No Mark Upon Her

then put it away in a drawer. He didn’t want to think about Ross Abbott again, at least not until the trial.
    He’d taken his revenge last night. It had been swift and sweet, and he felt no remorse.
    He’d rung every one of the crew of their year’s Blue Boat and told them what Ross had done in the Boat Race. That would be enough. While Ross’s career might survive a murder trial, the power of the rowing grapevine would send his reputation up in flames.
    A token, against Becca’s life, but fitting that Ross Abbott should lose the thing that mattered to him most.
    Freddie, however, wasn’t at all sure what mattered to him anymore. It came to him, as he looked round the cottage, that he loved this place, and felt at home here in a way he never had in the Malthouse flat. Once the legal criteria had been met, he could sell the flat and move back into the cottage. Maybe he could make a Guy Fawkes bonfire of the Malthouse furnishings, he thought wryly.
    Would he mind sharing this house with Becca’s ghost? he wondered. As he stood quietly, he realized he’d come to see that in spite of their flaws and their mistakes, they had loved each other. And in some odd, bittersweet way, it helped salve his grief. He would be all right here.
    But although Becca’s generosity would leave him once more financially stable, he found he’d lost all interest in developing property or in moving in the circles where nothing one had was ever quite good enough.
    What, then? Convincing people to invest money in one scheme or another was all he’d ever done. He had no real or useful skills.
    Through the open window, he heard the sound of tires on tarmac. When he looked out, a battered Land Rover was stopping on the verge by the cottage.
    It was Kieran’s car—he recognized it from yesterday—and tied on the roof rack was the canvas-covered but unmistakable slender shape of a single shell.
    Freddie went out and met Kieran at the garden gate.
    “I thought you might be here,” said Kieran, looking pleased, and Freddie realized it was the first time he’d seen him smile. It transformed his thin face, and Freddie knew he’d glimpsed the man Becca had known.
    “Are you all right?” he asked. “How’s Finn?”
    “Stitched, bandaged, and a bit groggy from the pain meds. But the vet says he’ll be okay. We just have to keep him from overdoing things until he heals. Tavie’s home keeping an eagle eye on him.”
    The last was said with such easiness that Freddie thought Kieran might not be needing the boatshed as a place to live anytime soon. He felt glad for him, and a little envious.
    “I’ve been cleaning up the shed,” Kieran went on, “seeing what’s salvageable. And I thought”—he nodded towards the roof rack—“as it survived by a miracle, it was time someone gave the boat a trial run.”
    He walked round the Land Rover and pulled the canvas free. The rich mahogany hull of Becca’s boat shone in the sun, and Freddie felt his breath catch in his throat.
    “Will you help me get her down?” asked Kieran. “I don’t think Becca’s neighbors will mind if we launch from their raft.”
    Kieran pulled a pair of oars from the back of the Land Rover, then together they lifted the shell and carried it down to the water. The shell seemed weightless to Freddie, the wood warm as a woman’s skin.
    “I’ve made some adjustments to the rigging,” Kieran said as they turned the boat over and set it gently in the water beside the small floating raft. Kieran placed an oar across the shell’s midsection to hold it steady, then looked up at Freddie. “You’d better take your shoes off. I’ve attached a pair of my trainers to the footboard. They should fit you well enough.”
    Freddie stared at him. “You want me to take her out? But—”
    “Who better?” said Kieran. “And I’d like your opinion. I need to know if this whole idea was utterly daft.”
    “But I haven’t rowed in . . .”
    “Don’t worry. You won’t have forgotten how.”
    Freddie looked at the shell, then at the Thames, gleaming back at him, still as a pond.
    Wordlessly, he pulled off his shoes and stepped into the boat. Sliding his feet into the trainers, he found that they did indeed fit. He took the second oar from Kieran and fastened both in their gates, then moved the seat backwards and forwards a few inches, testing the action of the rollers.
    Then Kieran gave him a push and he was out into the current and moving downstream. His hands fit