“There was a woman along the road. Walking by herself,” he went on quickly. Johnston made an abrupt movement, trying to stop Rutledge. Hildebrand opened his mouth to speak and was ignored. “She had on a pink dress, this woman. Pink with lavender and rose. But it wasn’t your wife. It was someone else. Did you see her? Did you speak to her?”

But Mowbray’s head was back in the cradle of his hands. He was weeping silently.

“God damn it!” Hildebrand exploded. “You’ll muddle the waters worse than they are—”

“I didn’t agree to this line of questioning!” Johnston began at the same instant.

“Hildebrand. Send the man in the corner there to bring that dress to us. I want to show it to Mowbray.”

“No, that’s out of order, I won’t—”

“I’ve got to consider the ramifications if he should identify it—we don’t know—” Johnston was blustering. “I can’t follow your reasoning!”

“I want the dress,” Rutledge said. “Send the man for it!”

“It’s on your head!” Hildebrand retorted. ”Do you hear me?”

But in the end he relented. And the heavyset constable, relief visible on his face, diffidently strode past them and was gone.

They stood in angry, volatile silence while he was away. Mowbray’s weeping had stopped, and he seemed to be asleep where he sat, his breathing very irregular and harsh, as if dreams haunted him. Then suddenly he started into full wakefulness, crying out in anguish, throwing out his hands as if to ward off what had come out of the depths of his mind.

“As ye’ll be doing one day!” Hamish reminded Rutledge, chilling his blood.

Mowbray turned and begged, “Where are my children? Have you seen my children? Oh, God, I don’t know where to look for them anymore.”

The constable returned at that instant, breaking the spell that had held the witnesses in stunned thrall. He carried a carefully wrapped bundle in his hands and looked first to Hildebrand before passing it on to Rutledge.

Rutledge opened it, concentrating on the string and the knot, on the folds that led inward, until he held a garment within the white sheets of tissue paper, dark against their paleness. After a moment, without arranging the dress or the paper, he went to kneel on the cold, hard floor in front of Mowbray.

“Will you look at this?” he asked gently, making no attempt to touch the man, who was staring blindly into nothingness again.

It was some while before he coaxed Mowbray into glancing down at the dress he held out like an offering to some vacant god.

Mowbray frowned as if he couldn’t make out what it was, much less recognize it. But Rutledge was very patient. He could feel his feet and knees beginning to ache from the awkward position, but he kept himself steady and quiet, offering no distraction.