Whatever had once been planted in them, they were empty now. From here, across the overgrown lawn running down to the river’s edge, the view was spectacular: a broad sweep to marshes on the far side that seemed to come alive with color when the sun broke through the clouds for a moment. On the rotting boards of a landing stage at the bottom of the lawn, a heron stared down at his reflection in the mirrored darkness of the silently moving water. Then in one swift, fluid action, his neck stretched down and came up with a small fish, silvery in his beak. And then the sun went behind the clouds once more, and the view seemed diminished.

But there were neither chairs nor benches.

“What a lovely spot,” Frances said, standing beside her brother. “I can imagine sitting here on a summer’s evening, watching the water and talking to friends. Did you know the people who lived here? Is that why you came?”

“No.”

He turned to look up at the house, scanning the windows. But if there was someone inside on the upper floors, he-or she-couldn’t be seen from the terrace below. Heavy drapes had been drawn across the panes on this side of the house, their faded colors somehow sad.

After a time Rutledge turned, and they walked back the way they’d come.

Halfway up the long drive, Frances said, “Ian, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Have you seen Meredith Channing recently? She appears to have gone away. Only the other day, Maryanne Browning was asking if I’d had any news of her.”

Rutledge knew where Meredith Channing had gone. But he shook his head. “Scotland, perhaps?” he said. “There was mention of a brother-in-law there?”

“Yes, that must be it,” Frances said, but there was a touch of doubt in her voice.

At the gates he inspected the pillars. The name of the house hadn’t been incised here. But he was nearly certain it would have been River’s Edge. Unless there was another house ahead?