Legacy of the Dead - Charles Todd [87]
“Thanks, Mary.” He nodded as she handed it to him, then turned to Rutledge and said affably, “What’s that you’ve ordered? The roast ham?”
“Yes. It’s quite good. Who are the people over there—the table by the fireplace?” He had seen the man out by the pele tower. But his interest was in the woman—he had questioned her about Fiona.
Oliver peered in their direction. “That’s Sandy Holden. Landowner. Had a horse farm, now trying to get by with sheep. He’ll make it. A good man.”
“And the woman?”
“His wife, of course. Madelyn Holden.”
“She looks as if she might be ill. Lungs, at a guess.”
“Good God, no. She nearly died from the influenza last autumn. Hasn’t got her strength back yet. The doctor says it will come with time, but Sandy frets about her. It’s been almost a year, and she’s no better. Shame, really. She was one of the finest horsewomen I’ve ever seen.” He turned to the menu. “It’s the ham, then. Or—there’s stew. They put turnips in the stew here. I’m fond of turnips.” He set the menu aside and added, “I hear you drove to Winchester. On this business or another?”
“On this business. We found someone who remembered Eleanor Gray from her schooldays and had kept in touch. Until, that is, the spring of 1916, when Eleanor was expected to spend a weekend at Atwood House. But she called Mrs. Atwood at the last minute and said that she and a friend were driving to Scotland instead.”
“Ah!” Oliver looked keenly at Rutledge. “Friend. Male or female?”
“An officer she’d met some time before. At least we think it’s the same man. He had enough leave left to make the journey. She came with him. No one has seen or heard from her since, as far as I can discover.”
“Are you certain about the timing? Eleanor Gray couldn’t have borne the child in the spring!” He shook his head. “This Mrs. Atwood has got it wrong, I think.”
“I could die— ” Rutledge could hear Mrs. Atwood’s light voice repeating the words. No, she hadn’t got it wrong. Eleanor’s mood had aroused her jealousy. And later her guilt.
But he said aloud, “She needed a place of refuge for the next four or five months. Someone may have let her have the use of a house or flat.”
“I see what you’re getting at. If she’d stayed on in London, her little secret wouldn’t have been a secret very long.” Oliver gave the matter some thought. The people by the window got up to leave, distracting him. He said, “I had wondered, you know. How a woman like that could spend dreary months in some out-of-the-way Scottish village. Made no sense. Well, I saw the house she grew up in, it was a bloody palace! A flat now, in Edinburgh or Inverness, that’s more likely! But surely it would have been easier to find someone in London to rid her of the child.”
“She was too well known in London. She was too well known in medical circles particularly.”
“There are back streets where such things can be done discreetly.”
“At a price. She might have feared blackmail.”
“Then why not in Glasgow—Edinburgh—Carlisle? She’d not have given her right name or her direction. Easy enough if she’d had a mind for it. Such things went on in the war. She wouldn’t be the first—or the last.”
Rutledge thought of the clinic and Dr. Wilson but said, “Perhaps she wanted the child. Or, at the very least, wanted it to live. And as soon as that was accomplished, she walked away from it.”
“Then you’re saying that the accused had no need to kill the mother—the child was hers for the asking!” Mary came to take Oliver’s order, and he settled for the stew.
“Yes. It fits the timing.”
“Then why hasn’t she turned up since? You’re off the mark! Eleanor Gray is dead, and we’ve found her bones.” Oliver leaned back in his chair and scanned the room. Without looking at Rutledge, he asked, “What’s this I hear from the fiscal, that you want to take the accused to Glencoe?”
He had finally got to the subject that had brought him here.
“She knows the terrain far better than any of us do. I’d like to confront her with her crime. And watch what happens.” There were other