Anne Perry's Silent Nights: Two Victorian Christmas Mysteries (4 page)

Trimby stared at him, angry and defensive. “What kind of world do you live in where a man who would do that to a woman is considered sane?” he asked, his voice trembling.

Runcorn saw the profound emotion in him, the bewilderment and the sense of loss far deeper than what he must have felt from the expected deaths he encountered in his practice from time to time. Olivia had presumably been his patient and he might have known her all her life. Runcorn answered honestly. “When we say ‘madman,’ we mean someone unknown to us, who acts without reason, attacking at random, someone outside the world we understand. This wasn’t someone like that, and I think you know it.”

Trimby lowered his gaze. “If there were anything I could tell you, I would,” he replied. “I have no idea who it was, or why this happened. That is your job to find out, God help you.” And he turned and strode
away through the last of the gravestones, leaving Runcorn alone, cold, and spattered by the first heavy drops of rain.

I
t was a miserable day of small duties before Runcorn finally met again with Constable Warner and told him what Trimby had said. The medical evidence, such as it was, confirmed his own deduction, but added nothing that was of help. Olivia Costain had been stabbed in the stomach with a broad blade. The single thrust had severed the artery and she had bled to death within moments, falling backwards from where she had been standing. As Runcorn had supposed, there were no defensive wounds on her hands or arms, or anywhere else on her body.

“She probably died before midnight,” he finished. Warner looked tired, his eyes red-rimmed as if he had been sleepless far longer than one interminable day. They sat at the same kitchen table as they had in the morning, again with a pot of tea between them.

“I told the vicar,” he said miserably. “Poor man was shattered. I think Mrs. Costain took it even harder. Very close, they were.”

“Did you find out who was the last to see Miss Costain alone?” Runcorn asked, bringing him back to the facts. He had seen constables profoundly shaken by death before. The first few times were the hardest, especially when the victim was particularly vulnerable, young, old, or in some other way helpless. It helped to concentrate on the little they could do now that was of use.

Warner looked up. “Oh. Yes. Housekeeper saw her leave at about ten, or a few minutes after. Said she was just going for a walk. Seems she did that quite often, walked alone, even after dark. Didn’t go far.”

“So there are two hours during which she could have been killed?”

“Yes, seems like it,” Warner agreed. “I asked everyone where they were. Not a lot of help. The vicar was in his study, Mrs. Costain was in the library reading until she went to bed at about eleven. Their neighbors in the big house up the road would be Mr. John Barclay and his sister, Mrs. Ewart,
widow so they say. He went out to visit a friend, but he walked home alone and didn’t disturb the servants when he got in. So there’s no proof where he was after about half past ten. She was in bed, but she dismissed her maid, so we’ve only her word.” Warner looked more and more unhappy. “And the curate, Kelsall, lives alone in a little cottage half a mile away. Mr. Newbridge, who had been courting Miss Olivia until recently, lives about two miles away, and he was working in his study until eleven. But he dismissed his manservant after dinner, so we have only his word also.”

“Reasonable,” Runcorn admitted reluctantly. “I couldn’t account for myself either. A late walk on a clear winter evening is a natural thing to do. Have a look at the stars. You can really see them here. And most people who have servants let them go if there’s no need to keep them up. Anybody see her after that? See anybody about, or hear anything? What about servants, courting maybe? Any neighbors up?”

Warner shook his head. “Asked anywhere I knew of, Mr. Runcorn, and not a thing I can see as helps us at all. All the other neighbors so far can say where
they were, ’cos they all have families, or servants as saw them. Not that they all knew Miss Olivia that well, except in passing, as it were. Terribly shaken up, they were. We’ve never had anything like that here. It’s …” he stopped, lost for words.

He shook his head slowly, avoiding Runcorn’s eyes. “Got a message, chief constable’s going to be here sometime late tomorrow. He’ll take over then. Can’t say as I’m sorry. This is not the kind of thing I know how to handle, Mr. Runcorn. The odd robbery now and then, even a barn burning or a real bad fight I can deal with, but this is different. Got everybody frightened, and sick with grief, it has. Glad enough to have Sir Alan take charge of it. But I’m obliged to you for your help. We’ll hand over a tidy investigation, evidence all straight and done right, thanks to you.” He smiled very slightly, his shoulders easing a little, his color ashen as if at last he could let go of some of the burden which he had carried today. Only yesterday he could not have even thought of it in his worst nightmare. “I’m sure Sir Alan would want to thank you himself, but for us here, I’m grateful, Mr. Runcorn.”

Runcorn knew it would be this way, he had no jurisdiction in Anglesey, no standing beyond that of any other responsible citizen. And yet he felt absurdly disappointed. It was not that he wanted work. The case was tragic, nothing about it was obvious, and he certainly had no idea who could have done it, or why. But he wanted to see it to the end, he wanted to find out who had destroyed a young woman who had been uniquely alive and full of grace. And perhaps also he had wanted to be of value, here so very close to Melisande, not merely another onlooker. Dealing with violence and fear was the one thing he was good at. It was where his skills were truly valued.

