“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.