Oliver, on the other hand, was a satisfied man. His investigation had borne fruit, and he could see the end of it now. There was a smugness in his face, and from time to time his head dropped to his chest, relaxed into sleep.

Rutledge, remembering Betty Lawlor’s face when Oliver had offered her a scrap of paper in exchange for the brooch, wondered if she could read.

Fiona MacDonald’s lawyer could argue that the brooch was found in a part of Scotland where the MacDonald clan had lived for centuries. The brooch might well have belonged to any one of them.

But a jury could find it damning evidence. . . .

The three men stopped for the night in Lanark, finding a small hotel where they were served a dinner of mutton soup with barley and a roast chicken. Oliver, fidgety and eager to be back in Duncarrick, called it an early night. McKinstry, poor company at best, excused himself as well.

When they had disappeared up the stairs, Rutledge went out for a walk. Relieved to be out of the glen, relieved to be alone—except for Hamish. The night was clear though cool, and the smell of wood smoke followed him out of the hotel. He was restless, thinking of Wilson and the clinic, thinking of the brooch and Betty Lawlor’s new shoes, thinking of Fiona.

The town was tranquil, lights shining from windows in the houses along side streets, shop fronts dark, a pub noisy with singing and laughter, a dog scavenging in an alley. Several men passed him, and then a couple arm in arm, intent on their soft conversation, and the sound of a carriage echoed down the main street. He could see the stars overhead, and the first threads of clouds winding among them.

Hamish hadn’t relished the journey to the glen. And it had awakened memories that Rutledge had convinced himself he was beginning to forget. Instead Scotland had revived them with a vengeance. He had been right not to want to come here.

Wishful thinking, that time might heal—it seldom healed anything, only making scars that were often tender to the touch, and ugly.

Without knowing how he got there, he found himself outside the local police station. He had come here the last time he was in Lanark, asking for information about private clinics and hospitals. The constable on duty had sent him to Dr. Wilson. He stopped, looking up at the lamp above the door, his mind not really taking in his surroundings.

Cook. Maude or Mary. Two names. A woman in Brae, a woman in the private clinic here . . . Separated by a matter of miles—

He went up the steps and through the door.

The sergeant on duty, a bluff man growing stout with years, looked up and said, “What might I do for you, sir?”

“Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard. I need some information.”

“Are you here on official business?” the sergeant asked warily.