“Not if she left in her fifth month.”

“Well, that’s true, I suppose. But when she left Brae, it was to travel to London to be with her husband. He had been invalided home—what would he have said to find her pregnant by another man!”

She stopped. “I had wondered if she had a lover. . . . No, I can’t believe it of her. She wouldn’t have been able to conceal her condition from Mrs. Kerr. And Mrs. Kerr would have told half of Brae. No. Possible, but not likely,” she ended firmly. “Give Fiona my love, will you? And tell her we are praying for her.”

“She will be grateful,” Rutledge said, and went down the walk to his car.

Hamish scolded, “You’ve broken your promise again!”

“No. I asked if Mrs. Cook could have had a child. I’ve put no one in danger!”

“It isna’ right to gie a promise and take it back when it suits!”

“It isn’t right for Fiona MacDonald to hang,” Rutledge retorted grimly.

“Aye, but she doesna’ deserve to put her faith in lies.”

RUTLEDGE REACHED GLENCOE before Inspector MacDougal got there, and spent the time climbing back to the rocks on the heights.

How had a woman dragged the dead weight of a body up this slope?

How would he have done it?

People found extraordinary strength in times of grave danger. It would have taken enormous effort. And time. At night then, when darkness gave the killer a good nine hours in which to accomplish the task.

And if he’d laid the body on a blanket and pulled—

What if the frayed edges of an old blanket had been cut off and hidden under the bench in the Craigness garden? To make a sturdier corner—

Overhead Rutledge heard an eagle scream and, shading his eyes, looked up. He could just see it, circling for altitude, riding the warming air. In the far distance a car was moving in his direction. Rutledge turned and began to walk back down the mountainside.

The sound of pipes came from somewhere, a lonely shepherd passing the time. Too far for Rutledge to pick out the tune. A pibroch, he thought. Very fitting here, where the mountains gave it body and redoubled the drones. He paused to listen.

Something cracked—a shot—echoing and re-echoing against the rock faces on either side of the road.

Instinctively, Rutledge ducked, long years of war making it a swift reflex action. The stones just behind him spurted, then slid in a trickling spill toward his feet. He swore.

There was no cover here—absolutely none—he was a clear target, easy to pick off—

Where was the man with the rifle!

Crouching, he scanned the opposite slopes and saw no one.

It hadn’t been his imagination! He knew the sound of a rifle; it was clear and definitive—