Legacy of the Dead - Charles Todd [119]
Rutledge had no wish to find water in his petrol again. Or a bullet through a tire. “We might as well take both.”
“Safe enough here,” MacDougal said. “But it’s your choice.”
He pulled out ahead of Rutledge to lead the way.
Hamish warned, “Watch your back!”
Rutledge said, “No. He won’t risk firing again. Not with MacDougal ahead of us. How did anyone know I was here? I told Oliver—”
Anyone could have overheard Oliver’s call to MacDougal. Anyone could have asked Oliver, “I saw Rutledge leaving town, where has he gone?”
“And who did Oliver tell?” Hamish said.
“Or I could have been followed to Brae and then here.”
“But if he knew and came ahead while you were in Brae, he would have the time to climb.”
“I know.” Rutledge let it go. There was nothing he could do now.
Sheep were being driven down the road, filling it with white, curly humps that bobbed ahead and then behind, crowding against the two motorcars. He could hear MacDougal shouting to the man to move them on, and the high whistles to the dogs. Moving to lower pastures before the autumn storms came.
Pulling out of them, MacDougal drove on, then turned off the road where an ancient stone croft squatted in the shelter of the hill.
It has only two rooms, Rutledge thought, and no water that I can see. Betty Lawlor was poor indeed.
Hamish said, “There’ll be a rill close by. Enough for their needs.”
A ragged child of about seven popped his head out the door and then went back inside, calling to someone, before coming to stand on the threshold. His eyes were wide as he took in the two motorcars parked in front of him.
MacDougal had gotten out and was crossing the hard-packed dirt of the yard when a man came to meet him. He was of middle height but heavy across the shoulders, and the filthy undershirt he wore was torn across the back. His trousers were held up with string, not braces. The bleary eyes and fleshy nose told the rest of the story.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Lawlor. I’ve come to have a word with Betty, if you please.”
“I thought you might be bringing her back.”
“Where’s she got to, then? Out with the sheep?”
“She’s gone.”
“Gone?” MacDougal looked over his shoulder at Rutledge. “Gone where? Look, I want to talk to her. Tell me where she is, and I’ll be on my way.”
The ravaged face turned puce with anger. “Gone, I telt ye, and gone she is! That’s plain as plain! No skin off my backside if she’s alive or dead.”
A worn woman in a faded dress came to stand at the door behind him. MacDougal took his hat off to her, but she said nothing.
Rutledge said, “What did you do to her, Mr. Lawlor? That made her run away?” He had a feeling that he already knew.
He thought the man was on the verge of apoplexy, he was so angry.
The woman said, “She wouldna’ tell him where she got the money for the shoes. He thought he had a right to know. He thought she might have more of it. So he beat her until she couldn’t cry. And that night she left.”
“I’ve got every right to that money! I feed and clothe these brats. I keep a roof over their heads. What they have is mine.”
“Beat your children again, Lawlor, and I’ll haul you in for drunk and disorderly, and keep you in prison until you rot, do you hear me!” MacDougal’s voice was cold. “Do you hear me, man!”
“It willna’ do any good,” his wife said in a tired voice. “When he’s like this, he doesna’ remember a word.”
Lawlor swung a fist in her direction, but she moved away with the ease of long practice.
Rutledge thought of that same fist beating the thin child he’d seen on the mountainside. Whatever Betty had done, she was better off out of here.
“I want her back!” Lawlor was saying now, his voice plaintive. “There’s nobody