Charles Todd - Wings of Fire

Cormac came back to where Rutledge was standing. The whisper of the water running in was louder as the tide turned. “God knows,” he said tiredly. “It might have had something to do with her poetry. Or what Nicholas knew about her, about her life. Or what she thought he might do afterward- after she’d gone. Or it might have been sheer bloody-mindedness.”

“If she wanted her secrets kept, why leave her literary papers to Stephen? And surely you knew nearly as much about her history as Nicholas did. Possibly more. Killing him didn’t seal her secrets in the grave.”

“Ah, but she knew I was making a name for myself in London. That I’d go to any lengths to avoid scandal that might hurt my reputation in the City. It wasn’t very likely, was it, that I’d be eager to rattle any family skeletons? There’s a passage in one of her poems about ‘secret histories, kept to the grave, last defense of master and slave ‘gainst the final onslaught of heaven and hell, a Resurrection where the soul will tell what the tongue and the mind, in dreadful fear, had hoped against hope that none might hear.’ “ He shrugged. “The transfer of thousands of pounds is made on my handshake, the agreement to contracts and the trust of banks and investors. I’m as good as my word, and people depend on that. I had more to lose in telling than she did. She could have ruined me more easily than I could ever have ruined her.”

“But you might have ruined O. A. Manning.”

“Did she really care about O. A. Manning? She cut that part of her life short as well.”

“Unless she’d said what it was she wanted to say, and knew it was safe forever, printed into lines on paper. That no one could take it from her.”

Cormac studied Rutledge’s face. “Do you mean a confession of sorts? I don’t know the poems that well. I couldn’t begin to guess what she intended, in writing them. I really don’t believe that she herself knew what they were-only a force that had to find expression, regardless of the hand and mind that created it. Olivia was the most complex person I’ve ever known.”

Rachel had reached the headland, where rocky outcrops blocked her way and the sea sent spray flying in the sunlight. She stopped, hesitating, looking back at them, a small, frail figure against the massive land mass and the vastness of the sea. After a moment, she turned and started towards them again. She moved with grace, her hair flying in the wind, her strides long and sure.

“From here, she might be Jean…” Hamish said softly.

Watching her, Rutledge said, “I still think Nicholas’ death is the key. I could believe the rest of what you’ve told me, if I was satisfied there.”

Cormac said, “Then you’ll have to go to the grave for your answers. I don’t have any to give you.”

“Could it be connected with the house? In some way? If she’d died and Nicholas Cheney had lived, he would have inherited the Hall. And I don’t believe, from what little I know of him, that he’d have sold it.”

Surprised, Cormac’s fair brows snapped together. He said slowly, “Then why not simply change her will-cut him out of it? The Hall was hers, to do with as she pleased. Why not leave it to Stephen? He claimed to be her favorite, and I think there might be some truth to that.”

“Stephen would have kept the Hall, too.”

“As a memorial, not as his home. There’s a difference, I suppose.”

Rutledge shook his head. “Whatever it is, I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“Well, do me the courtesy of telling me what to expect,” Cormac said, “when you’ve made up your mind. I don’t want scandalous headlines in the morning paper staring back at me over my breakfast!”

“If I can,” Rutledge said, but it wasn’t the same promise he’d given Rachel.

After a moment Cormac said, “I’ve got to be on my way. Tell Rachel I’m sorry I missed her.” His eyes crinkled at the corners in a smile. “But warn her I’m not ready to leave Cornwall yet.” He walked off, moving swiftly and gracefully towards the house. Rutledge wondered whether he would buy it, as he’d thought about doing-or if the bitter memories here outweighed the sweet, even for him.

Cormac, whether he liked it or not, was still under Olivia Marlowe’s spell. Just as Rachel was under Nicholas Cheney’s She reached him, looking after Cormac and saying, “He doesn’t look very happy. What surprises did you spring on him?”

“I didn’t know that there were any surprises,” he countered.

Rachel turned her attention back to Rutledge. “Does it ever bother you-as a man, I mean-when the policeman in you has to break into a person’s peace and destroy it? Do you ever have qualms of conscience-nightmares-”

Hamish, answering for him, said, “Aye, there’s nightmares! But no’ the kind the lassie could bear!”

Seeing Rutledge’s face respond to what she thought was her own challenge, she didn’t wait for him to answer, and said instead, “Well, I suppose a conscience can grow accustomed to many things, when it has to!”

When he’d seen Rachel back to Borcombe, settled the boat where he’d found it, and returned the picnic basket to the inn, Rutledge went in search of Mrs. Trepol, housekeeper and cook. She was working in her garden, her hair tied up in a kerchief and an apron over her dress. As he paused at the gate that separated her walk from the road, she looked up, her eyebrows twitched, and she said, “I knew you’d come here before very long. When I saw you with Miss Rachel awhile ago.”

“Inspector Rutledge. I’d like to talk to you about the deaths at the Hall.” He opened the small iron gate set into the stone wall.

“It’s my Christian duty to answer you, but thinking about it bothers my sleep. I try not to.” She set the small trowel in the trug beside her and pulled off the old pair of men’s gloves she wore to protect her hands. “Would you care for a cup of tea, then?”

Following her into the dimness of the house, he saw that there was a cat in the chair he’d chosen to sit in, and moved instead to the long window overlooking the front garden. She unceremoniously dumped the torn out of the chair and dusted it with her apron. “He knows better,” she said, “but it’s his favorite place. I’ll be just a minute. Sit down, please, sir.”

He did, and the torn stared balefully at him from sleep-narrowed eyes. The room was small, with more furniture than it could comfortably hold, but clean of dust. Silverplate picture frames of people he didn’t recognize covered one table, beside small seaside souvenirs from Truro and Penzance. A plate holding pride of place commemorated the coronation of Edward VII, and a smaller one marked that of George V and Queen Mary. A cutting from a magazine, a photograph of the Prince of Wales in his Gaiter robes, had been framed and hung over the couch. This could be the parlor of any cottage in the west of England, Rutledge thought, feeling the quiet peace of it.

“Or in Scotland,” Hamish said with a sense of loss in his voice. “There was my sister’s wedding flowers under a glass bell, and the souvenirs were from Bannockburn and Edinburgh, not the seaside. A photograph of me in my uniform, with Fiona at my side…”

Mrs. Trepol came in with a tray bearing cups and a teapot, a small dish of cakes to one side. She set it on the tea table in front of the cold hearth, and poured a cup for him. That done, she sighed, as if she’d put off interrogation as long as good manners allowed. Straightening her back, she turned, handed him the cup, and said, “I told the police when it happened-”

“Yes, I know, and your statement was very clear,” he assured her. “But I’m here merely to satisfy the Yard that the deaths were investigated-er-properly.”