Legacy of the Dead - Charles Todd [123]
“Your meddling is no’ making someone happy.”
Rutledge turned from the window and took a deep breath. “If it isn’t Fiona who matters, and it isn’t the inn, where’s the pawn in all of this?”
“The boy.”
“Yes,” Rutledge said slowly. “The legacy of the dead. Why is that so very important?”
But Hamish had no answer to give him.
RUTLEDGE ATE A hurried lunch and then went to the police station, requesting to see Fiona MacDonald.
Pringle, on duty, protested, “I don’t know that I can give you the key, sir! Inspector Oliver says you’ve finished with this part of the investigation.”
“I thought I was,” Rutledge said easily. “I have here a list of names, men who might have known Eleanor Gray. We haven’t asked Miss MacDonald if any of them mean anything to her. If Oliver complains, send him to me.”
Pringle reached behind the desk for the key and handed it over.
Rutledge found Fiona standing, as if she’d been restlessly pacing her cell. Little enough exercise for a woman accustomed to having her days filled with activity at The Reivers. Prisoners often complained about that—the sheer, wasting boredom of waiting for trial.
He shut the door behind him and began by saying, “I saw the child the other day. He had been feeding the cat with Drummond.”
“Did he look well? Happy?” she asked anxiously. “I wonder often if he’s sleeping properly. Or if he has nightmares—”
“He seemed happy enough.” He took out his list of names and slowly read them to her, watching her face. But Fiona shook her head.
“I can’t identify any of them. I’m sorry.”
Closing his notebook, he said, “Fiona. If you didn’t kill the mother of that child—if you’re being persecuted for no reason that either of us can put a finger on—then I’m forced to ask myself what there is about that child that threatens someone’s peace enough to get at him through harming you.”
“How could such a small boy threaten anyone!” she parried, surprised.
“I don’t know. But the deeper I go into this mystery of yours, the more certain I am that he’s the key.”
“He’s only a little boy who thought he belonged to me. He doesn’t know or care who his real mother was—who his father might have been. And there’s no fortune unless he’s allowed to inherit The Reivers when I’m—dead.”
“But someone does care. For a time I considered the possibility that it had to do with the Gray fortune. Or protecting a family’s reputation. Now I’m less convinced. In my judgment, the child’s important because no one is sure exactly who he is, and either someone wants that proof—or wants to bury it with you. I’m beginning to think that the hope was, if the police investigated thoroughly enough, they’d find the answer to the question of his mother’s identity. And save someone else the trouble of doing so. Or else the court will hang you and save that someone else the trouble of getting rid of you before you speak out.”
Something in her eyes told him that he was close to the truth—but not really there. That he still hadn’t put his finger on the crux of Fiona’s secret.
As if talking to himself, he murmured, “A child who came to light at the wrong time could cheat someone out of an inheritance. Or embarrass a family on the point of contracting an important marriage. Or bring to light a liaison that has been hidden until now.” He added after a moment, “Or it might be that someone wants him rather badly but doesn’t want to step forward and admit that the boy is hers—or his. If Ian is in an orphanage, he can be adopted properly, without revealing any connection with you or him.”
Fiona said carefully, “If I told you the name of Ian’s father, you’d find nothing in the knowledge to explain what’s happening. He was an ordinary man. A very kind and a very good man. But a very ordinary man.”
“If he’s dead, then we’re left with the mother.”
“Why should his mother—who most certainly knew who that child is—fear him in any way?”
“Then why is she protecting him? At the cost of your life?”
“She’s dead. She can’t protect anyone, not even herself.”
Rutledge said, “Let