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Authors: Charles Todd
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flatly. “So far London hasn’t told me anything. I came north to speak to Lady Maude Gray, and I have had no orders to continue to Duncarrick.” As Morag set a plate of eggs before him, he went on, “For God’s sake, man, sit down and eat some breakfast, so that I can enjoy mine!”
McKinstry said, flushing, “I’ve had mine, sir, if it’s all the same to you!”
“Then sit down and drink a cup of tea. And start at the beginning.”
The constable pulled out a chair and glanced at Morag. She brought him a fresh cup and set it before him without a word. She didn’t need words to convey the message that he had overstepped his bounds. He could read it clearly in her face.
Hamish, moved to comment, said, “He believes what he’s come to say.”
McKinstry poured himself a cup of tea, added milk and sugar like a condemned man determined to show courage eating his last meal, and then, without tasting it, began rather stiffly. “There’s a woman in my district. A good woman—but she’s been the subject of anonymous letters. Not mailed, you understand, just stuck in the corner of a door or left pinned to a clothesline, wherever they’d be noticed first thing in the morning.”
“All right, anonymous. What did they say? There’s usually a theme.”
“Not to put too fine a point on it, sir, they called her a whore. And as word spread, the rumors followed. No one confronted her with the accusations. That’s what I find hardest to accept. No one gave her a chance to explain. Instead they turned their backs on her. It appeared she’d lied to people, you see, and they saw it as a betrayal of trust.” He stopped, frowning. “At least that’s what they must have told themselves to excuse what they were doing. I can’t see any other explanation. Then, to make matters worse, it came to light just after the letters began that she might have murdered the mother of a child she’d claimed was her own. She was taken up on that charge. Inspector Oliver will tell you the case against her, and about the bones. My concern is that the jury will hang her if they can, because it’s human nature to want to believe you can’t be fooled for long.”
McKinstry recollected his tea, sipped it, and scalded his tongue. Then he said, desperate to make himself understood, “It reminds me of the days when people believed in witches. They sent innocent men and women to the stake or drowned them, in a mad effort to prove that witchcraft existed. A kind of hysteria that took the place of reason. Is that what’s happening here? I don’t know why I’m not infected by it myself—” But he did know, and couldn’t bring himself to say it: he was in love with Fiona and saw her as a victim, not a killer. It was, perhaps, his own hysteria. . . . The thought frightened him suddenly.
“You were one of the investigating officers? Then you should know how sound the case is against her,” Rutledge answered. “Does she have a good barrister? From what you’re telling me, she needs one.”
“Yes, she does—though I don’t care for him myself. I’ve tried again and again to get to the bottom of this business, because I don’t think anyone else has. We may have evidence that points in her direction, but is there more that points away from her? And I don’t know how to go about searching for that properly. I don’t even know where to begin. We don’t have much in the way of crime in Duncarrick.”
Rutledge said, “But that’s what you’re trained to do. What’s difficult about it?”
McKinstry ran a finger through sugar that in his nervousness he’d spilled beside his teacup. “I can find a man wanted for robbery, I can stop a man from beating his wife, I can tell you who’s the likely culprit when the MacGregors’ house is broken into, and I can look at the old man out in the bothy by the stream and judge if he’s killed himself somebody else’s fat lamb and cooked it. That’s work I know. This isn’t. It’s
McKinstry said, flushing, “I’ve had mine, sir, if it’s all the same to you!”
“Then sit down and drink a cup of tea. And start at the beginning.”
The constable pulled out a chair and glanced at Morag. She brought him a fresh cup and set it before him without a word. She didn’t need words to convey the message that he had overstepped his bounds. He could read it clearly in her face.
Hamish, moved to comment, said, “He believes what he’s come to say.”
McKinstry poured himself a cup of tea, added milk and sugar like a condemned man determined to show courage eating his last meal, and then, without tasting it, began rather stiffly. “There’s a woman in my district. A good woman—but she’s been the subject of anonymous letters. Not mailed, you understand, just stuck in the corner of a door or left pinned to a clothesline, wherever they’d be noticed first thing in the morning.”
“All right, anonymous. What did they say? There’s usually a theme.”
“Not to put too fine a point on it, sir, they called her a whore. And as word spread, the rumors followed. No one confronted her with the accusations. That’s what I find hardest to accept. No one gave her a chance to explain. Instead they turned their backs on her. It appeared she’d lied to people, you see, and they saw it as a betrayal of trust.” He stopped, frowning. “At least that’s what they must have told themselves to excuse what they were doing. I can’t see any other explanation. Then, to make matters worse, it came to light just after the letters began that she might have murdered the mother of a child she’d claimed was her own. She was taken up on that charge. Inspector Oliver will tell you the case against her, and about the bones. My concern is that the jury will hang her if they can, because it’s human nature to want to believe you can’t be fooled for long.”
McKinstry recollected his tea, sipped it, and scalded his tongue. Then he said, desperate to make himself understood, “It reminds me of the days when people believed in witches. They sent innocent men and women to the stake or drowned them, in a mad effort to prove that witchcraft existed. A kind of hysteria that took the place of reason. Is that what’s happening here? I don’t know why I’m not infected by it myself—” But he did know, and couldn’t bring himself to say it: he was in love with Fiona and saw her as a victim, not a killer. It was, perhaps, his own hysteria. . . . The thought frightened him suddenly.
“You were one of the investigating officers? Then you should know how sound the case is against her,” Rutledge answered. “Does she have a good barrister? From what you’re telling me, she needs one.”
“Yes, she does—though I don’t care for him myself. I’ve tried again and again to get to the bottom of this business, because I don’t think anyone else has. We may have evidence that points in her direction, but is there more that points away from her? And I don’t know how to go about searching for that properly. I don’t even know where to begin. We don’t have much in the way of crime in Duncarrick.”
Rutledge said, “But that’s what you’re trained to do. What’s difficult about it?”
McKinstry ran a finger through sugar that in his nervousness he’d spilled beside his teacup. “I can find a man wanted for robbery, I can stop a man from beating his wife, I can tell you who’s the likely culprit when the MacGregors’ house is broken into, and I can look at the old man out in the bothy by the stream and judge if he’s killed himself somebody else’s fat lamb and cooked it. That’s work I know. This isn’t. It’s
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