Legacy of the Dead - Charles Todd [47]
“Thank you—I’m afraid I don’t know your name . . .” He left the sentence unfinished.
“Dorothea MacIntyre, sir,” she told him shyly. “Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes. If—er—Mr. Elliot should ask, I wanted to know only if you’d received one of the letters.”
“I’m grateful, sir!” She closed the door softly behind him as he stepped out into the street. The sacrificial lamb, he thought. Too poor to be anything but dependent on the generosity of others, afraid of her shadow, and well aware of her duty, having had a lifetime of charity to teach it to her.
RUTLEDGE WENT BACK the way he’d come, passed The Ballantyne without stopping, and searched out the milliner’s shop he’d seen the day before. Where Dorothea MacIntyre lived.
A silver bell rang genteelly as he opened the door. The woman arranging hats on a stand in the back looked up, then walked briskly to meet him. “May I help you, sir?” She cast a swift glance over her merchandise, and then waited with folded hands for him to speak.
It was a woman’s shop, intimate and yet vividly decorated with almost Parisian flair, oddly out of tune with Duncarrick. Orange and peach and shades of lavender, with a strong pink thread drawing it all together.
Hamish said, “I’d no’ like to hear what Mr. Elliot thinks o’ the colors.” He himself seemed to be of two minds about them.
The shop carried lace collars, gloves in kid or cotton, stockings, some twenty or so hats in every style from drab to elegant, handkerchiefs with dainty edging, shirtwaists, and what Rutledge took to be undergarments, discreetly folded into brightly painted boxes set along one wall.
The woman herself, tall and boldly attractive, seemed the antithesis of Dorothea MacIntyre. Rutledge wondered if Ealasaid MacCallum might have found a haven here for the girl, someone who would play dragon at the gate.
“Inspector Rutledge,” he said, “Scotland Yard. I won’t keep you. I’m searching for the mother of the child Fiona MacDonald calls”—he hesitated—“Ian MacLeod. I’m asking young women who might have known her if she had at any time confided in them.”
“Are you, indeed?” Her eyes were angry suddenly. “Well, if Fiona had seen fit to confide in me, why should I rush to tell you whatever might have been said between us? It’s ridiculous to expect anything of the kind. You’re a policeman. You should be able to do your duty without my help!”
Hamish said, “Aye, but then, she doesn’t know you, does she? Or how well or ill you do your duty!”
“I’m not,” Rutledge said gently, “looking for evidence to convict her. Only for evidence of the child’s parentage so that he can be returned to his mother’s family. Or, failing that, to his father’s.”
She turned away. “I have better things to do with my time than provide you with local gossip. I don’t particularly like Fiona MacDonald. Anyone will tell you that. On the other hand, I think she’s been wretchedly treated, and I’m not going to be one of those throwing stones.”
“Why didn’t you like her?”
“I thought we might become allies. We were alike in one thing, at least. We didn’t squeeze dutifully into the rigid mold of Duncarrick. Silly notion, as it turned out. She kept to herself. I suppose that’s understandable in light of what’s happened since, but at the time I felt—betrayed. As if she’d turned her back on me, preferring instead to ingratiate herself with her aunt’s friends. Apparently, she didn’t succeed very well, did she? In the end they turned their backs on her!”
“Did you receive one of those anonymous letters?”
Her laughter pealed out, harsh and startling in the ambiance of the shop. “I am more likely to be the subject than the recipient of such things. In point of fact, I’ve sometimes wondered why they targeted Fiona rather than me. There are people in this town who would gladly see the back of me.” She gestured at the walls and the hangings that shut off the back room of the shop for privacy, their flamboyance almost a defiance. “But I’m trapped here. I inherited the shop, and I don’t have the money to walk