Legacy of the Dead - Charles Todd [28]
“Good morning!” he called as he saw Rutledge turn. “Looking for something?”
“No, just interested in the stonework.” Rutledge waited until the man was nearer and added, “It’s amazing, the craftsmanship of the people who built this. It’s stood here what—four or five hundred years?”
“About that. Fine workmanship, I agree. Desperate times calling for desperate measures, if you like. It belonged to my wife’s family. She knows the history of it better than I do.” He took off his hat and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “God, everything smells of sheep. I’m a horse breeder by preference. Draft horses. But the Army took nearly every animal I had, and I’ve got to start again. Meanwhile, the sheep are tiding me over.” He grinned. “It’s a near thing whether I’ll kill them first or they’ll be the death of me. Stupid beasts, they are. Even the dogs find them irritating.”
He spoke well for a farmer. An educated man.
“I’d have as little to do with them as possible,” Rutledge agreed.
“Here on holiday? There’s some good walking in the district if you know where to look. The rule is, close gates you find closed and leave open gates you find open. There’s a nasty-tempered ram here and there, but you’ll see him before he sees you.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.”
The man nodded and walked on, whistling to his dogs, who ran, tongues lolling, some distance ahead. Their ears pricked, and they obeyed his signals instantly. Rutledge watched them. Clever animals, he’d always admired their intelligence, their speed, and the way they could drop to the ground, nearly invisible, when the command came. Working dogs these, not pampered house pets, and very good at what they did. In the Highlands especially, sheep couldn’t be run without them. He had met a man once who trained these dogs, an old rough-edged rogue who had taken his skills and his eye for instinct to New Zealand, where sheep were still king.
Rutledge went back to the motorcar and, starting the engine, headed into Duncarrick again.
HE DROVE SLOWLY through the main square, studying it, before he came back to the hotel and asked directions to the police station. The clerk told him, “But I doubt there’s anyone there at this time of day. And Inspector Oliver is away to Jedburgh on business. Constable McKinstry’s to home. It’s his day off.”
Rutledge left his motorcar at the hotel and walked the short distance, following the clerk’s careful instructions.
McKinstry lived behind the square, a three-story house with a fresh coat of cream paint. The buckets and ladders stood to one side, in the narrow alley between it and its neighbor, waiting for the sun to reappear. Down the same street, some twelve or thirteen buildings to the left, was the police station, its sign affixed to the door, a neat black square with white letters. As the clerk had foretold, no one was there. Rutledge turned back to McKinstry’s house. There was a fair amount of activity in the street—soberly dressed men and women going about their business. Two carters carried on a loud conversation at the next corner, then moved on as a lorry came rolling slowly past, looking to make a delivery at the apothecary’s shop.
Hamish, who had been observing the town with some interest, commented, “There’s enough money here to keep up appearances. But no’ enough to be grand. Plain people, with plain souls.”
It was, Rutledge thought, a fair verdict. McKinstry had been right—the police here dealt with the ordinary. And even murder could fall into that category.
Constable McKinstry, concealing his surprise at finding Rutledge on his doorstep, welcomed him into the parlor and waited for him to explain his visit, although there was a glint of hope in the blue-gray eyes. The paint-spattered coveralls