But of course the Wings of Fire poems were different, and perhaps it was those that Dawlish’s wife knew. Love poems, and unlike the poems Shakespeare had written to his dark lady, these were light and warmth and beauty intermingled with such passion that they sang in the heart as you read them. Wings of Fire had touched him in a way that few things had.

Hamish growled, his voice a low rumble in the back of Rutledge’s mind. “Thought of your Jean, did you, as you read those lines? She’s no’ worthy of that kind of love! My Fiona was. She gave me the book before I took the troop train to London. They found it in my pocket, wet with my blood, when they dug out my corpse.”

Nearly choking on his tea, Rutledge coughed and said, “Leaving the suicides for the moment, none of the four at the house that last day had anything to gain from killing Stephen FitzHugh?”

“As to Mr. Cormac FitzHugh, nothing. He has no rights in the house. Miss Rachel and Mr. and Mrs. Hargrove will receive a larger share of the sale now, but we looked into that. Their finances are in order, and there’s no reason to think they needed the extra money.”

‘‘Where money’s concerned, people will do strange things. All right, I think you’ve told me all I need to hear for the moment. Where am I staying?”

“I’ve put you at The Three Bells, sir. Not far from the church. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank Mrs. Dawlish for the tea.” Rutledge collected the papers on the table and added a good night. It was raining again, and he dashed to his car, reaching it and climbing inside just as a wind-driven downpour swept over the headland and rattled against the picket fence like distant machine gun fire.

“Do ye think it was witchcraft that made yon woman write as she did?” Hamish asked, still intrigued with Olivia Marlowe. “She knew the war too well, man! It’s unnatural!”