Legacy of the Dead - Charles Todd [45]
From down the passage Rutledge heard a light knock, and a door opened. After a moment, the young woman returned.
“Come this way, sir, if you please.” She led him toward the back of the house, where he found himself in a large room so crowded with furnishings and shelves of books that it seemed on the brink of collapsing in upon itself.
The man at the cluttered desk was of medium height and build, but he possessed a hatchet nose and the eyes of a fanatic—hot with the belief that he had answers to whatever questions confronted his flock. He was stony-faced, but the eyes were alive with his righteousness. Hamish, a Calvinist to the core, muttered, “He’d burn heretics at the stake if he could. . . .” And there was no praise in the words, only warning.
Elliot held out his hand to Rutledge but didn’t rise. Rutledge took the dry, stiff fingers and shook them briefly.
“What may I do for you, Inspector?”
“I’ve been sent to Scotland to look into this business of the woman who called herself Mrs. MacLeod,” he began easily. “The child’s true mother may have been English.”
“I see.” Elliot frowned. “It could be possible. Yes.”
“Miss MacDonald, I understand, attended services in your church. Have you visited her since her arrest? As her pastor?”
“Only once.” His eyes moved around the room. “Nor has she asked for my counsel and guidance since.”
“Surely even she is worth saving?” Rutledge spoke quietly.
The fierce pale blue eyes came back to Rutledge’s face. “Redemption is not granted. It is earned. She refuses to confess her sins.”
Plural. “Sins?”
“They are many. Arrogance. Pride. Wantonness—”
It was noticeable that murder was not listed among them. Hamish pointed that out, growling. He had taken an instant dislike to the minister. Rutledge made an effort to maintain his own objectivity. But he found himself thinking that this man had used the anonymous letters to punish the recipient, not the sender. Which seemed an odd choice for a man of God . . .
“If the child is not hers, how can she be accused of wanton behavior?”
“I have watched a man sink to his knees and beg God’s forgiveness for the desire she had aroused in him, and agonize over his soul’s danger. He is a decent man, and he cannot bear the guilt.”
“Surely that is his sin to expiate, not hers.”
Elliot smiled coldly. “Women have always been temptresses. Adam ate the apple at Eve’s behest. He fell from grace with God, and our own Savior came to redeem that mortal sin. Redeem it on the cross with His flesh. Fiona MacDonald is a weak vessel. The spirit does not move in her. Such women are to be pitied.”
“From what I hear, no one has accused Miss MacDonald of being a poor mother. She loves the child she called her son.” He found he couldn’t speak the boy’s name.
“All the more reason to keep the lad from her. A God-fearing family will soon wipe away all memory of her and bring him up as he should be brought up. She has no claim upon him, after all.”
“Do you believe she’s guilty of the charges brought against her?”
“Oh, yes. Beyond any question.” Elliot rubbed his chin. “I have seen the faces of my flock turn against her. One by one. It is a judgment.”
“Then she will surely hang.”
Elliot looked him up and down. “Very likely. Why are you convinced of her innocence?”
Startled, Rutledge said, “Am I?”
“Oh, yes,” Elliot said again, steepling his fingers. “I haven’t been pastor of my flock these thirty-two years without learning how to read the men and women who come to stand before me. You are a guilt-ridden man, haunted