Legacy of the Dead - Charles Todd [50]
“Aye,” Hamish commented through clenched teeth, “and sorry for it!”
The writer of these letters, Rutledge thought, thumbing through a dozen more statements, had been very clever indeed. Possibly too clever? She—or he—had known Duncarrick well, to choose the letters’ recipients with such unerring accuracy. The seemingly untutored handwriting and the cheap stationery were no more than carefully thought-out trappings. This could not be, in his opinion, the work of a jealous wife or a jilted lover, driven to striking out.
The widow whose husband had died in the war: “I thought she might be more sympathetic to my suffering, having lost her own husband. But she wouldn’t talk about Corporal MacLeod. Now I doubt he ever existed!”
The elderly woman who cleaned the church: “I went to Mr. Elliot, I was that upset! That she should be sitting among us, a two-faced harlot. And Mr. Elliot said he’d prayed over her from the start—she hadn’t worshiped with what he believed to be sincerity—”
“Is it likely yon Mr. Elliot has written these abominations?” Hamish demanded. “He claims he sees the weaknesses of people—”
It was something Rutledge had been considering. To teach Fiona a lesson? If so, it had gotten out of hand. . . .
Another woman with small children: “Young Ian had lovely manners. I never guessed that he was what he was— but blood tells, doesn’t it? In the end, blood tells! I’m so grateful that dear Ealasaid never lived to see this day. It would have been horrid. She was so happy when Fiona came—”
A woman who had been close to Ealasaid MacCallum: “I can’t sleep at night thinking how this would have hurt dear Ealasaid. I’ve known her since she was a girl, and it would have broken her heart to find out how she’d been—used— in this fashion. It won’t surprise me at all if Fiona is a murderess! Look how she treated her own flesh and blood—she knows no shame!—”
Hamish railed, “The shame’s hers—”
“It’s human nature we’re dealing with here,” Rutledge answered. “Don’t you see? The first stone has already been cast. When the police interview the next person, he or she wants to be counted among the righteous. It doesn’t prove anything except that people as a rule are easily led.”
Rutledge put the statements back in their original order and set them in the box. It had been unpleasant reading. Someone—Constable McKinstry, he thought—had likened Fiona MacDonald’s situation to the hysteria of witch hunts in the 1600s. And so it was. Fiona’s sin—if there was a sin— had been to keep to herself. Many people had held that against her and at the first test showed neither generosity nor trust.
In choosing so carefully, the writer of the letters had been successful in destroying Fiona MacDonald’s good name.
But were there other people, reluctant to step forward in the face of overwhelming public opinion, who privately might help?
RUTLEDGE WENT BACK to the square and at random stopped several women doing their day’s marketing. The first one was red-faced, with graying hair straggling out of the tight bun at the nape of her neck.
Introducing himself, he explained that he was searching for anyone who could give him information about Fiona MacDonald’s history before coming to Duncarrick.
The red-faced woman assured him that she had no knowledge of “that person.”
He thanked her and moved on. His next choice was a middle-aged woman in a neat blue coat and a hat with a modicum of style. A schoolmistress, he thought, walking the narrow line of decorum