sir.”
Hamish, who had been on edge since crossing the border, was already busy speculating and not liking the answers he found.
It was the town that Inspector Oliver had come from, the policeman who had so enraged Lady Maude Gray. “Yes. I’ve heard of it.” Morag had set the plate of hot scones in front of him and a dish of butter. He wished McKinstry to the devil but listened politely as he reached for his knife. The man, unwittingly, was an intrusion of things Rutledge had deliberately put out of his mind for these few days. Hamish, stirring as Rutledge himself felt an upsurge of tension, was an undercurrent half heard.
The constable’s face brightened. “It’s not a troublesome place. I know the people well enough, I can’t say they’re any worse than people are in the next town or the next—”
“Get on with it, McKinstry!” Morag said.
The scones were excellent. Rutledge had dreamed about them at the Front—the food had been unspeakable, and after a while nobody paid any heed to what he was swallowing, but there were other times when a sudden memory brought back a taste so vivid, it seemed to linger on the tongue. He found himself thinking of Ross, who had always sat across from him, grinning as they put away one after another until the plate was empty.
McKinstry cleared his throat, unaware that he was standing behind Ross’s chair, his hands touching the worn wood of the back, infringing on a memory.
“Inspector Oliver informed me late yesterday afternoon that there was a man coming from London to help us in the matter of Lady Maude Gray’s daughter. Rutledge, the Inspector said the name was. I came this morning to ask Morag Gilchrist if it was one and the same man she knew. She said you were here on holiday, but if I was brief, I could ask—”
Rutledge, another scone halfway to his mouth, stared at the young constable.
A man coming from London . . . Rutledge, he
said the name was . . .
He turned sharply to look toward Morag, but she was working at the oven, her back to him.
When he’d spoken to the Yard Friday morning, nothing had been said about continuing to Duncarrick. Was he now expected to report his conversation with Lady Maude to the Scots in person? It would be very like Bowles to throw a subordinate to the wolves, if the Chief Superintendent saw unpleasantness ahead. The man had a knack for taking cover at the right time! Or had some new information come to light at the teaching hospitals? Whatever it was, Rutledge had a sudden nasty feeling that he was going to be the sacrificial lamb—
He was aware that McKinstry was still talking. “. . . and it’s what London may have given you that worries me, added to the fact she’s incarcerated, awaiting trial—”
Who
was incarcerated? Rutledge said, “We were speaking of Eleanor Gray—”
“Yes, sir, that’s true, but it’s only circumstantial evidence at best. All the same, I’ve a feeling that’s sufficient to hang her. In Duncarrick, any jury picked will be ready to vote guilty before they’ve heard a single word. Overturning public opinion is the hurdle, and I’ve not got the skill to do it,” McKinstry told him earnestly, an undercurrent of severe strain in his voice. “But surely there’s a way? I’ve come to ask you to keep an open mind, and search for it. To my way of thinking, if we fail her, we’ve failed ourselves as policemen!”
It was a heartfelt appeal, and very near to insubordination. The constable stood there, young and determined, knowing that he’d placed his job in jeopardy by questioning the decisions of his superiors in Duncarrick, but believing strongly enough in what he saw as duty to put his trust in a stranger. There were a number of people at the Yard who would have had McKinstry up on charges. A constable was not allowed opinions.
But his appeal was wasted on Rutledge, who knew only the English side of the investigation. “I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about,” he said
Hamish, who had been on edge since crossing the border, was already busy speculating and not liking the answers he found.
It was the town that Inspector Oliver had come from, the policeman who had so enraged Lady Maude Gray. “Yes. I’ve heard of it.” Morag had set the plate of hot scones in front of him and a dish of butter. He wished McKinstry to the devil but listened politely as he reached for his knife. The man, unwittingly, was an intrusion of things Rutledge had deliberately put out of his mind for these few days. Hamish, stirring as Rutledge himself felt an upsurge of tension, was an undercurrent half heard.
The constable’s face brightened. “It’s not a troublesome place. I know the people well enough, I can’t say they’re any worse than people are in the next town or the next—”
“Get on with it, McKinstry!” Morag said.
The scones were excellent. Rutledge had dreamed about them at the Front—the food had been unspeakable, and after a while nobody paid any heed to what he was swallowing, but there were other times when a sudden memory brought back a taste so vivid, it seemed to linger on the tongue. He found himself thinking of Ross, who had always sat across from him, grinning as they put away one after another until the plate was empty.
McKinstry cleared his throat, unaware that he was standing behind Ross’s chair, his hands touching the worn wood of the back, infringing on a memory.
“Inspector Oliver informed me late yesterday afternoon that there was a man coming from London to help us in the matter of Lady Maude Gray’s daughter. Rutledge, the Inspector said the name was. I came this morning to ask Morag Gilchrist if it was one and the same man she knew. She said you were here on holiday, but if I was brief, I could ask—”
Rutledge, another scone halfway to his mouth, stared at the young constable.
A man coming from London . . . Rutledge, he
said the name was . . .
He turned sharply to look toward Morag, but she was working at the oven, her back to him.
When he’d spoken to the Yard Friday morning, nothing had been said about continuing to Duncarrick. Was he now expected to report his conversation with Lady Maude to the Scots in person? It would be very like Bowles to throw a subordinate to the wolves, if the Chief Superintendent saw unpleasantness ahead. The man had a knack for taking cover at the right time! Or had some new information come to light at the teaching hospitals? Whatever it was, Rutledge had a sudden nasty feeling that he was going to be the sacrificial lamb—
He was aware that McKinstry was still talking. “. . . and it’s what London may have given you that worries me, added to the fact she’s incarcerated, awaiting trial—”
Who
was incarcerated? Rutledge said, “We were speaking of Eleanor Gray—”
“Yes, sir, that’s true, but it’s only circumstantial evidence at best. All the same, I’ve a feeling that’s sufficient to hang her. In Duncarrick, any jury picked will be ready to vote guilty before they’ve heard a single word. Overturning public opinion is the hurdle, and I’ve not got the skill to do it,” McKinstry told him earnestly, an undercurrent of severe strain in his voice. “But surely there’s a way? I’ve come to ask you to keep an open mind, and search for it. To my way of thinking, if we fail her, we’ve failed ourselves as policemen!”
It was a heartfelt appeal, and very near to insubordination. The constable stood there, young and determined, knowing that he’d placed his job in jeopardy by questioning the decisions of his superiors in Duncarrick, but believing strongly enough in what he saw as duty to put his trust in a stranger. There were a number of people at the Yard who would have had McKinstry up on charges. A constable was not allowed opinions.
But his appeal was wasted on Rutledge, who knew only the English side of the investigation. “I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about,” he said
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