Mrs. Atwood thanked the butler and dismissed him, settling herself to pour. As she handed Rutledge his cup, he said, “Why did Eleanor Gray want to be a doctor? It’s an odd choice, given her wealth and social position.”

“Ah, that was something I never fully understood. Humphrey—my husband—rather thought it was a passing fancy, with the war and all. But I don’t see it that way. At a dinner party once, Eleanor said that doctors were woefully ignorant and uninterested in what caused diseases. She argued with the Army doctors, too, when she felt it was warranted. She cared intensely about the patients, but it wasn’t sentimental in any way. It was practical and realistic. She would have made a good doctor, in my view.”

Rutledge said, “And when she didn’t contact you for three years, you accepted the fact that she must be in America? If not Boston, then somewhere else there.”

She was silent so long, he thought she didn’t want to answer the question. Hamish, responding to the odd tension in the air, said, “You made the right decision, coming yoursel’. ”

Then Mrs. Atwood replied, “You’ve made me afraid. The police. You and Sergeant Gibson. The last time I spoke to Eleanor she was in London—it was a strange conversation. She said something—I thought she must be a little drunk that night, and I was worried that she was contemplating driving to Scotland in that condition. And she said, ‘I could die.’ And I took it to mean she was so happy, she could die. But what if that wasn’t what she meant—what if she truly wanted to die. . . .” Mrs. Atwood looked at him, pain in her eyes. “Was there some terrible accident? Is that what happened?”

“No,” Rutledge told her. “It wasn’t an accident. It’s more likely that someone murdered her.”

She turned so white, he thought she was going to faint, and was halfway out of his chair.

“No!” she said in a strangled voice. “No—I’m all right. It’s just—” She tried to breathe deeply and instead her breath caught on a sob. “I’ve never known anyone who was murdered—that’s horrible—horrible—”

“If she was driving north with a soldier to spend his leave in Scotland, she must have known him well enough to go with him.”

“Of course she must! Eleanor wasn’t the sort who—who used the war as an excuse to behave as she pleased. She wouldn’t have gone with a stranger, or a man she didn’t trust.” There was conviction in the low voice.

“Was it Burns that she went to Scotland with, Mrs. Atwood?”

“I tell you, I can’t remember! You can ask the servants— they might—”

“Would you have tried to stop her if she was about to do something—silly?”