He let her go and crossed the street. Outside the milliner’s shop he met a tall, thin woman coming from the other direction. She had an air of fragility, as if she was recovering from an illness, but she moved with grace. When he removed his hat and spoke to her, she stopped with courtesy and waited for him to ask his question.

“I’m sorry,” she answered in a pleasant voice. “I’ve been unwell, and find it difficult to go into society as I used to. I don’t believe I have met Miss MacDonald. I can tell you Miss MacCallum was both respected and admired. She was very active in charity work and had a reputation for honesty in all her dealings. And as far as I knew, Miss MacDonald was a very fine young woman. The charge of murder against her is beyond belief.”

Hamish said, “Aye, it’s guid to hear the truth!”

This woman’s appearance and manner indicated that she might have been educated at one of the better schools. Or perhaps lived for a time in England. Rutledge asked, “Did you—do you know anyone by the name of Eleanor Gray?”

She frowned, considering his question. “Eleanor Gray? No, I can’t say that I ever met anyone by that name. I did know a Sally Gray.”

“Where did you meet her?”

“In Carlisle at a party given for my husband. But that was before the war. I haven’t seen her in years. Her husband was something in shipping, I think.”

A dead end. He thanked her and walked on, immersed in his own thoughts.

Realizing that he’d arrived at the stone monument at the top of the square, Rutledge stopped there for a time, listening to Hamish comparing this town with the scattered houses that comprised his own small village. Like most Highlanders, Hamish had been used to the silences of the mountain glens and the long, smooth mirrors of the lochs. These had given him, as a soldier, a resilience and a strength of mind that had raised him from the ranks.

Idly watching the medley of activity that gave life and color to the street, Rutledge considered the townspeople of Duncarrick. If anyone here had had close ties with Fiona MacDonald, they were busy now burying them as deep as possible.

It also seemed unlikely that Fiona had confided in her aunt.

But then, it was two secrets that Fiona held close. That the boy was not hers—and that she knew the identity of the child’s mother. For some reason, the latter must have been the darker of the two. Fiona had taken the very grave risk of going to trial for murder to protect it.

And if the mother was still alive—

As Mr. Elliot had so cleverly pointed out, she hadn’t stepped forward.

Why not? And where was she?

Hamish sighed. “Anywhere in England or Scotland, for starters.”