On the wall to his left were several family memorials. The one for Stephen, set between his father’s and a slender pillar that supported the chapel, was inscribed with his name, dates, the Trevelyan and FitzHugh coats of arms, and his rank and regiment in the war. And in the back, their newness brightening the darkness there, were two blocks of black marble, side by side. Incised in them were, simply, the names and the dates of the dead. Olivia and Nicholas. Plain, for suicides.

For a moment he stood looking at them, wishing he could reach the living people they had been. But it was too late for that, except in Olivia’s poetry. Extending his arm, he again laid his palm against the marble, seeing its reflection against the lettering as if in a black mirror. The long fingers, the strong palm. His hand, no one else’s.

“Was it you, Olivia? Or Nicholas,” he asked aloud.

“... Nicholas ...” the echo repeated softly.

“And you are free of guilt.”

“... free of guilt ...” it replied.

“Who was your lover? Was it Cormac?”

The echo caught the question in his voice as it responded.

“... Cormac ... ?”

“And who is the Hound of Gabriel?”

“... rial ...?”

“Do you know? If so, where will I find the answer?”

“... answer ...”

“Is it in your papers—or your poetry?”

“... poetry ...”

He stepped across the small space to where he could touch Nicholas’ memorial, ignoring the forcefulness of Hamish’s voice, calling it witchcraft to question the dead, warning him not to meddle in such matters, to leave it be.

“I talk to you. How is that so different!” he retorted in his mind.

After a moment he asked the shining black face of Nicholas’ marker, “Were you the killer Olivia protected?”

But in that single step he’d shifted the odd acoustics of the chapel and there was no echo to answer him. Only the sound of his own breathing. As if even in death Nicholas knew how to hold his peace.

Chapter 20

20

Back at the inn Rutledge ate a fast meal in one corner of the dining room, an old book he’d found in the parlor propped in front of him to ward off conversation from either Trask or any other diners. But it was still early, and he had the place to himself. Asking for another pot of coffee and a cup, he went up to his own room to open the books of poetry again.

They seemed to raise more questions than they answered, but he thought it might be his own frame of mind raising doubts, not the lines he read over and over.