Legacy of the Dead - Charles Todd [74]
The butler returned and conducted him down the passage to a sitting room that also showed wear. Well-worn chintz, a faded carpet on which an elderly spaniel slept noisily, and an air of comfortable, genteel shabbiness told him that the house had suffered much use during the war and had not yet reclaimed its former elegance. But the windows faced the pond and the stream, framing the view and bringing in the soft light of afternoon. It was peaceful.
Mrs. Atwood was standing by the empty hearth as he came in. A pale woman in every sense, slim and willowy in pastel green, pale of hair and eyes and skin, as if all the color had been washed away in the long, careful years of family breeding.
He discovered very quickly that the character had not been washed away.
She said with graciousness that was backed by steel, “I have spoken to—um—a Sergeant Gibson. There is nothing more I wish to say to the police.”
“That’s quite possible,” he answered. “Sergeant Gibson was here as a duty. I have come as an emissary of Lady Maude Gray.”
Something unexpected stirred in the pale blue eyes. They were the color of faded lupines, hardly differentiated from the white surrounding them. “I have not heard from Lady Maude in some years.” Her voice was neutral, giving nothing away.
Hamish, silent until now in the shadows of Rutledge’s mind, said softly, “She doesna’ care for yon Lady Maude. . . . ”
Making a note of it, Rutledge answered, “It isn’t surprising. She quarreled with her daughter. I cannot say she regrets that quarrel, but she has come into information now that has disturbed her. It’s very possible that Eleanor Gray is dead. How and where she came to die we don’t know. I am doing what I can to find answers.”
Surprise flared in the long face. “Dead! But your sergeant—”
“—said nothing about that. Yes, I know. On my instructions.”
He let the silence fall and gave her time to digest his curt answer.
“I don’t see how I can help you. I haven’t seen Eleanor since the middle of the war. I thought—Humphrey and I were quite convinced she’d gone to America when she couldn’t take up medicine here. It would have been so like her!”
“Why should she choose to go there? Did she have friends—someone who might put in a word for her?”
“As a matter of fact, there was someone.” She hesitated and then added, “I called Alice Morton after Sergeant Gibson left. She was in school with Eleanor and me. But her husband is an American—he’s at the embassy here. His brother John is a professor at Harvard. He’d written to Eleanor once, in the spring of 1916, at Alice’s request, laying out opportunities she might wish to consider over there. Alice told me John had never had a reply. Eleanor hadn’t contacted him at all.” Mrs. Atwood shrugged lightly. “She was always strong-minded. She might not have wished to be beholden, even to a friend.”
“Why did you call and ask about Miss Gray? If you hadn’t tried to find her for three years?”
Mrs. Atwood was disconcerted by the direct question. “I—I don’t know why. Not really. It was just—I wanted to be reassured, I suppose. We don’t often have the police asking about an acquaintance. It was—only that.”
Hamish demanded, “Was it?”
After a moment, Rutledge asked pleasantly, “Tell me about the last time you saw or spoke with Eleanor Gray.”
He had made his hostess uneasy. From reticence she had moved to explanations and now apology. “I’m sorry, there isn’t much to tell. Not really. She was to come down for the weekend and bring a friend. But she telephoned to say she’d changed her mind. The