“I think she would have been honest with me,” he said slowly. “Except at the end. She was very distressed. I begged her to tell me what was wrong, why she was upset. But she wouldn’t say. The doctor called it depression. It wasn’t that. Rosamund—Mrs. FitzHugh—was not the kind of woman who either felt sorry for herself or dwelt on the sadness of life. God knows, she’d had enough suffering, heartbreak, but she dealt with it with such courage—”

His voice broke off. Then he said, forcing it back to normal tones, “I never knew why she killed herself. It left me scarred. Not just her death, but the fact that she never turned to me in whatever anguish there was.”

Rutledge considered him. The thick white hair, still-black brows, the strong, almost attractive face. The squared shoulders and straight back. A good man to have beside you in the trenches when the next assault came, because you knew you could depend on him not to break .. .

Hamish said, unexpectedly, “But he’d protect her, wouldn’t he? He’d not give up her confidences to a stranger come to make trouble!”

Which was very true.

Rutledge changed tactics. “Who was the murderer in that house?”

For once, Chambers was completely off guard, completely vulnerable, his face stripped of the mask that the law and his years had fashioned for it.

But Rutledge had been right in his judgment as well. Stunned, speechless for an instant, still Chambers didn’t break.

“Murderer! Christ, man, what are you talking about?”

“A cold-blooded killer who for reasons we can’t fathom, decimated the Trevelyan family with methodical cunning. He—or she—was there, in the household. I’ve discovered that much. But so far, I can’t prove it.”

Chambers stared at him, his intelligence slowly reasserting itself as the first shock receded. “I don’t believe you! In Rosamund’s house? No, it’s not possible, you’ve been grasping for straws and looking for an excuse to make your trip down here worthwhile! Looking for promotion on the reputations of people who can’t defend themselves!”

Rutledge smiled, a cold smile that never reached his eyes. “If that were true, I could cause a great deal of trouble. But in the end, I’d only harm myself. No. Come with me, Mr. Chambers.”

He stood up, and without waiting to see if Chambers would follow, he went out into the inn’s hallway, fetched his coat from the rack, and was already picking up the borrowed umbrella when Chambers slowly came after him through the parlor door.

“Where are we going?”

“To the Hall,” Rutledge told him. “Do you have any objections?”

“I don’t—I’d rather not go there!”

“Why?”