He made a circuit of the dining room, greeting first this person and then another, once stopping to listen to a man by the window and then laughing quietly as if he appreciated the humor of what had been said.

Hamish said, “There’s a man wi’ something on his mind.”

Finally arriving at Rutledge’s table, Oliver pulled out the empty chair on the other side and signaled to the middle-aged woman who was serving this noon. She came over, smiling, and said, “Would you like the menu, then, Inspector?”

“Thanks, Mary.” He nodded as she handed it to him, then turned to Rutledge and said affably, “What’s that you’ve ordered? The roast ham?”

“Yes. It’s quite good. Who are the people over there—the table by the fireplace?” He had seen the man out by the pele tower. But his interest was in the woman—he had questioned her about Fiona.

Oliver peered in their direction. “That’s Sandy Holden. Landowner. Had a horse farm, now trying to get by with sheep. He’ll make it. A good man.”

“And the woman?”

“His wife, of course. Madelyn Holden.”

“She looks as if she might be ill. Lungs, at a guess.”

“Good God, no. She nearly died from the influenza last autumn. Hasn’t got her strength back yet. The doctor says it will come with time, but Sandy frets about her. It’s been almost a year, and she’s no better. Shame, really. She was one of the finest horsewomen I’ve ever seen.” He turned to the menu. “It’s the ham, then. Or—there’s stew. They put turnips in the stew here. I’m fond of turnips.” He set the menu aside and added, “I hear you drove to Winchester. On this business or another?”

“On this business. We found someone who remembered Eleanor Gray from her schooldays and had kept in touch. Until, that is, the spring of 1916, when Eleanor was expected to spend a weekend at Atwood House. But she called Mrs. Atwood at the last minute and said that she and a friend were driving to Scotland instead.”

“Ah!” Oliver looked keenly at Rutledge. “Friend. Male or female?”

“An officer she’d met some time before. At least we think it’s the same man. He had enough leave left to make the journey. She came with him. No one has seen or heard from her since, as far as I can discover.”

“Are you certain about the timing? Eleanor Gray couldn’t have borne the child in the spring!” He shook his head. “This Mrs. Atwood has got it wrong, I think.”

“I could die— ” Rutledge could hear Mrs. Atwood’s light voice repeating the words. No, she hadn’t got it wrong. Eleanor’s mood had aroused her jealousy. And later her guilt.