Afterward they went up to the gallery. There were boxes she’d left in one of the bedrooms, and she fetched those while he went into the study, opened the cases, and brought out the finely wrought ship’s models. They were of such perfection that he could see the tiniest detail clearly, and he marveled at the patience and workmanship that had gone into them. But then the rector had spoken of Nicholas’ patience.
He gave her the first one, the
Queen of the Sea
, at the door of the room, and she took it the way a priest takes the host, with trembling fingers. He made a point not to look at her face, her eyes. She knelt and began to wrap it carefully in cotton batting, then just as carefully lowered it into a box filled with torn strips of newspaper. He went back for the
next, and brought that to her as well. The
Olympic
. He remembered when she was launched, 1910. The sister ship of the ill-fortuned
Titanic
. There was also the German
Deutschland
and her sister, the
Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse
. And the earliest of the great liners, the
Sirius
, handsomely afloat on a beautifully carved sea with dolphins at her bows. And the
Acquitaine
, launched in time to become a hospital ship in the Dardanelles. He wondered how many ghosts had followed
her
home to England. The
Mauritania
had served off Gallipoli, the sister ship of the
Lusitania
sunk by a German U-boat in 1915.
“Was it the ships or the sea that intrigued Nicholas Cheney?” he asked as the last of the liners went into her paper and batting slip. He hadn’t told Rachel how empty the cabinet looked without them, as if something that was alive in the room had been taken away.
“Both, I think. He told me once—when we were children—that he’d grow up to be a great sea captain. One of his ancestors was an admiral, on his mother’s side, and had fought at Trafalgar. I suppose that was what put the idea into his head. There was a small boat down on the strand that he used from time to time. Sometimes Olivia went out with him. Sometimes I did. He was a different man on the water. I—I don’t exactly how, but it was there.”
She closed the last box, and with his help taped the tops of the others as well, then together they carried them down to the hall. But at the stairs she stopped and looked back over her shoulder with such haunted eyes that he turned away and made a show of shifting the boxes in his arms. Hamish, in the back of his mind, stirred restlessly and ominously. He was sensitive to lost love—he’d died before returning to his own.
Rachel left before Rutledge did, and when he came out, shutting the door behind him, he found himself face to face with the old crone who’d given him the longer directions to the house on his first morning. She stared up at him and grinned. What had Rachel called her? He couldn’t remember.
“Ye found your way, I take it?”
“Both ways, actually.”
She cackled. “Is Miss Rachel still here?”
“No, she left some time ago.”
“And you’d not be knowing, would ye, of any old rags Miss Olivia was leaving for me? They’d not be in those boxes yonder in the hall?”
“No, Mrs. Ashford packed those this morning. She’s coming to fetch them in a cart later.”
“And none in the kitchen by the back door?”
“Not that I recall.”
She sighed. “I saw the devil yesterday, and wasn’t asking the likes of
him
for rags. But Miss Rachel’s a lady, she’d not turn me off.”
Rutledge smiled. She might seem sharp as a tack, but her mind wandered. “I’ll ask her when I see her next.”
The old woman leaned back and looked up at the house. “I was here the day Mr. Stephen fell.”
“You were what?”
“I was here,” she said irritably. “I’d helped Mrs. Trepol with the clothes she was taking for the church bazaar—bags of them, there were, and Miss Susannah asked if I’d like the rags. For my rugs.”
He looked at the gnarled hands. “You make rugs?”
“Are ye deaf, then, young as ye are?” she retorted tartly.
“Tell me about Mr. Stephen,” he suggested hastily.
“He was in the house, looking for something. Searching high and low. I don’t know what it twas, but he was in a taking over it. Said he’d find it or know the reason why. He shouted at Mrs. Trepol, asking her if she’d moved it. And she were near to crying, telling him she’d never touch his things. And then she was going out the back door, and I heard Mr. Stephen on the stairs, a racket, and him yelling ‘Damned foot!’ And I knew the Gabriel hounds were here again, riding high through the passages and down the stairs like the demons they are. I turned away, afeerd of ’em.”
“What you heard was his fall, then? And he was alone?”
“Except for the hounds. They were baying at him, sharp and shrill and angry.”
