Rutledge said in defense of his doubts, “I’ve investigated too many murders, I know something about the way evidence comes to light. The facts here don’t fit awkwardly, as they should do. Who could have known that the skeleton was in the back of the cabinet in that stable? Someone did, I’ll wager! Because Oliver came back a second time to search. If he didn’t know, who did?”

He turned over, feeling sleep slipping away from him.

“The inn is closed, the child is taken away, and the woman is sent to prison to stand for her trial,” he went on to himself, unable to stop his mind from working. “With no impediment.”

Hamish countered, “Aye, but there was no way of knowing the Yard would be brought into the case.”

“Why did Lady Maude change her mind? I was nearly certain when I left there that her daughter was alive and well. Why did she change her mind?”

Hamish said, “She didna’ strike me as frivolous or foolish.”

And that, Rutledge thought, finally on the verge of sleep, was an extremely insightful analysis of Lady Maude.

THE NEXT MORNING in the rain Trevor helped Rutledge carry his luggage out to the car, then shook his hand warmly. Morag, a shawl over her head, came to embrace him, shamelessly reaching up to him. Rutledge found himself wishing that he needn’t leave after all. He had found ghosts here—and affection. The ghosts he was accustomed to. Affection he was not.

The rain fell in a heavy downpour that seemed to presage winter, a coldness in the air that touched the skin as he drove back to Duncarrick.

Inspector Oliver wasn’t at the police station. The constable on duty, MacNab by name, stood up warily as Rutledge introduced himself, and offered to send for Oliver. “For he’s out at a farm west of town. There’s been a rash of small fires that were probably set on purpose.”

“No, let him finish his business. I’ll be at the hotel—The Ballantyne. Tell him he can find me there.” He left, wondering to himself if Constable McKinstry could put a name to the arsonist.

The hotel offered an old-fashioned but comfortable elegance that breathed Victorian respectability. The young woman behind the desk looked up as he came dripping in and smiled. “Good morning, sir! In a manner of speaking!”

He took off his hat and looked ruefully at the wet brim. “Indeed. I think I could use a drink. Then I’d like a room.”

“I’ll be glad to see to that for you, sir.” She indicated the door to his left. “The bar parlor is through there.”

“Thanks.”