Charles Todd - Legacy of the Dead

Now there weren’t even the echoes of the previous night. The inn had stood empty long enough that the only smells stirred by his passage were of dust and old wood, and in the kitchen, the ashes of fires in the great stove.

Hamish, at his back, noted the smoke-darkened beams and the polished wood of the bar; the windows with their starched curtains and the small pewter pots on each table that must often have held flowers; the pretty handmade coverlets on the beds of each upstairs guest room-hardly a temptation to whoring; the tidy row of hooks that held gardening tools in the small stone-flagged room off the kitchen. The cupboard that held linens smelled faintly of lavender and rose petals. The pantry was empty, only a few tins of food standing like sentinels on the long shelves. In the kitchen, dishes were stored neatly in a huge wooden dresser, great iron pots hanging within reach, the sink dry where vegetables ought to be lying, waiting to be scrubbed and cooked.

“I could hae’ lived here,” Hamish said wistfully, “and been at peace. With her. I wouldna’ ache for the Highlands if she was here wi’ me… I could rest easy.”

Rutledge tried to shut out the soft voice at his shoulder and listen for other ghosts that should dwell here. Ealasaid MacCallum for one. Or the sounds of a small boy as he played with his cat or ran shouting from room to room with his three-legged stuffed horse. Or Fiona’s presence as she went about her daily tasks. But he couldn’t find them. Especially he could not find Fiona’s.

It was as if even the floors had been scrubbed clean of the imprint of her shoe, to remove the last sign of her. Fiona had lived here-and put down no roots that he could see. She had done her duty by her aunt, had kept the inn alive and busy, had nurtured a child there. And let no one inside her heart, not even the building that she called her home.

After a time, to break the heavy silence that seemed to pervade the very walls, he turned to the cat and knelt to pet her. She reared her head under his hand, her eyes mere slits, and began to purr. “What would you have to tell me if you could speak?” he asked softly. “Hmmm?”

A voice said, “She’s naught but a dumb animal, man!”

Drummond, Fiona’s neighbor and guardian now of the child, stepped into the room, his presence startling the cat. Rutledge got to his feet as she disappeared behind the bar.

Even Hamish had not heard Drummond coming.

“But she has eyes, doesn’t she? And no reason to lie. I think it’s time that someone told me the truth,” Rutledge invited.

“There’s no truth to tell. What brings you here again?”

“I’m looking into the past, to see what’s hidden there that frightens so many people.” And yet he realized now that he’d spent his time at The Reivers trying to find a measure of Fiona MacDonald. Looking not for evidence but for the character of a woman who was as elusive as a wraith with no substance…

Why, then, hadn’t she sold up and left? If she had not been happy.

Eleanor Gray’s words came back to him. “ I could die-”

“Hummph.” Drummond was regarding him with dislike. “You’re a stupid man, then. It’s not in the fiber of this building. The past. It never was.”

“Why are you so certain of that?”

“Do I have to tell the police their business, then? Because the child wasn’t born here, was he! That’s where a sensible man would look, wouldn’t he? Where the child was born. If he can discover it.” There was a glint of challenge in his eye. As if he’d offered Rutledge an enigma.

“I’ve already been there. Where he was born. It’s a very ordinary clinic with a doctor too busy with his patients to care who they are. I’m told it was a normal birth, but the mother was very ill afterward.”

Appalled, Drummond stared at him. “And how, by God, did you discover any such thing? It’s more than Oliver ever did-or wanted to do!”

“I’m a policeman. It’s my job.”

Digesting the news, Drummond asked suspiciously, “Where might this clinic be found?”

Rutledge smiled. Interested, are you? “London. Carlisle. York. Your choice.”

Angry, Drummond said, “I won’t be taunted, policeman. Or made fun of. If you found the clinic, you found a name to put to that child. And to the child’s mother. Is that true?”

“Yes. I was given a name. It isn’t one I know.”

“And where might she be found now? On a hillside in the Highlands, bare bones with the corbies for company?” Something had changed in Drummond’s face. A tightness of the muscles under the eyes. A tension along the jaw.

“In her grave,” Rutledge answered, suddenly wary. He could feel the powerful emotion building in Drummond’s bulk. Why did Drummond care so much? Or if it wasn’t that-if he wanted the information for another reason- why the intensity? He added carefully, “If you know what’s best, you’ll leave her there. In her grave.”

“Why?” It was a growl.

“Because she’s safer there. And the child as well.”

“Which still leaves Fiona MacDonald in the hands of the hangman!”

“Not yet. Why should it matter to you?” Rutledge asked.

Drummond glared at him in hot, fierce silence.

“I’ve met no one else in Duncarrick save Constable McKinstry who gives a tinker’s curse for what becomes of her,” Rutledge repeated. “Why should you?”

Silence still.

Rutledge added, “Is it the tilt of her head when she listens to you? Or the smile in her eyes when she laughs-”

The fury erupted. “I’ll rip the tongue from your head!” He lunged, fast for such a big man, his fist grazing Rutledge’s cheek. But Rutledge had already stepped aside, catching Drummond’s wrist as he went off balance, turning to twist it high behind his back, forcing him hard into the edge of the bar as momentum carried him forward. Drummond was breathing heavily, well aware of the strength he possessed as he struggled against Rutledge’s weight-and nearly turning the tables. Rutledge’s fingers bit deeper into the man’s wrist, and he could feel the elbow strain.

“No, you listen to me, Drummond! If Fiona MacDonald is going to live, it will take more than you or I or anyone else can do to save her. Do you hear me? She’s doomed. And that child will grow up in an orphanage, believing what they tell him about her. If he remembers her at all, it will be with loathing.”

Drummond roared, swearing to kill Rutledge.

“Then help me, damn you!” Rutledge ended through clenched teeth.

He let the arm go and moved out of reach as Drummond swung around like an angry bear, his other fist just missing its mark. “I’ll help you to your grave -!”

“Touch me again and I’ll have you taken up for assault!” Rutledge warned him. “And if you’re in a cell, your sister will be the only one left to care for that child! Will she want that responsibility?”

He watched the battle behind the big man’s eyes, saw the furious desire to pound his fists into Rutledge’s face, saw the driving hunger to hurt. Dammed-up anger, too long restrained, long stored, needing release. And then saw, too, the swift victory of clear reason that overcame the wrath.

Rutledge tried another strategy. “Look, I’m sorry. But I can’t trust you if you won’t trust me. Do you see that? If I tell you whatever it is I believe I know, how can I be sure that it won’t reach the wrong ears?”

“What wrong ears?” Drummond was hardly coherent as he added thickly, “There’s a score to settle between us. The time will come when it will be settled.”

He brushed past Rutledge and went out the door, his breathing harsh and his anger still palpable. The clump of his hobnailed boots echoed through the bar.

Hamish, breathing nearly as hard, said, “It wasna’ clever to make him an enemy!”