“It likes you. Look at the feathers in the bottom of his cage. He’s been plucking them out. I think in mourning. His owner is dead. But he likes you. And he may be a witness. Who knows? I need to see to it that he’s safe and comfortable.”

“Do you think he saw a murder? Is that it?”

“I doubt if he did. But it’s possible that someone might confess, if the killer thought Jake knew something.”

She held up two fingers, and Jake stepped passively on them.

“No, don’t put him back. Not until I’ve cleaned out those newspapers.”

Frances talked quietly to the bird as her brother worked. Jake cocked his head, as if trying to understand, then ducked it for more petting.

“Was his owner a woman?”

“Yes. He lived with her for quite a few years. They must have grown close.” He thought of that touching good night that Jake must have heard week in and week out.

“I believe he understands that I’m not his mistress, but he knows I’m a woman.”

“The woman who had temporary care of him threatened to wring his neck. He was screeching like a wild thing.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Will you take him? If only for a few days?”

Frances took a deep breath. “I will not keep him, Ian. Are we clear on that? But I’ll take him for your few days.”

“Wonderful. Er—why was it you stopped by?”

“For one thing, David and little Ian arrived home safely. I thought you’d like to know.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“And,” she went on, “I must admit, I miss the company. I came to see if you could arrange a few days of leave. We might go down to Cornwall or somewhere for a bit. Just to get away. And now I’m saddled with a parrot.” But she smiled wryly.

Rutledge had cleaned the bottom of the cage and put in fresh newspaper. Washing his hands, he said, “It won’t be for long. I promise you. As for leave, it’s just not possible at the moment. In fact, I’m driving north again this morning. I can’t say with any certainty when I’ll come back.”

He followed her back to her house and settled Jake in the breakfast room, where sunlight, breaking through the clouds, promised a better day. Through an open window, the scent of roses came wafting by on the light breeze.

Jake bobbed as he gazed with interest out the open window.

“Roses,” he said, quite clearly.

“His owner,” Rutledge told Frances, “had a garden outside the kitchen windows. This must remind him of his home.”

“It was a verra’ clever thing to do, bringing him here,” Hamish said.

Rutledge left his sister coaxing Jake to speak to her, crooning softly and letting her fingers brush the bird’s feathers.