But he had kept his room at The Ballantyne, and made it clear to Constable Pringle, whom he met in the hotel yard, that he would be gone no more than a few days.

Heading east, he reached David Trevor’s house in time for dinner, and Morag greeted him with the warmth lavished on lost sheep. Lost black sheep, Hamish corrected him.

Trevor was also happy to see him. “I was looking forward to a lonely meal and only Morag’s company,” he told Rutledge. “Have you finished your work in Duncarrick? Is this visit a farewell before leaving for London?”

“No. I haven’t found Eleanor Gray. And Ha—” He was about to say, “Hamish is giving me no peace!” But he stopped in time, and instead ended lightly, “—and I’m not going to be very pleasant company in this mood!”

“Nonsense. You’re always good company, Ian.”

As they sat in the drawing room after dinner and drank whiskey that Trevor had stocked before the war, Rutledge waited until a comfortable silence fell, and then said, “I’ve come for a reason. I need to talk to someone sensible who isn’t connected with the investigation that’s under way.”

“I’ll listen. I might not have sensible answers.”

“Listening is enough.” Rutledge launched into the events of the past week, and in the process of putting them into coherent order found himself thinking more clearly as well.

“And that’s where it stands.”

Trevor said, “Yes, I see your point. There could be two separate investigations here. Or only one. And if there’s only one, then Fiona MacDonald will be found guilty of the charges brought against her. If there are two, then the woman on the hillside may have nothing to do with Duncarrick. And you won’t be able to answer that until you find out who she is. It’s going to be nearly impossible after all this time, isn’t it? I don’t envy you the hunt! But it seems to me that you’ve come a long way in establishing that Eleanor Gray reached Scotland.”

“Yes. If I weren’t a damned stubborn policeman, I’d have concluded yesterday that Oliver is right, it’s finished, and gone back to London satisfied.”

Trevor looked consideringly at him. “You like this MacDonald woman. You would like to see her proven innocent.”

“You’re telling me I’m not objective,” Rutledge answered, feeling himself flush. “Is that a fair judgment?”