaughter should-well, disappoint the family so horribly.”

She had managed to appear totally ignorant of any facts-aware only of hearsay and half-remembered gossip. Her pale brows and lashes fluttered as she asked plaintively, “Is there anything else, Inspector?”

He shook his head and thanked her.

Hamish was pointing out, “That one hasna’ the courage to stand alone. She’s too afraid of people turning their faces fra’ her.”

A harried young woman with boisterous twins dragging at her heels blushed when he stopped her, and turned her face away to speak to the boys. They were just old enough- three? four?-to have been playmates for Fiona’s son. “I saw her sometimes on the street, and for her aunt’s sake tried to be nice. But she wasn’t a woman I was likely to be friends with.”

“Did your children ever play together?”

“Oh-! Well-sometimes, when I called on Miss MacCallum. That is, it was not a usual thing, you understand. But young children-they don’t play very much at this age, do they? They- It was more a matter of sitting and staring at each other across the room and-um-sometimes passing a toy back and forth.”

“Did you feel that the MacDonald child was not a proper companion for your children? After all, his mother worked at The Reivers.”

“It was a very respectable inn! Miss MacCallum would never have allowed any impropriety there. No-it’s just that we live on opposite ends of the town. It was not convenient…” She let the words trail off.

Rutledge asked again, “Do you know where Miss MacDonald resided before she came to stay with her aunt?”

The woman scowled, and disentangled one boy’s chubby hand from the edge of her coat. “No, Donald, you mustn’t pull at me. We’ll be walking on presently.” She turned back to Rutledge. “I remember she said something about a family she’d lived with. How much she’d cared for the children.”

“Can you tell me who her friends were in Duncarrick?”

“No-of course I wasn’t close to her-she-I have no idea.”

Which was another way of washing her hands entirely of the matter. Hamish said, “She’s repeating what her husband has told her to say.”

Rutledge tended to agree with his assessment. There was neither warmth nor anger in her responses, only a determined effort to keep clear of the tangle of Fiona MacDonald’s affairs.

He let her go and crossed the street. Outside the milliner’s shop he met a tall, thin woman coming from the other direction. She had an air of fragility, as if she was recovering from an illness, but she moved with grace. When he removed his hat and spoke to her, she stopped with courtesy and waited for him to ask his question.

“I’m sorry,” she answered in a pleasant voice. “I’ve been unwell, and find it difficult to go into society as I used to. I don’t believe I have met Miss MacDonald. I can tell you Miss MacCallum was both respected and admired. She was very active in charity work and had a reputation for honesty in all her dealings. And as far as I knew, Miss MacDonald was a very fine young woman. The charge of murder against her is beyond belief.”

Hamish said, “Aye, it’s guid to hear the truth!”

This woman’s appearance and manner indicated that she might have been educated at one of the better schools. Or perhaps lived for a time in England. Rutledge asked, “Did you-do you know anyone by the name of Eleanor Gray?”