Legacy of the Dead - Charles Todd [113]
Warren said, “Are you telling me you think she killed herself?” He shook his head. “Not Eleanor Gray!”
“She loved him. The last notation in the book was ‘I wish I could die too.’ ”
“Yes, yes, people say that,” Warren replied impatiently. “I’ve heard them say it. But that’s a source of comfort, not a decision taken. ‘I wish I could die and end this suffering—I wish I could die and not have to think about it any longer.’ Then they straighten their backbones and get on with living. And you didn’t know Eleanor Gray. She was incredibly vivid, the kind of woman other women never learn to understand. But men do—men always find that zest for life fascinating.”
AS HE ROSE to leave, Rutledge gave Tom Warren his card. “If you should think of anything else that might help, please get in touch. You can reach me in Duncarrick, at The Ballantyne.”
HE SLEPT FOR nearly ten hours, roused the hotel clerk at midnight in search of food, and then slept another six. The morning he woke up to was gray with clouds, but there was no rain in them.
Hamish, at his shoulder as Rutledge turned north, was arguing the question of Eleanor Gray’s feelings for Robert Burns.
“It could ha’ been infatuation.”
“A handsome man in uniform, the excitement of war. A romance that wouldn’t have lasted with the peace.” Rutledge was reminded of Jean, who had adored his uniform, then was terrified by the reality of war. He couldn’t imagine Eleanor Gray confusing war with romance and excitement. She had seen too many of the wounded—
“And infatuation is more likely to lead to suicide,” Hamish persisted.
“Fiona’s mother died of a broken heart.”
“That was no’ the same! She wasted.”
“It doesn’t matter. If Eleanor was carrying Robert Burns’s child, she wouldn’t have killed herself. If she wasn’t pregnant—then who’s to say?”
“It doesna’ explain how she came to be in the glen.”
“No. And that’s a question we still must answer.”
THINKING ABOUT ELEANOR Gray, Rutledge turned off the road north and made a detour to Menton.
He came up the sweep of the drive as the sun broke out of clouds and bathed the house in golden light, turning the windows to burnished copper, the stone to warm peach. It was remarkably beautiful. He pulled up to the steps and then walked a little way from them to look up at the house. This was what made David Trevor love the sticks and stones of building. The angles and shapes, the use of light and shadow, the grace and elegance of line.
We have come a long way from stone hovels and mud huts, he thought. In skill and in knowledge. But we still kill. . . .
He went up the steps and rang the bell.
The butler came to answer it and with perfect poise informed him that Lady Maude was not at home today.
Rutledge would have wagered a year’s pay that it was a lie.
But he accepted dismissal without demur.
Lady Maude did not wish to see him.
Was she afraid that he had brought her news she couldn’t accept? He had a feeling that the quarrel with Eleanor had wounded the mother as well as the daughter who walked away. Love could be terribly hurtful.
HE PULLED INTO Duncarrick in the early hours of evening and parked the motorcar in its usual place. After lifting his luggage out of the boot, Rutledge walked toward the front of the hotel, his mind still on Eleanor Gray.
He ran into Ann Tait as he turned the corner and begged her pardon.
Recognizing the Inspector, she said, “Where have you been, then?”
Setting down his cases, he answered, “I’ve been in Durham. Where are you going?”
She lifted the hatbox in her hand, its flamboyant ribbon catching the light from the windows. “A delivery. There’s to be a christening tomorrow.”
He said, “You weren’t here in Duncarrick, were you, when those women were murdered out on the western road? In 1912, I think it was?”
“Good heavens, Inspector! What women?” She looked alarmed.
“It doesn’t matter. I’d been thinking that Duncarrick was a quiet backwater, and someone corrected me, saying that there had been several murders here before the war.”
“That’s a fine thing to tell me, walking