As if conjured up by his thoughts, down the square Rutledge saw Oliver coming toward him, in the company of a man in a well-cut gray suit. A second glance identified Oliver’s companion as the sheep farmer Rutledge had met that first day close by the pele tower. They were speaking earnestly, and then Oliver looked up, lifted a hand to hail Rutledge. He excused himself and, leaving the farmer, strode toward Rutledge.

“You look like a man in need of his lunch,” Oliver said.

“I feel like a man in need of a drink. But what I need now is to learn more about Fiona MacDonald’s whereabouts before her arrival in Duncarrick.”

Oliver studied him. “I should think the logical place to begin would be with Eleanor Gray’s movements after the quarrel with her mother in 1916.”

“Logical, yes,” Rutledge replied patiently. “But that’s a wider investigation and will take far more manpower. Why not narrow it by starting at this end?”

“Yes, I see. Well, the best person to tell you what you need to know is Constable McKinstry. But I’ve already been to the town of Brae, and I’ve been to Glencoe. There can’t be much left to find in either place!”

“You didn’t know to ask for Eleanor Gray.”

“No, that’s true. But I did ask about any other place the accused might have visited about the time the boy was born. For I can tell you this much—a woman with the Gray name and money would never have chosen backwaters like Brae or Glencoe to live in. The two must have met in Glasgow— or Edinburgh. And there’s your needle in the haystack again!”

Rutledge said thoughtfully, “If you were the daughter of Lady Maude Gray and expecting a child out of wedlock, a backwater might offer obscurity as well as seclusion. The larger the town, the greater the risk of being recognized.”

Oliver took a deep breath. “You may be right, of course. It’s possible. But not likely. Still, talk to Constable McKinstry. Tell him to let you read my notes.” Then, echoing a remark Rutledge had already heard that day, he added, “Too bad, in my view, that her aunt is dead. Or convenient—who’s to say?”

He walked on.

CONSTABLE MCKINSTRY WAS on duty at the station, his chair back on two legs and a book in his hands. It was on Scottish law.