“I traced you to Craigness, Holden. To Rob Burns’s house. I found written proof there that Eleanor Gray had come north with you that night in 1916 when it rained so hard. She waited in the car until the worst had passed before coming in. And Mrs. Raeburn didn’t see her. You left with her—and Eleanor Gray disappeared. Did you kill her? Did you drag her body on a blanket up the slopes of the mountainside in Glencoe and leave her for the jackals and the ravens?”

Holden said, “Don’t be an idiot! I never knew Captain Burns. His father will tell you that. And my wife!”

“It won’t matter what they say. You’ve left a trail behind you. And I’ve uncovered it. You thought, trained as you were, that you were skilled at deception. But I can bring witnesses who remember your face and who can place you in Saxwold, in London, in Craigness, and even in Glencoe. Unimportant people you thought we’d never be clever enough to find. There’s other proof. I’ll have it soon. It’s a loosely woven net at present—but it will tighten.”

The car’s lamps were fully on Rutledge’s face, but they cast macabre black shadows on Holden’s. There was no way to read his eyes. His hands, on the wheel, were white-knuckled. Rutledge watched them. If they moved—

Hamish said, “Is there a weapon in his car?”

I don’t know, Rutledge answered silently. He could feel the tensing of his body. A sitting target, pinned by the light. Holden had tried to shoot him once—

“Save your wife the disgrace of seeing you brought in by Inspector Oliver’s men. Tell me what happened to Eleanor Gray.”

It was meant rhetorically, but to his immense surprise, Holden did.

“I’ve nothing to be ashamed of. She wanted to find passage to the States. There was nothing to keep her here, she said. I drove her as far as Glasgow, and then went back to London on my own. I don’t know what became of her after that. And I didn’t see any point in telling Inspector Oliver about it. That was in the spring, and they tell me she died in late summer.”

“You’re a very accomplished liar. But you aren’t dealing with Turks now. Or with Inspector Oliver. Your name carries no weight in London. The Yard is handling Eleanor Gray’s death, not Duncarrick.” Rutledge’s voice was cold.

Holden turned his head away, looking around them, trying to see beyond his headlamps. Satisfied at last, he turned back.

“You won’t believe me if I tell you the truth. No one will.” He lifted a hand to wipe the rain from his face. “Damn it, come to the house!”

“No. Your wife is ill. I won’t put her through this. Tell me here—or at the Duncarrick police station.”