Legacy of the Dead - Charles Todd [6]
“No one has done work here—not since 1914, the start of the war. Peter, the old man who was my aunt’s handyman, can tell you no work’s been done—”
“He has that. Inspector Oliver asked him. And your neighbors as well. But it would have been a secret business, after all. You’d not have told Peter, would you, if a body was being hidden? Nor your aunt, just as the letter said.”
“It’s not true! And it doesn’t make sense—if I brought the child here with me, how could I bring its dead mother, to bury her here! In a trunk—? In the back of the carriage—? Over my shoulder?” She was feeling desperate, frightened.
He winced at her bitter humor. “Mr. Robson addressed that. He said the mother might have recovered from the birth and wanted to keep the boy after all. And you stopped her when she came here to find him. I’ve had my orders—”
“This is my inn now. I won’t have anyone tearing it apart to search for a body—there’s no body here!”
“I must look, Fiona, or they’ll send someone else with a search warrant and an ax. Will you at least let me walk about and see with my own eyes that there’s nothing to find?”
“No!” Startled by her cry, the cat tensed and then vanished behind the heavy draperies at the side window.
“Fiona—”
“No!”
It took him a good half hour to convince her that he was the lesser of evils. That for her own sake she must agree to lead him around the premises. That he would look only where Fiona allowed him to look, move only what she allowed him to move. When, stiffly, she finally gave her permission, he said gently, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
But she ignored him. With a coldness he’d never felt in her before, she led him through the small wing, room by room, even where the child was sleeping in his crib, one hand tucked under his chin, and then through the aged building that had been her great-uncle’s inn and then her aunt’s, and now hers. Through the common rooms and the bars, through the kitchens and the cellars, and through the few bedchambers that could be taken by occasional travelers and marketgoers. Through the attics where old boxes and trunks littered the dusty floors amid the broken or outgrown furnishings stored there, the long-forgotten belongings of a family that had lived under the same roof for generations. To the cellars where there was still wine on the shelves but very little beer or ale—nobody came to drink it, and like the kitchens, the pantry, and barman’s little cubbyhole, the cellars were nearly empty. No sacks of flour or potatoes or onions, no tins of fruit or jars put up from the garden.
He looked as thoroughly as he could without insulting her. He sounded walls and stamped on the floors, peered into the chimneys and moved the largest chests and dressers, opened the tops of trunks and sniffed at their musty contents. Kept his mind and his attention on his task without letting his own misery show in his face.
When Alistair left, she accompanied him to the door and shut it almost before he’d thanked her properly.
Behind its solid oak, where no one could see her, she leaned her forehead against the cool wood and closed her eyes. And then the child, rousing from his sleep, began to sing off-key to himself, a Highland song she had taught him. She made an effort to collect herself, and called, “I’m coming, darling.” But it was another minute before she could turn and ascend the stairs.
Whatever Alistair McKinstry told his superiors, a fortnight passed before there were other policemen at her door, demanding to inspect the premises: Inspector Oliver, Sergeant Young, and both Constable McKinstry and Constable Pringle. In his anxiety not to offend her, McKinstry had not properly examined the outbuildings,