She reached out and caught his hands. “Please. I don’t know a Mrs. Cook. This woman you’ve just told me about— she has nothing to do with me or with my child! You mustn’t— there is no need to search for her. Because she doesn’t exist.” Her face was earnest now, her eyes wide. “It was Eleanor Gray I killed. I will swear to it! Bring my barrister to me—Inspector Oliver—the fiscal. In front of them I will tell you everything that happened. I didn’t mean to kill her—I didn’t want to kill her. But she told me I could have Ian, and then she changed her mind. I loved him, I’d held him, I wanted him. And so when she said she intended to take him after all, I pulled the pillows out from under her head and I held them over her face until she stopped struggling. And then I dragged her to the head of the stairs and—”

She broke off, crying, her tears hot against his hands. “Oh, please, I killed Eleanor Gray! Please go back to London and leave me to die in peace!”

“Fiona, listen to me!”

“No, I’ve listened long enough! I want you to bring Inspector Oliver to me, and Mr. Armstrong. Please—I don’t want to talk about it anymore!”

“If you killed Eleanor Gray, what did you do with her body?”

“I buried it. In a field somewhere along the road. It was dark, and I couldn’t see to dig, and there was a dog barking somewhere, and I was so frightened. Then Ian began to cry, and I shut my ears and kept digging until I could roll her into the hole I’d made. Someone had piled branches and tree limbs nearby, ready for burning. I pulled them over the raw grave and left them there. It was at the edge of a field, near a wall, where no one would plow—”

“You’re lying—!”

“No, I’m telling the truth at last—Mr. Elliot said to me that confession would free my soul, and it has—I’m ready to die . . . I want to die—!”

IT TOOK RUTLEDGE nearly ten minutes to stop Fiona’s tears and make her listen to him. Shaking her lightly, he forced her to look at his face. Her eyes, rimmed red from crying, were the saddest he’d ever seen. Dark pools of anguish in her white face.

He wanted to hold her and comfort her. Instead he said, “Fiona. If you confess to murder, there is nothing I can do to save you. Do you understand that? You will be hanged. With joy and thanksgiving in Duncarrick. If I swear that I won’t speak Mrs. Cook’s name again, will you promise me to say nothing to Oliver or Armstrong? Nothing!”