“Did you say anything to Mrs. Trepol? Or anyone else?”
“There was naught to say! Outside Mrs. Trepol was marching along the path with her back stiff with hurt, and inside the family was crying out and making fuss enough without me. Mr. Cormac caught up with us, going for the doctor, but didn’t say what was amiss. I didn’t like the look on his face, I can tell you, cold and dark.”
“But you’re a healer,” he said. “Or so I’ve been told in the village. Didn’t you go to see if you could help Stephen FitzHugh?”
She gave him a look of disgust. “I heal, God willing, but I don’t raise the dead from their sleep!”
“But you couldn’t be sure—”
“I told ye, Londoner, that I’d heard the Gabriel hounds. That’s all I needed to know. They’re never wrong. I’ve heard ’em afore, when there was death walking the land. In this house. In the woods. Wherever evil strays.”
She turned and walked off, hobbling on her stick, leaving him to Hamish, who was trying to force words into his mind. But what the hell were the Gabriel hounds she’d talked of, some family banshee?
“I’ve been trying to warn you,” Hamish said grimly, “what they were. The souls of unchristened children. A child who dies before he’s blessed by the church. Unshriven. Not wanted by God—nor by the devil.”
“I don’t believe a word of it—that’s Highland nonsense!” he said aloud before he could stop himself.
The old woman turned and looked at him. And silently crossed herself.
He felt his face flush.
In the bar after lunch was an elderly man in an old but fine suit and collars and cuffs that gleamed whitely in the dimness. Several people had clustered around his bench, talking quietly and nodding at whatever he said in response. A half dozen men stood around outside in the sunshine, playing keels, their
shadows flicking across the dusty glass of the windows. Four other men sat around the hearth reliving the war. Two had lost limbs—an arm, a foot. Another wore an eye patch. Except for the women speaking with the doctor, it was a male enclave.
The barkeep said, “That’s the old doctor. The father-in-law of Dr. Hawkins. Penrith’s his name. Those that don’t hold with the new ways of Dr. Hawkins still come to speak to him. But his mind’s going these days. Shame, but there it is. Age catches us all, in the end.” The barkeep must have been as old if not older than Penrith.
Rutledge, looking across at the bearded doctor, smiled to himself at the comment, then went up the stairs two at a time to his room, to get the photographs Rachel had sent him. When the doctor was finally sitting there alone, Rutledge joined him and bought him beer before opening the subject of the Trevelyan family.
“Sorrowful history, the Trevelyans had,” Penrith said, tired old eyes looking up at Rutledge. “I saw them through most of it. And held their hands when they mourned. Old Adrian died in his bed, as he should, but not the others. Sad, sad, it was. I did what I could. Young Hawkins doesn’t understand about that, he’s not a village man. I was.”
Rutledge used his handkerchief to clear off a space, then took out the photographs and made a fan of them on the table. “What can you tell me about these people?” What light there was from the narrow windows fell across them, gently touching their faces.
“Ah—more secrets than I want to remember. That’s the gift of old age, Inspector. You begin to forget. And in forgetfulness is peace.”
“But I’d like to know their secrets. To satisfy myself that all’s well. That there was nothing done—now or before—that should have roused suspicion.”
The old man chuckled. “Suspicions? A doctor always has suspicions, he’s worse than the police. But sometimes there’s more compassion in silence than in words. When you can’t undo the harm that’s been done, sometimes you bury it with
the dead. James Cheney killed himself, and I said it was an accident cleaning his guns. Why burden Rosamund with more grief than she already had? The boy was lost, there was no bringing either of them back. Father or son. And Olivia was in such a state that I thought she’d lose her reason, swearing she’d never let Richard out of her sight, except to look at a plover’s nest she’d found. And Nicholas saying that it was his fault, he hadn’t watched out for either of them when he’d known he ought to. And the servants crying, and no man about the place but Brian FitzHugh, to see to the burying.”
“FitzHugh was there when Cheney died?”
“Oh, aye, he was, he’d come and go—about the horses they raced, Miss Rosamund and her father. Winners, the lot of them. Good bloodlines. Like the Trevelyans. And now only Miss Susannah is left. And she’s more Irish than Cornish, if you don’t mind my saying it!”
