“We don’t know that it has. We’ve traced her movements from London to a place called Craigness, a small town on the Teith in the Trossachs.”

“That’s where Rob lived—”

“Yes. She arrived in a rainstorm with a man. They spent two days at the house and then left.” Rutledge paused. “We know she was there because she wrote something in the margin of a book that belonged to Burns. It couldn’t have been done earlier, she’d just learned he was dead. That narrows the time, you see. And it’s possible that she herself was dead by the autumn of 1916. She hasn’t been seen since.”

Warren said, “Are you telling me you think she killed herself?” He shook his head. “Not Eleanor Gray!”

“She loved him. The last notation in the book was ‘I wish I could die too.’ ”

“Yes, yes, people say that,” Warren replied impatiently. “I’ve heard them say it. But that’s a source of comfort, not a decision taken. ‘I wish I could die and end this suffering—I wish I could die and not have to think about it any longer.’ Then they straighten their backbones and get on with living. And you didn’t know Eleanor Gray. She was incredibly vivid, the kind of woman other women never learn to understand. But men do—men always find that zest for life fascinating.”

AS HE ROSE to leave, Rutledge gave Tom Warren his card. “If you should think of anything else that might help, please get in touch. You can reach me in Duncarrick, at The Ballantyne.”

HE SLEPT FOR nearly ten hours, roused the hotel clerk at midnight in search of food, and then slept another six. The morning he woke up to was gray with clouds, but there was no rain in them.

Hamish, at his shoulder as Rutledge turned north, was arguing the question of Eleanor Gray’s feelings for Robert Burns.

“It could ha’ been infatuation.”

“A handsome man in uniform, the excitement of war. A romance that wouldn’t have lasted with the peace.” Rutledge was reminded of Jean, who had adored his uniform, then was terrified by the reality of war. He couldn’t imagine Eleanor Gray confusing war with romance and excitement. She had seen too many of the wounded—

“And infatuation is more likely to lead to suicide,” Hamish persisted.

“Fiona’s mother died of a broken heart.”

“That was no’ the same! She wasted.”

“It doesn’t matter. If Eleanor was carrying Robert Burns’s child, she wouldn’t have killed herself. If she wasn’t pregnant—then who’s to say?”

“It doesna’ explain how she came to be in the glen.”

“No. And that’s a question we still must answer.”

THINKING ABOUT ELEANOR Gray, Rutledge turned off the road north and made a detour to Menton.