Legacy of the Dead - Charles Todd [115]
But why—?
It made no sense. Rutledge, a seasoned investigator, found it hard to accept. Hard to believe that he had misjudged a man so completely.
He took out his watch. And made a swift decision. His first stop was the police station. But McKinstry wasn’t there. Oliver was.
“Where have you been?” he asked jovially. “Still hunting for straws to make bricks?”
“In a way. Look, I’m going back to Glencoe. I want to see the place where the bones were found.” It was not something he wanted to do.
“You climbed up there with MacDougal. There couldn’t have been much to see. The bones are gone. The place has already been minutely examined by MacDougal’s men. A wasted trip, if you ask me.”
“I know. Put it down to stubbornness. At any rate, will you give Inspector MacDougal a call and ask him to meet me there? I’d be grateful if he can spare the time.”
“All right. If that’s what you want.” Oliver added, “I’m surprised to see you in Duncarrick again. Any news to give me on Eleanor Gray?”
“Not so far. I’ve got a list of names to sift through. That can wait until I see the glen again. I’d like to save myself all that trouble.”
Intrigued, Oliver said, “You’re saying we overlooked something.”
“No. I’m saying I might see things differently.” He took out his watch, trying to cut the conversation short. “I’ve got another stop to make before I leave.”
Oliver let him go. Rutledge walked back toward the hotel and then went on to the rectory. Mr. Elliot, Dorothea MacIntyre informed him, was out, visiting a parishioner who was ill.
“It’s just as well. Do you mind if I step in and leave a message?”
She moved back from the door, blushing, as if she had failed in her duty because she hadn’t thought to ask him for a message. He smiled at her. “It won’t take long.”
He walked past her, and she turned to a small table under the window, producing a sheaf of paper from the single drawer. It was church stationery. Rummaging, she came up with a pen as well, smiling in triumph as she handed it to him. She was almost childlike in her pleasure.
Rutledge scribbled on a sheet, I came to call this morning but must leave town for a day. If you have time when I return, I’d like to ask you a few questions. He signed his last name.
Folding the sheet, he handed it to her. Then he said, “Do you know Alistair McKinstry very well?”
“Know him?” She looked frightened.
“Does he attend services at the kirk? Is he a kind man?”
Relieved that Rutledge wanted only general information and had in no way suggested that she might be a particular friend of the constable’s, she answered shyly, “Yes, indeed, he attends regularly. And I think he’s kind. He’s always kind to me.”
“Yes, I’m sure he is.” He walked to the door. It was time for the question that had really brought him to the rectory. “When you were cared for in your illness by Miss MacCallum and her niece, do you remember a rather pretty cairngorm brooch that Fiona was fond of wearing?”
She frowned, thinking. “I don’t recall Fiona wearing a brooch. She never even wore her wedding ring. It hung on a chain around her neck, where she couldn’t lose it. I saw it sometimes when she bent down to settle the pillows or bathe my face.”
“But not the brooch.”
Trying hard to please him, she said earnestly, “But Miss MacCallum had a lovely brooch! There was a pearl in the center. She let me wear it—for courage—when I came to the rectory to be interviewed by Mr. Elliot.”
“Did it help?” he asked, unwilling to cut short her brief burst of enthusiasm. She was pretty when her face was lit from within. Fragile and pretty.
But it was the wrong question. Her face fell. “Mr. Elliot recognized it and made me take it off. He said it was unbecoming to ape one’s betters.”
Hamish swore. Rutledge felt a strong urge to throttle Elliot. It was, he thought, an intentional cruelty. “Did you tell Miss MacCallum what he’d said?”
“Oh, no!” she said, horrified. “I couldn’t! I was too embarrassed. I said only that he was very kind.”
As she had just told him that Constable McKinstry was very kind.