“There’s Molly Braddock. Well, Molly Sinclair, that was. Tommy Braddock’s good with his hands, he’d done the odd job for the accused. Fixed a window sash when the weight rope broke, and cleaned the chimney when birds nested in it last spring. He’s a happy-go-lucky man, the world’s his best friend. But Molly is possessive.” McKinstry shook his head. “I can give you names, that’s easy enough. What I can’t do is picture in my mind any of these people sitting down, day after day, to write such wicked nonsense.”

Hamish said, “He’s a conscientious policeman, aye, and a good man who doesna’ ken hate.”

Rutledge agreed. He buttered the last of the scones. “Let’s take another direction, then,” he said aloud. “Were the letters Biblical in tone?”

“Yes, sir! How did you guess?”

“It isn’t uncommon for anonymous letter writers to clothe their acts in Scripture. ‘It’s God chastising you, not me! His judgment of you, not mine.’ ”

McKinstry sighed. “That would fit half the town. We’re a dour lot eager to spy sin around any corner. Aye, and find it as well.”

“You do realize,” Rutledge said, studying the young man, “that these letters may have had nothing to do with the crime she’s accused of. It may simply be that the letters drew attention to facts no one had considered until then. And once the police took notice, the truth came out.”

“No, sir,” McKinstry said, torn between defending his own beliefs and possibly alienating the man from London he’d pinned his hopes on.“I can’t accept that without better evidence. Sometimes”—he hesitated, glancing at Morag—“sometimes there’s such a fever pitch of belief in guilt that nobody looks for the fallacies in the evidence. I’m saying that because of the letters, Duncarrick was eager to see her blamed. That the letters set the stage for all that followed.”

It was easy to shape evidence to fit a theory. . . .

“Yes, I understand,” Rutledge answered patiently. “And that’s the purpose of a trial—to weigh the evidence openly and fairly.”

Hamish grunted, as if challenging Rutledge’s words.

“If the jury listens,” McKinstry argued. “Then it works. But what if the jury doesn’t want to hear anything to the contrary because they’ve made up their minds? That’s what I fear, sir, because I do know my people. And I’m ashamed to say I have no faith in a jury when the mind’s shut.” He took a deep breath. “And what’s to become of the child? There’s the other worry. As far as I know, it has no father.” He looked out the window, not at Rutledge. “She’s a good woman. She’s a good mother. If she says the babe is hers, I want to believe it. But the police have said the contrary, that she killed the mother and took it, then told her aunt and the rest of the world that it was hers.”