And in the center of each long skirt, hanging down almost to a grown man’s knees, let alone an infant’s, had been a large embroidered oval with entwined initials in white satin thread.

His had been his great-grandfather’s christening robe, carefully handed down from generation to generation. Frances had worn their grandmother’s. A family tradition that had meant much to people proud of their heritage—

And surely, even if she had abandoned her baby at birth, Eleanor Gray would have seen to it that he was christened properly, and in a long white gown. Not, perhaps, the one that had been passed down through the Gray generations, but most certainly one that was suitable to the occasion. Unless it had been borrowed—

Rutledge turned around at the head of the stairs and walked swiftly back down the passage. While Fiona had had the front room, there were two more at the back, one empty with a neatly made bed covered with clean sheets to keep off the dust, and the other a small boy’s realm, with a toy chest, a clothes chest, a dresser, and a crib.

Rutledge went first to the clothes chest. It was nearly empty. Here were only the outgrown dresses and stockings and tiny shoes kept for memory’s sake. A small, pretty blanket for a baby that had seen much service. A blue velveteen coat with a matching cap, and a threadbare stuffed horse, one ear chewed off and one leg missing. At the bottom, carefully preserved in tissue and lavender, was a christening gown. He took it out and unfolded it with gentle hands.

Hamish saw it before he did. An embroidered half-circle of entwined letters, this time in the bodice.

Rutledge carried it to the window and examined it closely. Beautifully shaped initials with tiny forget-me-nots in the spaces. MEMC.

But did it stand for Maude Cook—or Mary Cook? Or someone else?

By the time McKinstry had come back to report to Rutledge, he had already put the gown back in the bottom of the clothes chest and dropped the lid.

THE MAN THAT Rutledge had encountered in the barn was standing outside the door as the constable and Inspector stepped out on the pavement. McKinstry, key in hand, turned to greet him. At the man’s side stood a small, untidy boy of three or four. He was tall for his age and sturdy, with dark hair nearly the color of Rutledge’s, and gray-blue eyes that were darker in the sunlight than they might have been by candlelight.

“I’ve come to feed yon cat,” the man announced abruptly, his eyes on Rutledge in condemnation.

So you know who I am now, Rutledge thought, and don’t like it. I wonder why . . .

“I didn’t know you had a key,” McKinstry was answering, surprise showing in his face.