Legacy of the Dead - Charles Todd [54]
“Aye,” Hamish said unexpectedly. “He knew the land better than anyone I ever saw.” There was a wistfulness in the voice at Rutledge’s shoulder. “Fra’ him I learned how to handle a team and to find water, when we needed to dig a well. I took a forked willow stick, skinned and dried. He said I had the gift—I could feel the stick stir and bend in my hands. And it was sweet water I found!”
McKinstry had gone on, unaware of the interruption. “Some cousins were willing to take it over—they were too old for the war, but still able-bodied. She said once that she wished the lad’s father could have been buried there in the glen, because he loved it so. At any rate, Fiona was glad of the position she found in Brae. It took her mind off the war. A Mrs. Davison was looking to hire a nanny for her children.” He paused. “Brae’s south of Glasgow. Just above Lanark.”
“Yes, I have a general idea where it is. Go on!”
“When her aunt wrote asking Fiona to come to Duncarrick, she was sad to leave Brae. But she promised to come as soon as Mrs. Davison found a replacement for her. She and the boy.”
“Miss MacCallum said nothing to your mother about the boy’s—history?”
“Her only worry was that Ian was so young and might distract Fiona from her duties at The Reivers. I thought it was a selfish view, but then, no one knew just how ill Miss MacCallum was.”
Rutledge made a note of Mrs. Davison’s name and asked, “What did the people in Brae tell Inspector Oliver?”
“Not much. That Fiona minded her own business, was friendly enough, and worked hard. No one was aware that she was expecting a child when she left there. And we’ve traced all the children born to residents in 1916. A woman named Singleton had a child in Glasgow that spring, but it’s accounted for, and the three born in Brae are accounted for as well. I never knew Fiona to mention any particular friend there—though she spoke often of Mrs. Davison and her children.”
“I’m considering driving on to Brae. To see if there’s any connection to Eleanor Gray to be found there.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, it’s a waste of time. I’ve seen Brae. A woman like Eleanor Gray would stand out like a sore thumb. It’s not the kind of place she’d be hiding herself away in.”
“Still, we must begin somewhere,” Rutledge answered. “All right, is there any other name you can give me?”
McKinstry took out a folder and opened it. When Rutledge had finished taking down two or three other names, he closed his notebook and said, “I’d like to speak to the accused again before I leave.”
“I don’t know—” McKinstry began doubtfully.
“It will take less than five minutes.”
And McKinstry, capitulating, took out the keys and handed them to Rutledge.
He unlocked the door for a second time and walked into the cell. Fiona MacDonald was sitting in the chair, her hands folded in her lap. But her eyes flew to his as he entered.
“I’m driving to Brae today,” he said, watching her face. There was a very slight tightening of the skin, as if she was not happy with the news.
“You will be seeing Mrs. Davison. Please tell her—” She stopped and shook her head. “No, I don’t suppose she’d want a message from me now.” Her fingers folded and smoothed a pleat in her skirt. “I forget, sometimes, that a murderess has no past. But if the children should ask about me—please, will you tell them that I’m well and think of them often?”
“I will.”
She managed a smile. “They’re too young to know about murder. They’ll be glad to be remembered. And I do think about them. It takes my mind off other—other things.”
He said without stopping to think, “I wish you could trust me and tell me the truth.”
“It isn’t a matter of trust,” she answered quietly. “It’s a question of love.”
“Love?”
“Yes.” She looked away. “I can’t explain it, except to say that there are many faces of love, and sometimes they can be cruel. My mother loved my father so deeply that she grieved herself to death for him. And left me with only