“Well—that is, I believe—er—Miss MacDonald lived with her grandfather until his death. Ealasaid must have said something about that. I—I seem to remember that she— Ealasaid, of course!—thought very well of him. A good man—well-respected in the Highlands. Which made it all the more shocking that his granddaughter should—well, disappoint the family so horribly.”

She had managed to appear totally ignorant of any facts—aware only of hearsay and half-remembered gossip. Her pale brows and lashes fluttered as she asked plaintively, “Is there anything else, Inspector?”

He shook his head and thanked her.

Hamish was pointing out, “That one hasna’ the courage to stand alone. She’s too afraid of people turning their faces fra’ her.”

A harried young woman with boisterous twins dragging at her heels blushed when he stopped her, and turned her face away to speak to the boys. They were just old enough— three? four?—to have been playmates for Fiona’s son. “I saw her sometimes on the street, and for her aunt’s sake tried to be nice. But she wasn’t a woman I was likely to be friends with.”

“Did your children ever play together?”

“Oh—! Well—sometimes, when I called on Miss MacCallum. That is, it was not a usual thing, you understand. But young children—they don’t play very much at this age, do they? They— It was more a matter of sitting and staring at each other across the room and—um—sometimes passing a toy back and forth.”

“Did you feel that the MacDonald child was not a proper companion for your children? After all, his mother worked at The Reivers.”

“It was a very respectable inn! Miss MacCallum would never have allowed any impropriety there. No—it’s just that we live on opposite ends of the town. It was not convenient. . . .” She let the words trail off.

Rutledge asked again, “Do you know where Miss MacDonald resided before she came to stay with her aunt?”

The woman scowled, and disentangled one boy’s chubby hand from the edge of her coat. “No, Donald, you mustn’t pull at me. We’ll be walking on presently.” She turned back to Rutledge. “I remember she said something about a family she’d lived with. How much she’d cared for the children.”

“Can you tell me who her friends were in Duncarrick?”

“No—of course I wasn’t close to her—she—I have no idea.”

Which was another way of washing her hands entirely of the matter. Hamish said, “She’s repeating what her husband has told her to say.”

Rutledge tended to agree with his assessment. There was neither warmth nor anger in her responses, only a determined effort to keep clear of the tangle of Fiona MacDonald’s affairs.