Legacy of the Dead - Charles Todd [118]
“She will be grateful,” Rutledge said, and went down the walk to his car.
Hamish scolded, “You’ve broken your promise again!”
“No. I asked if Mrs. Cook could have had a child. I’ve put no one in danger!”
“It isna’ right to gie a promise and take it back when it suits!”
“It isn’t right for Fiona MacDonald to hang,” Rutledge retorted grimly.
“Aye, but she doesna’ deserve to put her faith in lies.”
RUTLEDGE REACHED GLENCOE before Inspector MacDougal got there, and spent the time climbing back to the rocks on the heights.
How had a woman dragged the dead weight of a body up this slope?
How would he have done it?
People found extraordinary strength in times of grave danger. It would have taken enormous effort. And time. At night then, when darkness gave the killer a good nine hours in which to accomplish the task.
And if he’d laid the body on a blanket and pulled—
What if the frayed edges of an old blanket had been cut off and hidden under the bench in the Craigness garden? To make a sturdier corner—
Overhead Rutledge heard an eagle scream and, shading his eyes, looked up. He could just see it, circling for altitude, riding the warming air. In the far distance a car was moving in his direction. Rutledge turned and began to walk back down the mountainside.
The sound of pipes came from somewhere, a lonely shepherd passing the time. Too far for Rutledge to pick out the tune. A pibroch, he thought. Very fitting here, where the mountains gave it body and redoubled the drones. He paused to listen.
Something cracked—a shot—echoing and re-echoing against the rock faces on either side of the road.
Instinctively, Rutledge ducked, long years of war making it a swift reflex action. The stones just behind him spurted, then slid in a trickling spill toward his feet. He swore.
There was no cover here—absolutely none—he was a clear target, easy to pick off—
Where was the man with the rifle!
Crouching, he scanned the opposite slopes and saw no one.
It hadn’t been his imagination! He knew the sound of a rifle; it was clear and definitive—
Then, at the top of the ridge across from him, he caught a slight shift of light and shadow and again threw himself to one side.
But this time there was no shot. MacDougal’s car was just below, the motor’s noise rising to where Rutledge was crouching. Close enough now to hear a rifle—
Rutledge shaded his eyes, looking intently for movement.
But the sniper had vanished, ducking over the opposite ridge, invisible now.
It would be impossible to catch up with him— Furiously angry, Rutledge wheeled to look for the spent bullet. He combed the area where he was certain he had seen the small slide of rock chips. It must have struck a stone and ricocheted.
He searched carefully—but he never found it.
INSPECTOR MACDOUGAL, GETTING out of his car as Rutledge reached the road again, said, “You’re a great man for the climbing!”
“Good exercise,” he answered, thinking of Mrs. Holden.
“Better you than me! What is it you’re looking for up there, that you need me to act as guide?”
“I’ve seen all I need to see on the mountain. Now I’d like to find that young girl, Betty Lawlor.”
“The one who discovered the brooch. Any particular reason you’d like to speak to her?” MacDougal looked at him speculatively.
Never infringe on another man’s turf. It was a cardinal rule Rutledge followed. “Yes. I’d like to hear how she came to have the price of a new pair of shoes.”
“As I remember, she said she’d earned them.”
“Yes, no doubt she had. I should have asked her how.”
“What does that have to do with finding the brooch?”
“It might have been the price of convincing her to turn it in. I find it hard to believe, thinking back on it, that a child as poor as that would come to you to ask if she could keep the brooch.”
“I wondered about it, of course. But the family is honest enough. The