Legacy of the Dead - Charles Todd [101]
“Something belonging to Fiona MacDonald has been found near the place where Oliver thinks the body of the child’s mother was hidden. In Glencoe. Fiona told me it was safe here at The Reivers. But she was wrong.” He let out a breath in frustration. “Oliver has all he needs now to convict.”
“Are you telling me something has been stolen from here?”
“The police at the scene think the murderer dropped it while trying to drag the woman’s body high up the slope on a mountainside. A sheepman’s daughter found it. I don’t know what to believe.”
“I have the only other key, and it was given me by Ealasaid MacCallum herself. Fiona handed hers to Oliver when they took her away. Are you calling me a thief?” Drummond’s voice was dangerously quiet.
“No, damn it. I’m saying that what was found in Glencoe is enough to hang Fiona MacDonald. However it came to be there. And if she’s right, that it was here in Duncarrick in July, then someone must have come in here secretly and taken it!”
“Fiona doesn’t lie. I’ve never known her to lie!”
“She lied about the child.”
Drummond gestured angrily, and Clarence fled over the side of the bed in a single fluid movement. “That’s not the same thing. You know it isn’t the same!”
Rutledge started toward the door. “Drummond. I have to leave Duncarrick for a time. Keep an eye on the inn. It wouldn’t do for more—evidence—to find its way to Oliver.”
Hamish warned, “It’s a thin line you’re walking! There’s no way to know where his loyalties lie!”
Rutledge responded silently, “Call it the Biblical casting of bread upon the waters. I need to find out if he’s friend— or foe. He has custody of that child!”
Drummond let him pass. As they went down the stairs, Rutledge said over his shoulder, “If I can put a name and a history to the bones in Glencoe, I will. That’s the only way to break the chains tying Fiona MacDonald to murder.”
WHEN RUTLEDGE ARRIVED at the smithy, he found that the motorcar was repaired and ready to drive.
The young mechanic came out of the small shed where he worked, rubbing his black, greasy hands on a greasier square of cloth. Grinning, he beckoned to Rutledge. “Come look at something.”
“I’m not sure I want to,” Rutledge answered, following him. “What’s wrong with my engine?”
But the mechanic said nothing. When he got to a workman’s bench full of tools and parts and a jumble of odds and ends, he reached for a grimy jar that was sitting behind a coil of rope. Holding up the jar, he said to Rutledge, “Now take a look.”
The jar was full of petrol. Except at the bottom, where a layer of something else moved less sluggishly.
“Water!” Rutledge said, surprised. “There was water in my tank!”
“When all else fails,” the mechanic said happily, “expect the impossible. Yes, indeed, ordinary water. Stopped you as efficiently as an artillery shell. And with greater accuracy, I might add! I drained off the lines, let the jar’s contents settle, and there you have it. A mechanical marvel.” He put the jar back on the bench. “Been swimming in that motorcar, have you?”
Rutledge paid the inflated bill without comment.
AS THEY DROVE out of the smithy’s yard, Hamish said, “This meddling with the car was no’ the same as searching your room. And if there’s anyone who will ken where to look for whoever is responsible, it’s yon constable.”
“If it was mischief,” Rutledge responded, “then the timing was remarkably opportune. I don’t like coincidence.”
McKinstry was coming out of the barbershop when Rutledge spotted him and offered him a lift as far as his house. In response to Rutledge’s question about malicious property damage, the constable shook his head. “We don’t see much of that. Too easy in a town this size to guess who the culprits are likely to be. The Maxwell brats, now, they’re a wild lot, and it’s only a matter of time before their mischief turns to something more serious. The Army might make men out of them, but their father never will—too quick with his fists.” He added with curiosity evident in his face, “Any particular reason for your