Jamie declined the offer of a final dram, bade Locke farewell at his door, and asked him to give their thanks to his wife for the fine supper. The Widow Hambly’s house was two streets over; he’d pass the stable again on his way there.

THERE WAS A flickering light inside the stable; it spilled through the chinks between the boards, making a ghostly outline against the night. Jamie stopped dead at the sight, but curiosity and dread combined made him walk softly toward the door.

The door was ajar, and he saw a fantastical figure inside, an elongated shadow that moved sharply at the crunch of his footstep on gravel.

“Uncle Jamie?” It was Ian, holding a lantern, and Jamie’s heart slowed down.

“Aye.” He stepped into the shed. “Are Rachel and your mother settled, then?”

“Well, they’ve got to the Widow Hambly’s, all right. As Mrs. Locke kindly came with them, to bring a packet of food for tomorrow and stayed to tell the widow everything that was said over supper, I doubt they’ll find their beds before midnight.” He twisted a forefinger in his ear, in illustration.

“Which would be why you’re here,” Jamie said. “Ye consider this gentleman better company?”

Ian held out a flattened hand and oscillated it, indicating that the difference between Mrs. Locke and an ill-feckit corpse was negligible in terms of providing good company.

“I wanted to see what he looked like.” He raised one sketchy brow at Jamie. “And ye’re here because …?”

“I wanted to see what he looks like, again. I maybe didna get a clear keek at him, earlier.”

Ian nodded and moved aside, holding his lantern high above the body. They looked at it in silence. Jamie closed his eyes and took two or three deep breaths, despite the smell. Then he opened them again.

Was it? The stranger seemed different now than he had on first sight. Shorter. The neck was maybe longer, and it was scrawny, in spite of the bulging stomach. The other’s neck had been creased, two deep lines dividing the fat into rings. “Fat lumpkin,” his sister had called the man who’d raped Claire. The pressure in his chest eased a little, and he considered the face, carefully this time.

No. No, it wasn’t the same at all, and his belly hollowed with relief. The face was unshaven and had been for some time, but if he disregarded that, then … no. Nose and mouth were a different shape altogether.

“Ye thought ye might ken him, Uncle?” Ian was looking at him from the opposite side of the table, interested. “I thought that, too.”

“Did ye, indeed,” Jamie said, and the pressure in his chest was back. He resisted the urge to turn and look outside. Instead, he said in the Gàidhlig, “A man ye might have seen by firelight once before?”