Legacy of the Dead (29 page)

“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.”

29

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.

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?

There was nothing Rutledge could do but find out.

He went to the stairwell and listened, but heard nothing.

He began to move down, one step at a time. Swift—but sure.

At the bottom, he paused again. The cat had come down after him, and he tried to see if she had heard something he hadn’t. But she sat down on her haunches when he stopped. Her eyes were on his face.

He had left all the doors open behind him when he had come up the stairs. Now that served him well.

Moving quietly, he worked his way back to the bar.

And stumbled over something on the floor, nearly pitching forward, catching himself in time on the edge of the bar.

Reaching down, Rutledge groped at his feet, and touched hair. A woman’s soft hair. There was a white patch beside her. The christening gown—

He found her throat and searched for a pulse.

There was none.

Gentle God! Holden had killed his wife—

Anger swept him, following on the heels of shock.

He remembered what Holden had told him in the rain the previous night: that there was nowhere Rutledge could consider himself safe. It was true.

Rutledge got slowly to his feet, every nerve ending alive. Eyes sweeping the black shadows. All his training in France rushing back—

He was here—but where?
Rutledge could feel him like a second skin.

The cat’s sharp hiss warned him. There was a blindingly bright flash, a deafening report, and he was already dropping. Not fast enough this time. Something spun him half around, slamming into his chest.

He had been hit—

He knew the drill. It had happened before. Shock. Numbness. And then the pain.

Almost in the same instant, he acted, instinct already guiding hand and brain, throwing the dirk—aiming for the place he’d seen the flash of powder.

The Scots under his command had taught him well. The harsh intake of breath told him he’d hit his mark. Something fell heavily, taking a bar stool over with it. The clatter was appalling. And then silence.

Rutledge moved toward it, his own breathing uneven. Whoever it was still had a pistol—

He reached out, felt heavy, immovable flesh, and instinctively flinched.

There was no sound except for his own breathing—

Fumbling, he turned on his torch and looked down into the dead face of Alexander Holden. The knife, protruding from his throat, had severed the artery. There was a great deal of blood. Staining the scrubbed floor. Rutledge stared at it. Black and red, where the torch picked it out.

He realized he was no longer thinking clearly.

Rutledge told himself,
Fiona will have to explain—or
they’ll find my notebook—London knows about Holden too—