“He must have read it,” Rutledge said tiredly. “He was her executor because she trusted him. That may have been her only mistake. I believe Stephen had changed after the war. Rachel said much the same thing, that he wasn’t the same man when he came home. My God, how few of us are!” There was bitterness in his voice, hearing again Rachel’s diatribe, and feeling no triumph for what he’d accomplished this day, only doubt over his methods. Beside him the tip of the church tower was touched by the slanting brightness, like a beacon. It gave him no comfort.

Hamish clicked his tongue in disagreement.

“Damn it, look at the facts, then! He decided on a memorial—that was the word Rachel used—instead of selling the house. That went against Olivia’s express wishes, and yet he hid the boxes where no one could find them and stumble on the truth. I think Stephen looked at his choices and felt he could turn the Hall into a museum by blackmailing the killer into allowing it. That was arrogance, not courage.”

A fisherman, coming up from the strand, caught sight of Rutledge walking towards him and made a point of crossing the street to the far side, to avoid passing him. Yes, the village had drawn its conclusions ...

“You can’t know what was in his mind!”

“No. But I know he left the boxes with Mrs. Trepol. He didn’t put them in the car to take to London. He didn’t leave them in the house where someone else might have come across them. He didn’t give them to the solicitor, Chambers. He put them in the care of a woman who would follow his instructions exactly, and he knew that.”

“Aye, but Stephen FitzHugh fell down the stairs. It was an accident, and you said as much yourself.”

“I still believe that.”

Rutledge had reached the inn, pushing open the door. It was dark and silent, except for lights at the end of the kitchen passage. He carried the statements to his room and locked them in his suitcase along with the small bits of gold before finding Trask and asking that some dinner be sent upstairs. For once the landlord had nothing to say when he brought up the tray. It was as if the village was shunning him.

Later Rutledge walked through the gloaming towards Sadie’s cottage. The setting sun still struck the headland with a rich golden light, but in the narrow valleys it was already that soft blue dusk that stole color from the land and left it almost in limbo between day and night.

Sadie was in her garden, weeding a row of carrots. She straightened her back as he came down the path towards her and stared at him in silence.