That was all," Rosemary told Rutledge. "After what we'd endured together, what we had tried to salvage out of his despondency, all he could leave me were a few dozen words. I deserved more, Ian, I deserved to know what he was planning and why. I could have accepted it then, hard as it would be, because I was included. But I was shut out." She was a small, slim woman with fair hair and very dark blue eyes. There were heavy circles under them, now, with grim lines about her mouth.

Rutledge, who had broken such news to other people more often than he could count, said, "Rosemary. It's natural to be angry with Max. All the same, I don't think he could have borne telling you that he'd failed. That's how he had seen it, his failure. And so it was a private matter because of that."

"You've been a policeman too long, Ian," she answered him coldly. "I was his wife, for God's sake. What does it say in the Bible? Something about a man and a woman cleaving together? And in the marriage vows? Forsaking all others? I shall never forgive him. Until the day I die, I shall never forgive him."

She swung the door open at that juncture, and led him inside.

Hamish reminded him, "Ye didna' believe me…"

Rutledge tried to ignore him as he walked into the room where friends and family had gathered. There were twelve to fifteen people sitting and standing, talking together quietly. Rosemary made the introductions, although Rutledge knew several of the former Army officers. Her parents were there, but Max's parents had died during the war, leaving only a distant cousin who had been gassed at Ypres. He was sitting in a chair by the double windows that led to the gardens, struggling to breathe and talk, finally falling silent, his face strained.

Rutledge hadn't met Reginald Hume before this, and as they shook hands, he remembered Max saying something about his cousin having been schooled in England, although he'd returned to Scotland to live.