Legacy of the Dead - Charles Todd [21]
When he arrived in the kitchen on Sunday morning, Morag wasn’t alone.
In the big room with its iron stove and old-fashioned hearth, the scent of fresh scones was warm and delicious. But the thin, fair man who stood up from the table, pink with embarrassment and determination, was wearing the uniform of a policeman. A Scots policeman.
Morag, fetching the teapot from the stove where it had been steeping, told Rutledge, “He won’t go away. His name’s McKinstry, and he’s the grandson of my late sister’s husband’s cousin. He wants to see you.” In Scotland, kith and kin cast a wide net.
“McKinstry,” Rutledge acknowledged, taking his accustomed chair and moving his cup closer to Morag as she turned to pour. “What brings you here?”
“Inspector Rutledge,” the young Scot said with formality. “I’m not sure, sir. That is to say, it’s business, my own business, I’ve come about.”
“Just as well. I have no jurisdiction here. I’m on holiday.”
“Aye, sir. I’ve been told that.” The constable glanced uneasily at Morag. She, apparently, had made it quite plain that no kin of hers would disturb Himself’s guest. “I’m from near Jedburgh. The town where I’m stationed is smaller and not on the main road. I doubt you’ve ever heard of it until now. Duncarrick, sir.”
Hamish, who had been on edge since crossing the border, was already busy speculating and not liking the answers he found.
It was the town that Inspector Oliver had come from, the policeman who had so enraged Lady Maude Gray. “Yes. I’ve heard of it.” Morag had set the plate of hot scones in front of him and a dish of butter. He wished McKinstry to the devil but listened politely as he reached for his knife. The man, unwittingly, was an intrusion of things Rutledge had deliberately put out of his mind for these few days. Hamish, stirring as Rutledge himself felt an upsurge of tension, was an undercurrent half heard.
The constable’s face brightened. “It’s not a troublesome place. I know the people well enough, I can’t say they’re any worse than people are in the next town or the next—”
“Get on with it, McKinstry!” Morag said.
The scones were excellent. Rutledge had dreamed about them at the Front—the food had been unspeakable, and after a while nobody paid any heed to what he was swallowing, but there were other times when a sudden memory brought back a taste so vivid, it seemed to linger on the tongue. He found himself thinking of Ross, who had always sat across from him, grinning as they put away one after another until the plate was empty.
McKinstry cleared his throat, unaware that he was standing behind Ross’s chair, his hands touching the worn wood of the back, infringing on a memory.
“Inspector Oliver informed me late yesterday afternoon that there was a man coming from London to help us in the matter of Lady Maude Gray’s daughter. Rutledge, the Inspector said the name was. I came this morning to ask Morag Gilchrist if it was one and the same man she knew. She said you were here on holiday, but if I was brief, I could ask—”
Rutledge, another scone halfway to his mouth, stared at the young constable. A man coming from London . . . Rutledge, he said the name was . . . He turned sharply to look toward Morag, but she was working at the oven, her back to him.
When he’d spoken to the Yard Friday morning, nothing had been said about continuing to Duncarrick. Was he now expected to report his conversation with Lady Maude to the Scots in person? It would be very like Bowles to throw a subordinate to the wolves, if the Chief Superintendent saw unpleasantness ahead. The man had a knack for taking cover at the right time! Or had some new information come to light at the teaching hospitals? Whatever it was, Rutledge had a sudden nasty feeling that he was going to be the sacrificial