The police. But Rutledge, standing there, facing her, was sure that the police had not had anything to do with the missing brooch. Except to retrieve it from a young girl who wanted a better life than she had had . . .

Chapter 21

21

RUTLEDGE SAT DOWN IN THE CHAIR, WATCHING FIONA while she paced, the box clasped tightly in her hands. Restless and uncertain, she asked him several times to tell her why the brooch was important, but he couldn’t. Instead he said, “You’d better give the box back to me. I don’t want Oliver to see that you have it.”

“Why not?” Reluctantly, Fiona brought it to him, and he put it in his pocket.

“Because, my dear girl, I’ve got to work with Oliver, and I don’t need to have him furious with me for interfering in his investigation. But you seem to be the key to mine.”

She said nothing.

He went on. “Do you know a Mrs. Atwood?”

“No. At least I don’t remember having heard the name.”

“What about Robert Burns?”

“He’s a poet—he lived near Ayr.”

“No. A person you might have met.”

She thought about it. “I recall someone saying that the fiscal lost his son in the war. I don’t remember whether his name was Robert.”

“I’ve been searching for a woman called Eleanor Gray. She may or may not be the person you’re accused of killing. The bones that were found in Glencoe. Eleanor Gray’s been missing since 1916. She had a quarrel with her mother over—money. And just after that she was supposed to spend a weekend near Winchester with a friend, Mrs. Atwood. Instead she came to Scotland with a man, possibly a friend of this Robert Burns, who may or may not be the fiscal’s son.”

Fiona smiled. “May or may not be—possibly a friend— supposed to spend the weekend. Hamish said you were a clever policeman.”

It was the first glimpse of natural humor he’d seen, lighting her face from within. Lighting her eyes.

“Yes, sometimes I wonder myself,” he said, returning the smile. “The odd thing about Eleanor Gray is that no one appears to have cared for her. Ann Tait knew of her—and en-vied her. Mrs. Atwood was jealous of her. Her mother saw to it that she couldn’t pursue medicine, which was Eleanor’s passionate interest. She may have died in 1916, and the only person who has tried to find her was a solicitor who wanted her to sign papers relating to her inheritance. You are accused of killing her—and yet you don’t know her.”