“Thank you, sir.” He could almost hear her mentally adding, You must be the policeman from London. She disappeared down a dark passage, the wood paneling there and where he stood in the high-ceilinged hall bare of decoration but highly polished. It offered a modicum of brightness in the general gloom. The only portrait was a formidable man with a graying patriarchal beard, wearing the garb of a churchman of two hundred years or more before. The eyes were dark and very stern, but the mouth was soft, almost gentle. A face that offered both judgment and compassion.

From down the passage Rutledge heard a light knock, and a door opened. After a moment, the young woman returned.

“Come this way, sir, if you please.” She led him toward the back of the house, where he found himself in a large room so crowded with furnishings and shelves of books that it seemed on the brink of collapsing in upon itself.

The man at the cluttered desk was of medium height and build, but he possessed a hatchet nose and the eyes of a fanatic—hot with the belief that he had answers to whatever questions confronted his flock. He was stony-faced, but the eyes were alive with his righteousness. Hamish, a Calvinist to the core, muttered, “He’d burn heretics at the stake if he could. . . .” And there was no praise in the words, only warning.

Elliot held out his hand to Rutledge but didn’t rise. Rutledge took the dry, stiff fingers and shook them briefly.

“What may I do for you, Inspector?”

“I’ve been sent to Scotland to look into this business of the woman who called herself Mrs. MacLeod,” he began easily. “The child’s true mother may have been English.”

“I see.” Elliot frowned. “It could be possible. Yes.”

“Miss MacDonald, I understand, attended services in your church. Have you visited her since her arrest? As her pastor?”

“Only once.” His eyes moved around the room. “Nor has she asked for my counsel and guidance since.”

“Surely even she is worth saving?” Rutledge spoke quietly.

The fierce pale blue eyes came back to Rutledge’s face. “Redemption is not granted. It is earned. She refuses to confess her sins.”

Plural. “Sins?”

“They are many. Arrogance. Pride. Wantonness—”

It was noticeable that murder was not listed among them. Hamish pointed that out, growling. He had taken an instant dislike to the minister. Rutledge made an effort to maintain his own objectivity. But he found himself thinking that this man had used the anonymous letters to punish the recipient, not the sender. Which seemed an odd choice for a man of God . . .

“If the child is not hers, how can she be accused of wanton behavior?”

“I have watched a man sink to his knees and beg God’s forgiveness for the desire she had aroused in him, and agonize over his soul’s danger. He is a decent man, and he cannot bear the guilt.”