Charles Todd - Legacy of the Dead

Hamish, restless in his head, was a low rumble like thunder. Like the guns in France, which haunted both of them still.

Some twenty minutes later, moving quietly and keeping to the shadows, he reached The Reivers. Wet and cold, he stood silently in the doorway of the stables and waited to see if anyone had noticed him slipping across the yard. But the windows of houses that overlooked the inn yard were either dark or had had their shades pulled.

Rutledge had considered summoning Drummond as an ally, then decided it was far from certain just where Drummond’s loyalties lay. Feeling to be certain that his torch was still in his pocket, he crossed quickly to the back of the inn and found a window that he was able to force open with his knife.

A London burglar, he thought, pleased, couldn’t have done it better-or more quietly.

Climbing in, he let himself down gingerly, then reached up to refasten the sash as best he could. Satisfied that the window wouldn’t attract attention on a night like this, he bent to remove his shoes. They felt heavy, waterlogged.

Something stirred in the darkness, and he jerked away from it, prepared to defend himself.

But it was only Clarence, her light mew of greeting lost in the frantic beating of his heart.

Stooping, he rubbed her back, then let his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness before moving on.

He found himself in the small back room that had been used as storage for the kitchen. A stack of wooden boxes stood there, and he cut a strip from the top of one to reinforce his temporary patch on the window frame. He also found some towels in a drawer and used them to wipe his wet face and his hair. His stocking feet were reasonably dry, and he was grateful for that.

Moving slowly, cautiously, Rutledge made his way through the inn. In each room he paused, his eyes alert, his ears tuned to the merest sound. The silence was heavy, even shutting out the sound of the rain, and the white blur that was Clarence had already gone ahead of him, disappearing around a door. The kitchen. The bar. The inn parlor.

Rutledge came to the stairs, and after listening intently went up them softly, his stocking feet close to the outer edge of the treads, where there would be the least chance of a sound as his weight settled on the old wood.

There was no one in the room upstairs that belonged to Fiona.

He moved around it with care, checking behind the door and in every corner, even lifting the curtain around her clothes before looking under the bed. The floorboard, his questing hands told him, was still in place.

No one had been here. He was fairly certain of that. The question was, would someone come in the night? This night? Another night? Not at all…

It was a long watch. His shoulders grew tired, and his eyes burned from staring into the darkness. His clothes began to dry from the warmth of his body. His ears, picking up the creaks and moans of an old building, tried to place each one. Later, moving quietly to the window, he looked out into the street. But there was no one about. The rain, heavy and growing chilly as the wind picked up, had kept most people at home. There was only one umbrella moving down the street, shining in the light spilled out from windows.

If Holden had come here and found the christening gown with the telltale initials-if he had come again to take away the brooch-surely he would come now There was a chink! from somewhere in the house. The cat?

Rutledge was very still now, no longer waiting, feeling instead the adrenaline surge of danger. His breathing grew deeper, steadying him.

Rutledge had no illusions about Holden. He would kill… given the need.

Nothing. No one stirred in the bar below. No one came up the stairs.

Another quarter of an hour passed.

Suddenly he could feel the cool rush of air and smell the dampness of the rain. Someone had opened a door. Then it was closed again.

He waited, drifting silently behind the curtain surrounding Fiona’s clothes. The faint scent of her perfume reached him, evoking her image.

But no one came up the stairs.

He waited, and in the end decided to go closer to the stairway, where sounds from below would be magnified.

Moving to the top of them, he listened again. And then in the silence a soft footfall reached his ear.

It was too late to go back to where he’d been.

He moved back a very little, opening the stairs to whoever was climbing them with such stealth. After a few seconds he could-he thought-make out the dark shape coming toward him. The stairwell, like a pit, yawned into stygian darkness. But the shape moved… breathed. He could hear the quick, shallow breaths, the carefully placed feet on the steps…

Rutledge stood where he was, letting it reach him. Go past him It went into the child’s room, out of his line of vision, and was there for some minutes. Rutledge could hear the clothes chest open and after a time close. And then it was coming toward him again, something white grasped in front of it. Without seeing Rutledge in the deep shadows, it made for the head of the stairs.

And then Rutledge acted, moving from the balls of his feet, taking full advantage of the element of surprise, catching his quarry from behind, pinning the arms hard to the sides before he realized that it wasn’t a man he held in his grip but a woman.

Dear God!

“I’ll see you dead before I let you finish this.” Her voice was husky, low. And breaking free while he was still absorbing the unexpected shock, his grip loosened, she lifted her arm.

He saw the flash of a knife and spun away.

She came after him, raising it again. Determined. He caught her wrist, and the thinness told him who it was.

“Mrs. Holden? It’s Rutledge!” He spoke quietly, the words no more than a hiss. But she gasped, and said, “Oh, no!” in horror.

He moved closer to her, whispering, “What are you doing here?”

“He told me there was proof at The Reivers. He said he was coming to find it. I thought he meant the christening gown- But he had promised Oliver and the Chief Constable to have a drink with them first. So I came ahead, to stop him.”

She pressed something into his hands. He felt the cold steel of a dagger and the warmth of the hilt where her fingers had been. “It’s sharp,” she warned. “I was going to kill him with it. You must take it. You must kill him for me! If you won’t, I shall!”

“Mrs. Holden, you must go. Please! How in the name of God did you get in here without a key?”

“But I’ve had a key. Fiona gave me one after her aunt died. A precaution, if anything went wrong and I needed to reach Ian.”

“Then give it to me and go. I’ll see it’s returned tomorrow!”

“Will you kill him?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Not if I can help it.”

“You have the dirk. It was my father’s! If you won’t do it for me, do it for Fiona!”

And then she was gone, moving down the steps with the same silent care she’d used coming up them.

His heart still racing, Rutledge took a long breath. Then he listened. Somewhere a door opened and closed quietly. The only sign of it was the brief rush of cold, damp air. She was gone.

He went back into the bedroom. Something brushed past his leg, and this time he knew it was the cat. He bent to touch her, and she wrapped herself around his calf. He pushed her away then, afraid that the loud rumble of her purr would mask the other sounds he was waiting to hear. She went off, and he heard the small plunk! as her body leapt onto the bed.

There was a soft cry It came from the bar, and he stood where he was, tense and poised to move fast.

A decoy? To draw out anyone hidden in the darkness? Hamish was warning him to stay where he was Or had Holden run into his wife in the street?