“It’s a valuable piece to her,” MacDougal agreed. “I’m surprised she brought it to me in the first place. But her father’s a devil when he’s drunk. If he found she had such a thing, he’d beat her for stealing it and use that as an excuse to take it from her. She was probably counting on me to speak up for her if that happened. Betty spends the summer wi’ the sheep, as far away from him as she can get. I’ve seen her out here in all weathers, a small figure with naething but a dog for companionship.”

Rutledge got to his feet and looked around. This was a very beautiful valley—and very bleak. “Wild” was the word most often used to describe it. He thought about the February night when the massacre had begun, and how the soldiers had run through the darkness with torches, searching for those who had fled. Driven by blood lust. A nightmarish way to die . . .

“Is there any other?” Hamish asked quietly.

Rutledge shivered in the warm sun.

“Did you come here?” he asked Hamish silently. “You and Fiona? When there was no work to be done on the farm?”

“Aye, we came. With horses. Sometimes we climbed. Or we’d find a place out of the wind and eat the bannocks we’d brought wi’ us. She liked the glen. The silence, but for the wind. And the closeness to her kin . . .”

MacDougal was asking if Rutledge had seen enough. He nodded and they started back down, slipping once or twice.

“The Lawlor girl. What sort of family does she come from? Aside from the drunken father?”

“Poor enough. She’s the middle girl. They work hard and go hungry sometimes, I’ve no doubt.”

“Why didn’t she bide her time and quietly sell the brooch for whatever it might bring? Even a little money would allow her to escape from the glen and her father and her poverty.”

“She’s too young,” MacDougal said simply. “In another year or two she might have. That’s why she wants it back. If you take it, she’s locked into this life. There won’t be other brooches waiting for sharp eyes to pick them out!”

Joining Oliver and Betty Lawlor, they descended to the road. Oliver bent to brush off his trousers where the cuffs had collected a fine pattern of dust.

Rutledge said to the girl, “I’ve been admiring your shoes.”

There was a flare of fear in Betty Lawlor’s eyes, then she said defiantly, “I earned the money for them!”

IT WAS A silent journey back to Duncarrick. McKinstry was wretchedly weighing the damage the brooch would do to Fiona MacDonald’s case. Rutledge, in the rear seat, could see the fine lines around his eyes, as if his head ached. But he drove with skill and attention to the road, wherever his mind was.