On the third morning, he found what he was looking for. Driving into a ring of spectacular barren hills, he reached a town called Craigness. It lay in a tree-rimmed bowl, east of where two rivers joined and a bridge wide enough to take motorcars crossed them. Its tall, slender church tower gleaming in the morning mists, and its houses looking far more English Georgian than Scottish, gave it an oddly graceful air, but north of it spread out the Highlands. Here Rutledge located the law office of Burns, Grant, Grant, and Fraser. It was an old building in a line of old buildings, with a first-floor bay window that jutted into the street. The brass handles and doorknob shone with polish against the dark red door.

“With prices to match the furnishings,” Hamish commented as Rutledge opened the outer door to the smell of beeswax, good leather, and better cigars. An aura of respectability, timelessness, and good taste hung in the air.

Neither Mr. Grant Senior nor Mr. Grant Junior was in, he was informed by a young clerk. But Mr. Fraser would see him.

Rutledge walked into a paneled room filled with books, floor-to-ceiling shelves, volume after volume spilling over onto chairs and tables and every other flat surface, even jostling for space on the windowsills and cluttering the beautiful old carpet on the floor.

The man behind the desk rose to greet him, offering his left hand. His right arm was missing. “Inspector Rutledge! I’m Hugh Fraser. I hope there’s a grisly murder under our noses. I’m sick to death of wills and deeds and title disputes.” The fair face beamed at him, but the blue eyes were sharp.

“No such luck. I understand from the local police that one of your partners was a Robert Burns.”

“Yes, Robbie died in France in 1916. We’ve left his name on the door out of respect. Although I must say, I would welcome his ghost as a partner to help me sort out this tangle.” Fraser waved his left hand at the chaos.

No, you wouldn’t, Rutledge silently replied. Aloud, he said, “Do you know when he was killed?”

“In the spring of 1916.” He gave Rutledge the date. It was the same week Eleanor Gray had told Mrs. Atwood that she was going north to Scotland. “I heard it almost at once, actually. From a supply sergeant I was dealing with. He wasn’t aware that Robbie was my law partner. He just said he’d been told one of the Trossachs men had bought it that morning and thought I might know him. Hell of a way to find out. Robbie was a good man.” The smile had faded. “We lost too many good men. Were you out there?”

“On the Somme,” Rutledge answered, his voice cold enough to ward off friendly reminiscences.