Legacy of the Dead - Charles Todd [105]
“With prices to match the furnishings,” Hamish commented as Rutledge opened the outer door to the smell of beeswax, good leather, and better cigars. An aura of respectability, timelessness, and good taste hung in the air.
Neither Mr. Grant Senior nor Mr. Grant Junior was in, he was informed by a young clerk. But Mr. Fraser would see him.
Rutledge walked into a paneled room filled with books, floor-to-ceiling shelves, volume after volume spilling over onto chairs and tables and every other flat surface, even jostling for space on the windowsills and cluttering the beautiful old carpet on the floor.
The man behind the desk rose to greet him, offering his left hand. His right arm was missing. “Inspector Rutledge! I’m Hugh Fraser. I hope there’s a grisly murder under our noses. I’m sick to death of wills and deeds and title disputes.” The fair face beamed at him, but the blue eyes were sharp.
“No such luck. I understand from the local police that one of your partners was a Robert Burns.”
“Yes, Robbie died in France in 1916. We’ve left his name on the door out of respect. Although I must say, I would welcome his ghost as a partner to help me sort out this tangle.” Fraser waved his left hand at the chaos.
No, you wouldn’t, Rutledge silently replied. Aloud, he said, “Do you know when he was killed?”
“In the spring of 1916.” He gave Rutledge the date. It was the same week Eleanor Gray had told Mrs. Atwood that she was going north to Scotland. “I heard it almost at once, actually. From a supply sergeant I was dealing with. He wasn’t aware that Robbie was my law partner. He just said he’d been told one of the Trossachs men had bought it that morning and thought I might know him. Hell of a way to find out. Robbie was a good man.” The smile had faded. “We lost too many good men. Were you out there?”
“On the Somme,” Rutledge answered, his voice cold enough to ward off friendly reminiscences.
Fraser nodded. “That was the worst of a bad lot. Why is the Yard interested in Robbie? Is it to do with any of his personal affairs? We handled everything. The will was straightforward, as you’d expect. I can’t imagine that three years later it might interest the police.”
“Not the will, no. I’m looking for the property that Captain Burns owned here. A house, I think.”
“His father hasn’t sold it. As I remember, it was a family property and Mr. Burns Senior was not prepared to part with it. He hasn’t changed his mind, has he?”
“Not to my knowledge. During the war, did Captain Burns’s friends use the house from time to time?” If Burns was killed the week she came north, he hadn’t driven Eleanor Gray to Scotland. Someone else had.
“I have no idea. I wouldn’t be surprised. Robbie was a generous man; he often did such things. You’ll have to speak to Robbie’s father. But I can tell you how to find the house. Craigness is small. You’ll have no trouble.”
“There was a young woman Captain Burns met in London whilst on sick leave. Eleanor Gray. Did he ever speak of her to you?”
“Eleanor? Oh, yes. Often. Robbie had helped her find pipers to entertain the wounded. Quite an undertaking, that was. He sent me a witty account of it, and it reached me in the middle of a push. It was a bad time, and the laugh did me good. At any rate, he and Eleanor went on to spend a good deal of time together before he was sent back to France. Showed me her photograph, in fact, when we crossed paths the last time. I got the feeling it was fairly serious. Robbie had enormous charm, you know, people liked him. A pity he didn’t make it home. I tried to look up Eleanor after the war, but no one had any idea where she might be. I wanted her to know how much he cared.”
Would it have made a difference if she’d known that in 1916? Aloud, Rutledge said, “Have you kept any of his letters?”
“Regrettably, no. I needn’t tell you how it was in the trenches. Paper was the first to rot in the rain and the mud—nothing lasted very long, not even boots. And what the weather didn’t get, the rats did. Stinking bastards!” It was said unemotionally.