Legacy of the Dead - Charles Todd [127]
Oliver stared at him. “You’re trying to tell me that my chief bit of evidence is a hoax!”
“No. I’m telling you that it isn’t what it seems.”
“Well, I won’t have it! We’ve got witnesses to what Betty Lawlor had to say—yourself included! You’ll confirm in the courtroom what she said. Or I’ll have you up for perjury!”
Rutledge gave him the name of the jeweler’s shop anyway. “Send McKinstry to look into this. It may not be true. If it isn’t, I shall retract any objections I have to the brooch as evidence.”
Suspiciously: “Why McKinstry?”
“He won’t like doing it. But he’ll be thorough. For the sake of the accused.”
Mollified, Oliver said, “I’ll do that, then!” And he stalked off.
Hamish said, “If the constable took the brooch to Glasgow, he’ll no’ come home and tell Oliver his own name’s put to the engraving card!”
“No,” Rutledge agreed. “It will be interesting, won’t it, to see how he handles such a minefield. If he gives Oliver the right name, he’ll be crucified before the Inspector can draw breath. And if he doesn’t give the right name, it will make him look worse when the truth does come out.”
He walked into the lobby of the hotel. The savory aroma of baked apples and cinnamon reminded him that he’d had no luncheon. There was a rattle of dishes and utensils coming from the dining room, which meant they might be serving still. His stomach growled at the thought.
He was halfway down the passage to find out, when the clerk at the desk called, “Inspector Rutledge? A telephone message just came for you. You’re to return the call at your convenience.” She reached into the drawer where messages were kept and handed one to him.
Rutledge thanked her and walked on to the dining room, opening the folded sheet as he went.
It was from Durham. The office of a law firm.
He knew who had called him.
Thomas Warren.
ABANDONING LUNCH, RUTLEDGE went to the telephone closet and closed the door behind him.
He got through to Warren straightaway and identified himself.
Warren asked, “Have you had any luck? Finding the man you’re after?”
“Not yet. I found a nurse who’d been matron at Saxwold. She gave me another name. Major Alexander. Does it ring any bells?”
“Alexander? ’Fraid it doesn’t. No, sorry.”
“He was in Palestine. Wounded there and was brought into Saxwold while Burns was a patient.”
“No. Perhaps you’ll have better luck with this one! I never met the man, but I have been searching for a letter I’d gotten from Rob when he was in London, convalescing. It was on the occasion of my birthday, and he said”—there was a rustle of paper, as if Warren was turning pages—“here it is: ‘I found seven people to celebrate your birthday. Eleanor, of course, and a girl James had asked me to look up, and Edwards was there with the Talbots, who were rather grim. The other brother, Howard, is listed as missing, and naturally they fear the worst. Edwards felt they needed cheering up! And I also invited Alex Holden, who lives in Duncarrick, for God’s sake, practically next door in Scotland. He was at loose ends, feeling in the mood to celebrate anything. The bone in his leg refuses to mend properly, thanks to the bloody Turks, and he’s got another round of surgery to face. We drank to you and to Victory and again to you but lost count after that, and then ate something before we were completely drunk and forgot what was due the absent guest of honor. I set a glass at your empty place—’ Well, you needn’t hear the rest. Alex Holden. You can add him to your list.”
26
RUTLEDGE SAT IN THE AIRLESS CLOSET, HIS MIND RACING, Hamish, ahead of him at first, then falling behind as fact after fact dropped into place.
Alex Holden of Duncarrick. Sandy Holden—of Duncarrick—
Alex or Sandy. Short for Alexander. Zander Holland— Major Alexander. The tags on the wounded were sometimes garbled. Or lost—
He had met Sandy Holden, for God’s sake, when he first came to Duncarrick—out by the pele tower, with his sheep! And seen him a number of times