She watched Rutledge’s face avidly, her smile inviting him to enlighten her further on the subject of Eleanor Gray’s family.

Rutledge replied blandly, “I’m afraid Inspector Oliver is your man for word on that subject. Ealasaid MacCallum was, I’m told, a very fine woman. I had wondered if she’d confided to you any concerns she might have felt about the conduct of Miss MacDonald after her niece came to live at the inn.”

In a thousand or more words, the answer appeared to be no.

He had the feeling Mrs. Coldthwaite was deeply disappointed to have to admit it.

Chapter 22

22

AFTER RETURNING TO THE BALLANTYNE, RUTLEDGE went to the telephone room to put in a call to Sergeant Gibson in London.

He got Old Bowels instead.

“Rutledge? Is that you?”

Rutledge closed his eyes. Hamish was still furious with him for breaking his promise to Fiona regarding the name of Mrs. Cook. The angry rumble at the back of his mind, like a headache, had shortened his own temper.

“Yes, sir.”

“What the hell are you doing, man! This business should have been cleared up by now.”

It was useless to explain the complexities involving Fiona MacDonald and Mrs. Cook. “It’s difficult tracing a woman who didn’t want to be found.”

“I’m not interested in excuses. I’m interested in results.”

The receiver was slammed down.

Hamish said, “You’ve lost your skills—”

“You’re wrong—”

It was an old argument. The sting of it hadn’t faded with time. Rubbing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, he tried to think. Gibson . . .

He called the Yard again and this time reached the sergeant.

“I need to know who might have had a brooch engraved—” He described the brooch in minute detail, the letters on the back. “It could be very important.”

“Where do you want me to begin?”

“Edinburgh. Glasgow. Not the fashionable shops.” The engraved letters had seemed worn, their shapes elegant but their depth shallow. “A middle-class shop, where a cairngorm brooch wouldn’t cause comment.” He paused, considering all the possibilities. “It’s going to be the proverbial needle, Sergeant, but I need the answer. And I know for a fact that the engraving was done within the past five weeks.” He remembered the water in his petrol. Not vandalism— time bought? “Possibly within the past two or three. That should help.”

Gibson sounded dubious. “It’s a tall order.”

“Yes.” Rutledge tried to think. Hamish wouldn’t let him. He said, “Gibson—try England first, will you? Just over the border from Duncarrick. I have a feeling—”

“Feelings are all very well, sir, but they don’t help very much, do they?”

“This time, Sergeant, I think they just might!”

EARLY THE NEXT morning, Rutledge pulled out of Duncarrick with his luggage in the boot of the motorcar.