Rutledge had no idea what he had expected to learn. His mind was a blank wall of nothing. He found himself looking away from her, not wanting to meet her eyes. But he managed to speak to her, feeling his way. “You’ve been asked before, Miss MacDonald—but can you give us any information that might help us find the child’s real mother? Or failing that, if she’s dead, her family? Surely you must be concerned for his well-being, and he’d be far happier with a grandmother or an aunt than in a foster home.”

“Will he?” she asked. “I’ve killed no one. I expect to return to my home and to my child.” Her voice was resolute, but there was fear in her eyes.

“If he’s not your child,” Rutledge said gently, “I doubt you’ll be allowed to keep him, even if you’re found not guilty. A young woman having to make her own way, with no husband or family of her own, could be considered unfit to make a suitable home.”

“Then I’ll marry,” she said with resignation. “I’ll make a home, give him a father!”

“You have no claim upon the boy. The law has its own views on the care of orphans.” He tried to keep his voice quiet, without condemnation.

Fiona bit her lip. “I don’t believe you!”

“Everything has changed, you see. When you first came to Duncarrick, you were thought to be a married woman, a widow. No one had any reason to question your right to the child. Now there is every reason.”

“No, I’m the only mother he’s known—!”

Changing his approach, Rutledge asked, “Did you write that letter to Mr. Elliot? The anonymous one mailed from Glasgow?”

Oliver stirred behind him. He hadn’t thought to ask that.

But the shock in Fiona MacDonald’s face answered any doubts Rutledge might have had.

“No!” There was passion in her voice, not mere certainty. Why? Then she added, as if to cover it, “The letter damned me.”

“You might have realized that those notes were bearing fruit. You might have wanted to protect yourself.”

“Then surely I’d have gone about it with more wisdom! I—I can’t—this letter is something I dream about in the night. It frightens me. I have been shown it and cannot recognize the handwriting. I have asked Mr. Elliot if he knew who had sent it, and he claims he doesn’t. But he tells me to throw myself on the mercy of the courts and save my immortal soul. I’ve asked the police if they’ve discovered the sender, and they tell me they don’t need to know who it is. But surely the author matters to them as much as it matters to me!”