“What do you know about Cormac FitzHugh?”
“Nothing,” the old man said, finishing his beer. “He never needed me for any doctoring, not a splinter in the foot nor fall from a horse. When they sent him away to earn his own living, I was glad. Miss Olivia said one day she’d write some poems about him. I paid no heed to it then, I thought it was girlish foolishness, romantic nonsense.”
Rutledge stared at the watery eyes in the bearded face. Was the doctor trying to say that the love poems were written by Olivia to Cormac FitzHugh? That they had nothing to do with her half brother Stephen, whatever he’d tried to believe?
Tired from a restless night, Rutledge sat in a chair by his window and let himself drowse. He was just into that soft, floating ease between sleeping and waking when he heard sharp taps, a woman’s high heels, coming briskly up the stairs. And then sharper taps as she rapped on his door.
Jerked into wakefulness, he straightened his tie, ran a hand over his hair, and went to open the door. Rachel, he thought hazily, come to fetch her photographs.
But it was a tall, slim blond woman with angry eyes who stared up at him when the door swung wide.
“Inspector Rutledge?” she said crisply, looking him up and down.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m Rutledge.”
“I’d like to speak to you. In your room, if I may. The parlor is not private, this time of day.”
When he hesitated, she said, “I’m Susannah Hargrove. Stephen FitzHugh’s sister.”
He stood aside and let her come in, gesturing to the chair he’d drawn up to the window. He stayed where he was by the door, on his feet.
She ignored the chair. Instead she rounded on him like a battleship bringing her heavy guns to bear.
“My brother Cormac telephoned to my husband’s office in London and left a message that you’re here to reopen the matter of my family’s recent losses. His secretary passed it along. Is that true? Or did she get it wrong?”
“I’m afraid it is true,” he said gravely. “Which is not to say that Scotland Yard won’t come to the same conclusions in all three deaths.”
“Yes, I’m sure it will—too late. Too late for
us!
The family, I mean. We’ll be dragged through the newspapers, our dirty linen hung out for all to goggle at, and then, when you are
quite
satisfied, you’ll beg our pardon and take the train back to London as if nothing had happened! It’s bad enough, Inspector, to have to smile at people who know very well two members of your family killed themselves. If the police start whispers of murder, we’ll all be disgraced. I’m expecting a child in the late autumn. I won’t have it brought into the world in the midst of a nasty police matter!”
He fought back a smile at her vehemence, and said only, “I’ve said nothing about murder. To you or to your half brother.”
“Why else would Scotland Yard give a—a
damn
about some obscure village matters, if there weren’t suspicions on somebody’s part? Is it because Olivia was famous? Is that why you’re here to bedevil us?” Tears overlaid the anger in her eyes, but she held them back, fighting hard.
When he didn’t immediately answer, she turned her back
on him and stared out the window. “I knew that was what it must be. I told Daniel it could be nothing else! Why did Olivia have to do something so—so selfish! If she wanted to end it all, why did she have to leave shadows on the house—on us! I grew up there too, I don’t deserve to have my memories, my very
childhood
, turned into something hostile and empty and grotesque! And if you have your way, we won’t even be able to sell the house and be rid of it!” She whirled around and stared at him. “I hate that house now! I want it sold and all of the past ripped out of it by new owners who don’t know—don’t care—who we were!” She swallowed hard, then the tears came. “Who will buy it,” she demanded huskily, “if there was murder as well as suicide there. We’ll have it hung around our necks, like our sins, for the rest of our lives.”
He pulled out his handkerchief and held it out to her, but she ignored it, fumbling in her handbag for one of her own. “I’ve just lost my brother,” she said brokenly. “And now this! And the doctor said I wasn’t to be
upset
.”
“If you don’t believe murder has been done, why should you hate the house so much?” he asked, in an attempt to distract her. “What has it done—what has been done there—to distress you?”
She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “It isn’t what was done, it’s what’s been lost. Rosamund—my mother—held such light in her hands, and the house—all of us—were touched by it. And then she died, and it was all changed, all different, all—I don’t know! Dark and dreary and full of Olivia’s obsessions!”