“Frances, this is Jake. The bird is presently a ward of the court. Sergeant Gibson has already cursed my offspring, my hope of promotion, and my mental capacity. And so it’s here. But you’re right, I don’t have time to care for it properly. You do. Would you like to be its guardian for the next several days?”

“Ian, you must be out of your mind. What am I to do with a bird?”

“That’s exactly what Sergeant Gibson said to me. Although he called me Inspector Rutledge. You have a lovely window looking out onto the gardens. It would be very happy there. And all you have to do is feed it, water it, and—er—keep the newspapers at the bottom of the cage fresh.”

She had come over to the cage. The bird was sitting on a swing, regarding her with a fixed gaze, then it blinked and ducked its head down in a shy motion.

“I think it’s flirting with me,” she told her brother, laughing. “Look.”

Rutledge had wisely stepped aside. “Yes, I think it actually is.”

The bird ducked its head down again, and Frances touched the wires of the cage with her fingers. “Does it talk?”

“I’ve heard it say good night. That’s all. So far.”

“Pretty birdie,” she said lightly, and then, “Good morning, Jake.”

To her surprise, Jake sidled over to her fingers and tucked his head down close to them. “I think he wants to be petted.” She moved her fingers through the wire and touched his feathers, first on his shoulder and then his bent head. “He likes it.” She was smiling with that fondness women reserve for small children and baby animals. “Oh, you are a sweet boy.”

Rutledge had been on the point of warning her to watch the bird’s beak but stopped just in time.

Hamish said, “Ye ken, it belonged to a woman.”

Jake was leaning into Frances’s fingers, clearly enjoying the personal contact. Then it shook itself and flew to the door of the cage.

“He wants to come out.”

“Not on your life,” Rutledge told her.

“But, Ian . . .” She was already unclasping the cage latch, and she put her hand in. The bird hopped on her fingers like a hawk perching on a falconer’s glove. Frances lifted her hand out of the cage, then held it in the air, looking at Jake. They stared at each other, and then he flew to her shoulder, moving back and forth across it in a bobbing motion.

“If men were as malleable as this,” she said, smiling at her brother, “women would be happy as larks.”

“Frances,” he began.

“No. I can’t imagine having to mind it all day. No.”