It was a chilling portrait, and it was the most truly devastating study of cold, hard ego, of a core of being without light or grace, that he’d ever seen.

By the time Rutledge had finished the poem the last time, he felt an exaltation in his blood that had nothing to do with poetry or Olivia Marlowe, and everything to do with the great courage of O. A. Manning.

He knew now the name and face of the Gabriel Hound. Proving it was going to be very dangerous. And Rachel would be brought to tears if he succeeded.

Chapter 22

22

Rutledge found it hard to sleep, and Hamish, ever vigilant for an opening, was there in his mind, critical, disagreeing, ridiculing, citing all the objections to his arguments. Pointing out over and over again— “You havena’ found a why. You havena’ got the reason!” “I don’t need reasons. Leave that to the lawyers—” “Lawyers are no’ policemen, they’ll twist the truth until it’s lost!”

“All I need is proof, and Olivia gave me that—” “Proof, is it? A muckle of lines, that’s what ye’ve got! Would ye stand and recite in yon courtroom, while your fine jury nods in their seats and yon judge begs you to get on with it before he declares a mistrial? Och, man, it’s no’ a case, it’s professional suicide!”

“What about her papers? You’ve reminded me of them yourself. You must have thought they were important when you did.”

“They’re gone, man, face it. Ye havena’ found them, and never will.”

“Nicholas wouldn’t have destroyed those out on the headland, she wouldn’t have let him! Cormac might have, if he found them first, before the lawyers and Stephen got there. But somehow I don’t think he did find them. I think he’s been looking as hard as I have. I can’t believe he wants anyone to know the truth about what happened between him and Olivia. Before I’m finished, I’ll find those bloody papers!” “Oh, aye, we’re back again to a dead woman’s poems! A

dead woman’s papers! What you need is a live killer. And a

confession. A witness to confront him! And there’s no’ any

hope of finding those.”

“No,” Rutledge retorted bitterly. “But I’m not beaten yet.”

He rose at five o’clock, his head feeling stuffed with cotton wool from an hour’s heavy sleep at the very end. Shaving with cold water, he dressed and hurried down the back stairs, startling the elderly scullery maid setting out the crocks of butter and putting the new-baked bread into cloths in a basket in the kitchen.

“Lord, sir! You gave me such a fright!” she cried, looking up at him and then burning her fingers on a hot loaf of bread, nearly dropping it. “Was it coffee you were wanting, sir? It’s not been put on yet.”