Legacy of the Dead - Charles Todd [79]
“Aye, she doesna’ want to learn that her daughter was pregnant,” Hamish said. “If it damns Fiona, neither do I!”
“I have no choice in the matter,” Rutledge said, “I am trying now to locate this man Burns. He should be able to lead us to the next step. Where Miss Gray went in Scotland. And why.”
Lady Maude rose. “I must thank you for your courtesy in reporting your information to me in person. I expect we shall not meet again.”
Dismissal. Permanent dismissal, Hamish pointed out.
Rutledge stood as well. “I shall respect your wishes. Would you prefer a written report to a message by telephone when I’ve completed my investigation?”
Their eyes locked. Hers a deep violet with her anger, and his a mirror of his voice, official and unyielding.
For a full twenty seconds she said nothing, waiting for him to look away first.
Then she snapped, “I can break you, Inspector.”
“No doubt,” he answered. “But it will not change the truth, nor will it give you great satisfaction. Good day, Lady Maude.”
He had reached the door before her voice stopped him.
“You will find nothing connecting my daughter to those appalling bones!”
He turned, and for a moment looked at the room enclosing them with such elegance and formality. “That’s my hope as well. It will be a great tragedy if I do. For many people.”
As the door began to close on his heels, he heard her voice, commanding and clear but not raised. “Inspector.”
He stepped back in the room. Nothing had changed in her face. She said only, “It is fortunate, is it not, that my daughter has found a champion in you. I fear that I have been hurt too often. It is difficult to summon the courage to face another disappointment. But I shall try.”
He inclined his head. It was, in its way, a salute. And an apology.
This time she didn’t stop him as he left.
Hamish, digesting the last exchange, said only, “I canna’ say that walking with the great is the road to happiness.”
No, Rutledge silently answered. That woman has paid a dear price.
AN HOUR AFTER leaving Menton, Rutledge found a telephone in the next town and put in a call to his godfather.
Morag answered the telephone and went to find David Trevor.
He said, taking up the receiver, “Ian? I hope this means you’re coming to dinner!”
“I won’t make it to Scotland in time. It’s late and I’ve had three days of hard driving. No, it’s information I need, sir. You told me earlier that you knew the procurator-fiscal in the MacDonald case. Well enough to tell me anything about his family?”
There was an instant of silence, then David Trevor said, “Yes, I can give you what I know. He married a young woman from the neighborhood of Stirling. If I remember, her father was a lawyer, and a brother was a judge. I think I met her once or twice at some official gathering. They had three children. Cathy, the daughter, is married to an Englishman and they live in Gloucester. George, the older son, is with a London firm. The youngest, Robert, is dead.”
“Did either son serve in the war?”
“George was in the Navy. Invalided out in late ’17. Robert was killed in France. Artillery. Early 1916, I think.”
“Was Robert married?”
“No, there was a girl in Edinburgh whom he was unofficially engaged to. It was an understood thing, but no announcement had been made. Then she died of appendicitis. I don’t know quite when—well before Robert was killed, certainly. In the winter of ’15, I think it was. Why this sudden interest in Robert?”
“I don’t know,” Rutledge said truthfully. “Could you describe him?”
“He was dark, and well set up. And I’m told he had the most wonderful wit. Ross had heard him offering the toasts at a wedding, he had the guests bent double with laughter. He said that Robert could have stood for Parliament if he’d wanted to go in that direction. But he was interested in law or banking, I forget which.” Rutledge could almost hear the smile in Trevor’s voice. “Have I earned a consulting fee for my knowledge of Scottish social circles?”
“Without doubt! Thank you, I appreciate your help.”
“Will you be