Legacy of the Dead - Charles Todd [36]
He turned over, feeling sleep slipping away from him.
“The inn is closed, the child is taken away, and the woman is sent to prison to stand for her trial,” he went on to himself, unable to stop his mind from working. “With no impediment.”
Hamish countered, “Aye, but there was no way of knowing the Yard would be brought into the case.”
“Why did Lady Maude change her mind? I was nearly certain when I left there that her daughter was alive and well. Why did she change her mind?”
Hamish said, “She didna’ strike me as frivolous or foolish.”
And that, Rutledge thought, finally on the verge of sleep, was an extremely insightful analysis of Lady Maude.
THE NEXT MORNING in the rain Trevor helped Rutledge carry his luggage out to the car, then shook his hand warmly. Morag, a shawl over her head, came to embrace him, shamelessly reaching up to him. Rutledge found himself wishing that he needn’t leave after all. He had found ghosts here—and affection. The ghosts he was accustomed to. Affection he was not.
The rain fell in a heavy downpour that seemed to presage winter, a coldness in the air that touched the skin as he drove back to Duncarrick.
Inspector Oliver wasn’t at the police station. The constable on duty, MacNab by name, stood up warily as Rutledge introduced himself, and offered to send for Oliver. “For he’s out at a farm west of town. There’s been a rash of small fires that were probably set on purpose.”
“No, let him finish his business. I’ll be at the hotel—The Ballantyne. Tell him he can find me there.” He left, wondering to himself if Constable McKinstry could put a name to the arsonist.
The hotel offered an old-fashioned but comfortable elegance that breathed Victorian respectability. The young woman behind the desk looked up as he came dripping in and smiled. “Good morning, sir! In a manner of speaking!”
He took off his hat and looked ruefully at the wet brim. “Indeed. I think I could use a drink. Then I’d like a room.”
“I’ll be glad to see to that for you, sir.” She indicated the door to his left. “The bar parlor is through there.”
“Thanks.”
He went through the door and found the room filled with other refugees from the rain. The atmosphere was muggy, as if the dampness each had brought with him had settled in a cloud around them, like fog. The smell of wet wool mingled with wood smoke. Someone had lit the fire on one side of the paneled room, and it struggled to assert itself, adding measurably to the gloom. But no one paid any heed, lively conversations holding their attention instead.
Rutledge found a table by the windows that overlooked the street. He could hear the laughter from the bar, rough and male, workmen who had taken advantage of the rain to stop in for a pint.
He wondered how many of them had once patronized The Reivers.
A man with a fierce mustache came in, looked around him, and saw Rutledge. He came striding across to the table, nodded, and said, “I’m Oliver.”
Rutledge got to his feet and offered his hand. Oliver’s grip was strong but brief. He took the other chair at the table and beckoned to one of the barmaids. She came over, took their orders, and was gone.
Oliver stretched his feet out, looked ruefully at his wet shoes, and sighed. Then he turned to Rutledge and said, “I won’t beat about the bush. It’s not my way. I don’t like London sending someone up here to mind my business. But it’s done. I’ll cooperate in any way I can.”
“I’m afraid this is not my doing either. But there we are. I’d like to discuss the evidence with you when you have the time.”
The barmaid brought their orders, and Oliver drank his ale, savoring it. Then he said, “The evidence isn’t the problem. It’s the bones. Did you learn anything at all from that termagant in Menton? I’ve need of it, if you have.”
“Lady Maude refused to acknowledge that she’d quarreled with her daughter,” Rutledge answered, “but if I were a betting man,