“And yet you can’t put your finger on the author of these letters.”

McKinstry frowned and set down his cup.

“And that’s what I find most disturbing,” he said, considering it. “Why can’t I go and knock on a door and see guilt written in the face answering it? I walk down the street on my rounds, and I look into the eyes of the people I meet. I stand and talk to them for a time. I watch them go about their daily business. And there’s nothing about them that I can put my finger on and say, ‘Now, that’s the action of a guilty woman.’ ”

“Why are you so certain it’s a woman?”

“Because why would a man think to warn a laundress that her soul was in danger, washing a whore’s sheets? Or warn a young mother that her small daughter had a bastard for a playmate and was likely to see goings-on at the inn that weren’t fit for an innocent child’s eyes?”

Hamish was already there, but Rutledge set aside his plate and finished his tea before saying, “A man might write such things to throw you off the scent. Or he may recognize that it’s the women in Duncarrick who form public opinion—”

McKinstry’s face darkened. “Then he’s a bloody coward. Begging your pardon, sir!”

Rutledge asked for a chronology of the case, and McKinstry painstakingly gave it to him, this time leaving out nothing that he considered important. Rutledge paid close attention, noting facts as well as listening for nuances. When McKinstry had finished, he said, “Well done.” Hamish, silent in his head, stirred uneasily. Rutledge found his thoughts straying for an instant, then went on.

“My guess is that whoever wrote such letters knew they’d be believed. And that’s the next point. Why would people so readily believe them? Why didn’t the first person to find one on his doorstep march straight to the police or to the accused and make it clear that this wasn’t going to continue?”

McKinstry took a long breath. “You are asking me to answer you that she’s guilty. The accused. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, they say. But I’m not prepared to believe that. I’d rather believe that the letter-writer chose her— his—targets very carefully. Some people relish gossip if it’s shocking enough.”

“Will you make a list of all the people who have admitted to receiving these letters? What they do for a living. What reason they might have had for disliking the accused. How well they might have known her.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll do that today. But, begging your pardon, sir, I don’t see how that will help you find out the truth about the bones said to be Lady Maude Gray’s daughter’s.” He shook his head. “And that’s another whole kettle of fish.”