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Authors: Charles Todd
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whispers and gossip spread in passing, and nobody knows by whom. That’s what sits ill with me, the way it began. It’s a word dropped here, a look there, a shrug—and I can’t find out who’s behind it. Inspector Oliver claims it doesn’t matter, that we’ve done
our
work, and proved the fact of murder well enough for it to come to trial now. But to me it seems to be important to find out how and where the whole business began. The truth is, it appears to be having a life of its own! Like a ghost running about and whispering in people’s ears. That’s fanciful, too, but I can’t explain it any better.”
Fanciful or not, it evoked a clear image in Rutledge’s mind.
“Rumor,” Rutledge agreed, “can be deadly. Especially if people are prepared to believe it. But surely if there was no more to it than gossip, the fiscal and the Chief Constable would never have allowed the matter to come to trial!”
McKinstry shook his head mournfully. “I’ve lain awake nights asking myself that. I can’t see the Chief Constable being taken in, he’s not a gullible man. What does he know that makes him so certain there’s a case?”
McKinstry gave the matter some thought. “Anonymous letters are a coward’s tool. Keep that in mind. And find out who bears a secret grudge against this young woman. It might not be the kind of thing you or I would think to hold against her. It will be something petty. Personal, certainly. And it needn’t be a sin of commission. Omission will do just as well.”
“The worst complainer in Duncarrick is a neighbor of hers. An ill-tempered man, but he’s not likely to go about writing anonymous letters. He’s more the sort to use his fists than hide what he feels.”
“Could he have taken a fancy to her—and been rebuffed? It may be that he believed she was giving favors to others and refusing him.”
There was a comical expression on McKinstry’s face. “Hugh Oliphant in the role of rejected lover? He’s over seventy! His wife watches him like a cat at a mousehole, but he’d choose a pint over a pretty face any day!”
“Well, then, his wife. Or any other woman who might have suspected her husband of taking too great a personal interest in the accused.”
“There’s Molly Braddock. Well, Molly Sinclair, that was. Tommy Braddock’s good with his hands, he’d done the odd job for the accused. Fixed a window sash when the weight rope broke, and cleaned the chimney when birds nested in it last spring. He’s a happy-go-lucky man, the world’s his best friend. But Molly is possessive.” McKinstry shook his head. “I can give you names, that’s easy enough. What I can’t do is picture in my mind any of these people sitting down, day after day, to write such wicked nonsense.”
Hamish said, “He’s a conscientious policeman, aye, and a good man who doesna’ ken hate.”
Rutledge agreed. He buttered the last of the scones. “Let’s take another direction, then,” he said aloud. “Were the letters Biblical in tone?”
“Yes, sir! How did you guess?”
“It isn’t uncommon for anonymous letter writers to clothe their acts in Scripture. ‘It’s God chastising you, not me! His judgment of you, not mine.’ ”
McKinstry sighed. “That would fit half the town. We’re a dour lot eager to spy sin around any corner. Aye, and find it as well.”
“You do realize,” Rutledge said, studying the young man, “that these letters may have had nothing to do with the crime she’s accused of. It may simply be that the letters drew attention to facts no one had considered until then. And once the police took notice, the truth came out.”
“No, sir,” McKinstry said, torn between defending his own beliefs and possibly alienating the man from London he’d pinned his hopes on.“I can’t accept that without better evidence. Sometimes”—he hesitated, glancing at Morag—“sometimes there’s such a fever pitch of belief in guilt that nobody looks for
our
work, and proved the fact of murder well enough for it to come to trial now. But to me it seems to be important to find out how and where the whole business began. The truth is, it appears to be having a life of its own! Like a ghost running about and whispering in people’s ears. That’s fanciful, too, but I can’t explain it any better.”
Fanciful or not, it evoked a clear image in Rutledge’s mind.
“Rumor,” Rutledge agreed, “can be deadly. Especially if people are prepared to believe it. But surely if there was no more to it than gossip, the fiscal and the Chief Constable would never have allowed the matter to come to trial!”
McKinstry shook his head mournfully. “I’ve lain awake nights asking myself that. I can’t see the Chief Constable being taken in, he’s not a gullible man. What does he know that makes him so certain there’s a case?”
McKinstry gave the matter some thought. “Anonymous letters are a coward’s tool. Keep that in mind. And find out who bears a secret grudge against this young woman. It might not be the kind of thing you or I would think to hold against her. It will be something petty. Personal, certainly. And it needn’t be a sin of commission. Omission will do just as well.”
“The worst complainer in Duncarrick is a neighbor of hers. An ill-tempered man, but he’s not likely to go about writing anonymous letters. He’s more the sort to use his fists than hide what he feels.”
“Could he have taken a fancy to her—and been rebuffed? It may be that he believed she was giving favors to others and refusing him.”
There was a comical expression on McKinstry’s face. “Hugh Oliphant in the role of rejected lover? He’s over seventy! His wife watches him like a cat at a mousehole, but he’d choose a pint over a pretty face any day!”
“Well, then, his wife. Or any other woman who might have suspected her husband of taking too great a personal interest in the accused.”
“There’s Molly Braddock. Well, Molly Sinclair, that was. Tommy Braddock’s good with his hands, he’d done the odd job for the accused. Fixed a window sash when the weight rope broke, and cleaned the chimney when birds nested in it last spring. He’s a happy-go-lucky man, the world’s his best friend. But Molly is possessive.” McKinstry shook his head. “I can give you names, that’s easy enough. What I can’t do is picture in my mind any of these people sitting down, day after day, to write such wicked nonsense.”
Hamish said, “He’s a conscientious policeman, aye, and a good man who doesna’ ken hate.”
Rutledge agreed. He buttered the last of the scones. “Let’s take another direction, then,” he said aloud. “Were the letters Biblical in tone?”
“Yes, sir! How did you guess?”
“It isn’t uncommon for anonymous letter writers to clothe their acts in Scripture. ‘It’s God chastising you, not me! His judgment of you, not mine.’ ”
McKinstry sighed. “That would fit half the town. We’re a dour lot eager to spy sin around any corner. Aye, and find it as well.”
“You do realize,” Rutledge said, studying the young man, “that these letters may have had nothing to do with the crime she’s accused of. It may simply be that the letters drew attention to facts no one had considered until then. And once the police took notice, the truth came out.”
“No, sir,” McKinstry said, torn between defending his own beliefs and possibly alienating the man from London he’d pinned his hopes on.“I can’t accept that without better evidence. Sometimes”—he hesitated, glancing at Morag—“sometimes there’s such a fever pitch of belief in guilt that nobody looks for
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