Charles Todd - Legacy of the Dead

When he walked into the cell, he said, “I’ve come to say good-bye.” But he had his finger in front of his lips, signaling her to be silent. “Before I go, I must appeal to you one last time… for the sake of Lady Maude Gray and her daughter…”

In the passage outside the door he could hear Oliver’s footsteps receding. Rutledge came to Fiona and took her hands. “I know who Mrs. Cook is,” he said softly. “I’ve spoken with her.”

“No, that’s impossible-!”

“Fiona, just listen to me. There isn’t much time. I know what her husband is trying to do to her. And to you. You’re a scapegoat. Tethered to a charge of murder-he’s going to destroy Madelyn Holden through you and watch her die of shame. What you don’t know is that he also killed Eleanor Gray. Those bones on the mountainside are hers. The ones that Oliver found. And Holden will kill again. It’s too easy for him. He’ll kill that child, too, but it won’t be fast or merciful.”

“I’ve protected Ian-”

“I know what you’ve done. But Mrs. Holden is being frightened to death. Do you understand me? She’s battered every day by that man’s suspicions and doubts and anger. When I lifted her to carry her into Dr. Murchison’s office after she’d fainted, she was so thin, I was afraid of hurting her!”

“I thought-I was sure he’d never touch her!”

“He hasn’t. Not physically. He torments her instead, day after day. He’s sapping her courage, and one day she’ll want to die. And then she will die. By her own hand.”

“Don’t tell me these things, I can’t bear it!” she cried.

“You need to hear the truth, all of it. From start to finish.”

He gave her all the information he had. Trusting her.

She listened in silence, without asking questions, nodding from time to time as she understood where he was going. Accepting every word, trusting him in her turn.

When he’d finished, he said, “Wait until late this afternoon. After I’ve left for London. Summon Inspector Oliver. Tell him you want to speak to Mr. Elliot and the Chief Constable. Tell them that you don’t want to die. That you can prove that Ian’s mother is still alive. Tell them that the truth is hidden in The Reivers, and if Fiscal Burns will come in person tomorrow, you’ll take them there and give them your proof.”

“They’ll want to go straightaway-”

“No, they’ll have to speak to the fiscal. If need be, let them think you’re hoping to catch a glimpse of the boy.”

She shook her head. “No. I won’t tell them that. I won’t use Ian!”

“You must make your story plausible, Fiona. I want Holden to be told what’s happening. I want him to believe it. It’s the only way to make Oliver and the rest recognize how they’ve been used.” He added, “There’s one last thing. Mrs. Holden didn’t tell me the father’s name. And I didn’t press her. But now I need it. It’s the one crucial piece of information I don’t have.”

She said, “It’s not my place-”

“Fiona-” He stopped, then went on. “Holden is extraordinarily clever and he will turn everything to his advantage, finding some way to destroy that child. We must get Ian MacLeod out of Duncarrick, out of reach. Tomorrow.”

“His father is dead-he can’t help you!”

“It doesn’t matter! Even a dead man’s name makes a child safer. Mrs. Holden has no family, but Ian’s father might.”

She bit her lip. Finally, struggling with her own conscience and fearful of his, she said, “Will you swear to me- on your honor-that you won’t tell anyone unless you have to?” He nodded. “He was a naval officer. His name was Trevor.”

Rutledge felt his heart turn over. “No.”

“You wanted to know-”

“I- Ross Trevor? Are you very sure, Fiona? That Ian is his child?”

She was frightened. “I should never have told you-I knew it was wrong!”

“No. It-it’s good news. I’m glad for him.” There had been nothing of Ross in the child’s face- Except for the eyes, Rutledge realized suddenly. Those changeable eyes. “I’m glad for him-” he said again. But what about David Trevor? Would he, like the fiscal, refuse to accept his son’s decision to love another man’s wife?

It was Hamish who reminded Rutledge that the man who mourned his son so deeply would have to grow used to this news. But Morag would love the child. For Morag mourned too.

“You have sworn!” Fiona was pleading, confused by his sudden uncertainty.

“I’ll keep my word.” But he must persuade Mrs. Holden to find David Trevor once Alex Holden went to trial.

“You’ve forgotten Fiona-” Hamish railed. “You promised to see that the child was given back to her!”

Rutledge could read the despair in her face. She also knew what she had lost. Not her trial, but her son.

No, Mrs. Holden and David Trevor would see that she was never alone again But Hamish refused to be mollified. He said, “How many promises will ye break?”

Rutledge leaned forward, kissing her cheek. “Fiona-it will be all right.”

She didn’t move. Her face wrung his heart. She said forlornly, “Will it? I wish I could be as sure.”

Oliver bade Rutledge farewell and wished him a safe drive back to London. “Although I don’t know what you’re to tell Lady Maude Gray.”

“The truth. What I know about it.” But not the part Holden had played.

“Well, then, she ought to be glad to learn what’s become of her daughter. You can tell her, we’ll see that the accused is punished for what she’s done.”

Rutledge shook his hand, walked back through the downpour to the hotel, and notified the Ballantyne staff to draw up his bill. Then he began to pack.

It was shortly after luncheon that he drove out of Duncarrick. He let the motorcar stand in the street in the rain, for all the world to see, his luggage in the back and a hamper of food on the seat next to him.

Ann Tait, worried about her geraniums drowning in their pots, paused to look down the street at his car, then hurried back into her shop.

Mr. Elliot, coming back from calling on a parishioner, stopped to ask if he was leaving.

“Yes,” Rutledge replied. “I’ve finished my business here.”

“You left a message with my housekeeper that you wished to speak with me.” His black umbrella glistened with raindrops, and the sleeves of his coat were damp.

“I found the information elsewhere. I’m glad I didn’t disturb you.”

“I wish you Godspeed, then.”

Rutledge thanked the minister and went around to turn the crank, drying his hand on his trouser leg before reaching for it.

He drove some miles out of town, then found himself a quiet spot in a small copse of very wet trees where the motorcar was nearly invisible from the road.

It would be a long wait. It might even be a useless one. But he was prepared to be patient. And to endure another soaking.

By nightfall Rutledge had completed his notes, setting out his entire investigation-when and with whom he had talked, what he had been told and by whom-each step in the long chain and the conclusions he had reached. Then he set the notebook under the dash, well out of the rain. He had also eaten the sandwiches, and nearly finished the tea. He wished for more to fight the raw chill.

He waited another hour, then got out and cranked the engine. The rain had let up a little. Still, it took him nearly half an hour to reach the western edge of Duncarrick, avoiding the main streets and the more traveled roads. He arrived at his destination reasonably sure he hadn’t been seen. Few people were out on such a wretched night.

Rutledge left the motorcar hidden deep in the shadows of the pele tower, well out of sight. Then he walked the rest of the way, his shoes heavy with water.