“Oh, I think you are objective. What I see from my own vantage point, not knowing any of these people well enough to be anything but objective, is that you may well be in danger. Have you considered the possibility that from the start of this business, Fiona MacDonald was going to be sacrificed? And your questions are getting in the way of that. Take care that you don’t threaten someone who believes he—or she—is well hidden behind the scenes.”

“That’s an odd warning.” Rutledge rubbed the bridge of his nose. His head still ached. But Hamish had fallen silent. “I can’t find any reason for someone to hate Fiona MacDonald deeply enough to concoct such a mound of evidence against her. I’ve searched.”

“Yes, I’m sure you have. Which leads me to believe that the girl is a scapegoat for someone else.”

“The child’s mother. I’ve considered that, yes. Fiona won’t tell me who she is. If the woman is dead, then surely it doesn’t matter?”

“Turn it another way. Who is that child’s father? Is he alive? If so, why mustn’t he be told he has a son? Or, if he’s dead, his family. Why should it be so important to keep someone in ignorance? So important, in fact, that Miss MacDonald is willing to hang and leave the child to the tender mercies of an orphanage.”

Rutledge said tiredly, “If the mother is alive, she’s sacrificing Fiona and the child as well. Willingly. And that makes no sense either!”

“Then that’s where the secret lies. The one you have to dig out.”

He had left Mrs. Cook out of the story. He said, “Before I can find the father, I have to find the mother. And before I can be sure I’ve found her, I must track down Eleanor Gray.”

“Then walk carefully. I don’t have a good feeling about this, Ian. Walk carefully!”

IN THE MORNING, Rutledge left to drive north to the Trossachs. Sir Walter Scott had used the district’s great beauty for the setting of his poem Lady of the Lake, and again in the novel Rob Roy. Whether Rob Roy MacGregor was a bandit or a Scottish Robin Hood depended on who was telling the story. But between them, he and Scott had made that stretch of lochs and hills famous. Even the Wordsworths, William and his sister Dorothy, had walked there.

Rutledge spent most of his second day searching for a Robert Burns. Ordinarily, he’d have asked the fiscal for his son’s direction, but he wanted to avoid any interference with the neighbor, Mrs. Raeburn, before he got to her.

He didn’t distrust the fiscal; he thought the man was probably honest and by his own lights dependable. But when it came to family secrets, even the most honest of men fiercely protected their own.