Legacy of the Dead - Charles Todd [96]
The thought of facing the ghosts of Glencoe again, even with Fiona, turned Rutledge’s blood cold. But he said neutrally, “We can’t be sure we’ve identified the corpse. There’s no proof yet that she ever bore a child.”
“But there’s proof that the accused never bore one. If the accused didn’t conceal the body there, who did? Why was her brooch found so close to the makeshift grave? Not a stranger’s brooch, mind you, but one with her family’s name on it!”
Rutledge said with infinite care, “Still, it’s circumstantial—Armstrong could make the point that she had lived hard by the glen.”
Hamish said, “But he won’t. He doesna’ care enough.”
In the silence Oliver stood up and went to the single window. Its glass was dingy—no one had washed it in years. But he stood there with his back to Rutledge, apparently looking out on the street, and went on. “What you do to satisfy Lady Maude is your business.”
“Fiona MacDonald is the only person who can tell me if the woman she’s accused of killing is Eleanor Gray.”
“I doubt she ever will. She’s likely to go to her grave with that secret!”
It was the one point they saw eye to eye on.
“I’d like to talk to her. Now that she’s seen the brooch.”
Feeling expansively generous, Oliver said, “Go ahead. I’ll give you as long as you need.”
He turned from the window, picked the key ring up from his desk, and passed it to Rutledge. And he repeated, “As long as you need.” But there was a final ring to it now.
“Thanks.” Rutledge took the ring and walked down the hall again.
Hamish said, “Oliver willna’ find it so easy to dismiss Lady Maude. The Yard willna’ either!”
Rutledge answered, “But Lady Maude doesn’t want to hear the truth about her daughter. She never has.”
As far as he could tell, Fiona MacDonald had not moved from where she had been standing when the three men had walked out of her cell a quarter of an hour earlier.
He closed the wooden door and stood with his back to it. She said almost at once, “Why did they take my mother’s brooch?”
“You’re sure it belonged to your mother?”
“Yes, of course I’m sure! My grandfather let me wear it on her birthday. To remember her. All day I could wear it, pinned to my dress. And I was always very careful, very proud. I felt close to her.”
He could see the small child, dressed in her best clothes, gingerly moving about the house so as not to tear her skirts or soil her sleeves. And the grandfather still mourning his dead daughter in his own fashion, instilling into Fiona the feeling that her mother was near—if only for this one day each year.
It was, in its way, a very sad picture.
“Where did you keep it? After you moved to Duncarrick.”
“It’s in a small sandalwood box with the bracelet Hamish gave me and the onyx studs that belonged to my father. Or it was—why did they go through my things and take my mother’s pin?” There was anguish in her face.
“Did you have the brooch with you in Brae?”
“Yes, of course I had it in Brae! You can ask Mrs. Davison.”
“And it came to Duncarrick with you?”
“Yes, I told you, it is—was—kept in the tall chest in my room at The Reivers. In the second drawer. I didn’t wear it often. I was afraid I might lose it working in the bar.”
Rutledge said, “Can you think of anyone in Duncarrick who might have seen you wear the brooch within the past year? Constable McKinstry, for one?”
She considered his question, then took a deep breath. “I remember now the last time I wore it. On my mother’s birthday in June of this year. Yes, and again in early July, when I attended church. Will that do?” She read the answer in his face. “But it was there. I swear it was there when I was arrested!”
“But you can’t be sure?”
“I—no, I had no reason to look for it. I wouldn’t have brought it here!”
“No.” He considered how much to tell her about how and where