He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to remember what he had said to Fiona MacDonald—and how she had answered him. His mind refused to give him what he wanted, and in the background, Hamish was such a force that the voice in his head seemed to scream louder than the sounds of people or vehicles outside or the nearby church clock sounding the hours one by one.

THE NEXT MORNING, when Rutledge arrived at the police station, Constable Pringle was there alone. A ruddy man with sandy hair and the freckles that matched. He stood and formally introduced himself as Rutledge gave his name.

“Inspector Oliver isn’t in—”

“I’ve only come for five minutes. Oliver and I interviewed the prisoner yesterday. I have a question or two that arose while I was reading over my notes.”

“I shouldn’t leave my desk,” the constable said, uncertain.

“No, that’s all right. I can find my own way.”

Pringle went to a cupboard and took down a ring of keys. “This one.” He handed Rutledge the lot, singling out a heavy one in the middle.

“Thank you.”

With Hamish ominously silent, like a dark cloud foretelling a storm, Rutledge walked down the passage to the room where Fiona MacDonald was kept. A plump woman in a blue uniform was scrubbing the last few feet of the passage, her face red with effort. She moved aside as Rutledge passed and went back to her task as he set the key in the lock.

He found that his hands were shaking.

Opening the door, he saw that Fiona had risen to meet him, the wary expression on her face changing to surprise. “Inspector,” she said carefully.

He closed the door to give them some privacy.

“Last evening—” he began, and then dropped the pretense that he had been going over his notes. He said instead, “I’ve come to clarify a point or two. Do you wish to have your barrister summoned?”

“I’m more afraid of Mr. Armstrong than of you,” she answered. “The way he stares at me, I feel . . . unclean. He despises women, I think. We are weak vessels in his sight, better left uncreated.” She tried to smile and failed.

There was a brief silence. She studied him, and he wondered what she saw in his face. But he didn’t want to know.

“Did you ask for this case?” The words seemed drawn from her against her will.

“No. I was summoned to deal with the missing Gray woman. Until I came through that door—” He stopped. Something had altered in her face. A tightness, as if to protect herself from hurt. Had she expected, when he arrived with Oliver the previous night and she recognized his name, that he had come to help her? That somehow he had learned she was charged with murder and felt a duty to look into the matter?

A frail strand of hope—