Climbing the stairs, Rutledge answered: “Then he shouldn’t have given his own name to that Glasgow jeweler! Was it McKinstry who drove Eleanor Gray north?”

“He was in France in 1916.”

Rutledge stopped at the head of the stairs. “No. He told Morag that he had met me there. Until now I’ve had no reason to doubt what he’d said. It will have to be checked.”

“He had a verra’ good reason to fire at you in the glen. To prevent you from talking to Betty Lawlor.”

“That’s possible, yes.” He opened the door to his room and threw his hat on the chair beside the bed. Crossing to the window, he looked out at the clouds moving in from the west. “I don’t know. I’m a better judge of character, I think, than to be taken in by McKinstry—” He shook his head. “I haven’t finished it. It may never be finished.”

“Your meddling is no’ making someone happy.”

Rutledge turned from the window and took a deep breath. “If it isn’t Fiona who matters, and it isn’t the inn, where’s the pawn in all of this?”

“The boy.”

“Yes,” Rutledge said slowly. “The legacy of the dead. Why is that so very important?”

But Hamish had no answer to give him.

RUTLEDGE ATE A hurried lunch and then went to the police station, requesting to see Fiona MacDonald.

Pringle, on duty, protested, “I don’t know that I can give you the key, sir! Inspector Oliver says you’ve finished with this part of the investigation.”

“I thought I was,” Rutledge said easily. “I have here a list of names, men who might have known Eleanor Gray. We haven’t asked Miss MacDonald if any of them mean anything to her. If Oliver complains, send him to me.”

Pringle reached behind the desk for the key and handed it over.

Rutledge found Fiona standing, as if she’d been restlessly pacing her cell. Little enough exercise for a woman accustomed to having her days filled with activity at The Reivers. Prisoners often complained about that—the sheer, wasting boredom of waiting for trial.

He shut the door behind him and began by saying, “I saw the child the other day. He had been feeding the cat with Drummond.”

“Did he look well? Happy?” she asked anxiously. “I wonder often if he’s sleeping properly. Or if he has nightmares—”

“He seemed happy enough.” He took out his list of names and slowly read them to her, watching her face. But Fiona shook her head.

“I can’t identify any of them. I’m sorry.”