“I cannot believe that a young woman of your daughter’s rank would neglect her duty.” Rutledge paused and then repeated, “It is cause for concern.”

“Nonsense. Eleanor is young, contrary. She has had some ridiculous notion that she wanted to take up the study of medicine. It was the war; it unsettled all of us. But she insisted that she was well suited to it and that her goal was to become a physician. I hoped that with the Armistice and an end to the dying, this absurd dream would be seen in a different light. My daughter is something of a romantic, I must confess. Very like her late father.”

Rutledge, still standing, thought to himself, We’ll have to contact the teaching hospitals— Aloud, he asked, “Would she have settled for nurse’s training instead?”

“A nursing sister? Hardly that!” Impatiently, Lady Maude said, “Sit down, young man! That chair, to your left.” She crossed to the desk and took the chair behind it. As if putting a solid barrier between them. “When my daughter sets her heart on something, she’s single-minded about it. And I must tell you that she doesn’t cope well with disappointment. Eleanor has always been rather impatient of impediments and usually finds a way around them.” Lady Maude gave Rutledge a space to digest that before continuing. “Now, as for this business of climbing in Scotland—or having an illegitimate child—it’s so out of character that I am at a loss to understand how your Scottish policeman arrived at such a conclusion. The man’s an idiot. I won’t allow him in this house. Nor the local man; he’s as great a fool as they come.”

“Your daughter never expressed an interest in climbing?”

“Not at all. She’s not one of these robust women with an enthusiasm for athletic pursuits. She enjoys a game of tennis. And she’s very fond of riding. Before the war, she spent some time at school in Switzerland, and never indicated then or afterward that she cared for climbing. As for the other business, she has far too much respect for herself and her family to find herself in trouble.”

The words were spoken with absolute conviction. Women of Eleanor Gray’s class were taught from birth what was expected of them. They were to be married off to the greatest advantage, social and financial. Lovers taken after marriage—with absolute discretion—were another matter. Never before it.

The more he heard, the more Rutledge found himself agreeing with Lady Maude that the dead woman found in Scotland was unlikely to be her daughter, Eleanor. None of the facts matched. Still—height and age did. And possibly timing?

“Would it be possible to see a photograph of your daughter, Lady Maude?”

“She’ll no’ allow it,” Hamish told him. “But yon solicitor might have one.”

She glared at Rutledge. “To what end?”