But of course the chief constable was coming. It was too grave a case for him not to. It was not even twenty-four hours since the murder, and panic was already rising, fear cold and dark, wakening like the wind rattling at the windows. Except that the wind could be shut out, and fear entered in spite of all the locks and bars in the world.

“Glad to help,” he said quietly. “Sorry it wasn’t more.”

Warner held out his hand suddenly. “Very glad you were here, Mr. Runcorn. Very glad.”

Runcorn took it. There did not seem any more to add, and now he would leave to be alone, to face the fact that he did not belong here as he walked down the incline towards Mrs. Owen’s house, and another night before an empty day.

B
ut in spite of his resolution, by early evening Runcorn walked back towards Warner’s house, past the field where the redwings were still busy. He was hungry for information, though he knew it was foolish because they could not tell him anything. It was no longer his concern, he was not one of them. The reminder was painful. It forced him to realize more vividly an emptiness inside himself, a growing need for something more than he had.

As he passed the entrance to the churchyard, memory and grief clenched inside him again, making him even colder. He was surprised to see John Barclay ahead of him, walking beside a man almost his
own height, a man who was bare-headed even in this wind, his hair thick and fair. He had an almost military precision to his step, and even at a distance Runcorn could see the elegance in the cut of his clothes. It had to be Sir Alan Faraday, the chief constable. But why was he talking so closely to Barclay, as if they were friends?

Runcorn stopped, and perhaps the unexpected action caught Barclay’s eye, because he put his hand on Faraday’s arm and said something, and both of them turned towards Runcorn. Barclay took the first step forward, and there was something obscurely threatening to his action.

Runcorn stood his ground.

“Good evening,” Barclay said quite loudly, speaking when they were still several yards distant. “Runcorn, isn’t it?”

“Good evening, Mr. Barclay,” Runcorn replied, still not moving.

Closer to, the other man was good looking, his eyes were steady and remarkably blue.

“This is the London fellow I was mentioning,” Barclay told him. “Runcorn gave us a hand before
you could get here.” He looked at Runcorn. “Sir Alan Faraday, chief constable of the county. Obviously this is in his hands now. Very serious case, indeed. Warrants the highest attention, I think, before the horror of it can cause public fear and unrest. But we’re obliged to you for your help in the beginning.”

“Indeed,” Faraday affirmed, watching cautiously. “Very good of you to step in so professionally. It seems you’ve left all the evidence well ordered for us. Very nasty case, and of course people are terrified. It looks as if we have a lunatic on the island. We must do all we can to reassure them, and see that panic does not take hold.”

Runcorn was at a loss to know how to respond graciously and without allowing his emotions to betray him. It was at times like this he wished desperately that he had more polish, more of the assurance of a gentleman, which would allow him to assume he was in the right and demand others to assume it also. Instead, he felt like a good servant being dismissed for the night. And yet to resent it would make him look absurd.

But he was absurd. It stung, it was humiliating.
Monk would have known how to carry it off with such flare that Faraday and Barclay would have been the ones to feel foolish. But he was not Monk, he was not clever with words. Above all, he had no grace, no elegance.

“You are welcome to such help as I can give, Sir Alan,” he replied instead, and heard himself sound as if he were indeed a servant asking for approval.

Faraday nodded. “Good of you,” he said briefly. “We should be able to find the fellow soon enough. Small place, and all that. Decent people. Terrible tragedy, just before Christmas.”

Barclay looked at Faraday. “I’d like a word with Runcorn, if you don’t mind. I’ll meet you up at the vicarage in a moment or two.”

The chief constable acknowledged Runcorn with a brief nod, and within moments he was fifty yards away, walking easily as if miles would have meant little to him.

“Good man,” Barclay observed with satisfaction. “Ex-army, of course. He’ll sort this out, calm people’s fears, and get us back to something like normal. Can’t undo the memory or the loss, but no one could
do that. You can’t help any more, Runcorn. These are not your people, not the class you are used to dealing with. I’m sure you mean well, but you won’t understand them, or their ways.”

Runcorn wished to say something, but everything that came to his mind sounded to him as if he were trying to defend himself. He remained standing silently in the wind, the grief of the churchyard, the reality of death and loss overwhelming. He should not give even a passing thought to his own feelings.

“As long as you find who killed Miss Costain, it hardly matters who assists you,” he retaliated.

“My dear fellow, of course it matters!” Barclay said hotly, but with a continued smile on his face, more of a pulling back of the lips to show perfect teeth. “We cannot help the dead, but the feelings of the living matter very much. Our conduct can make an enormous difference to their fear, their sense of danger and disorder. But what I really wanted to say to you, privately from Faraday, is that he is an excellent man, and very soon to become engaged to marry my sister, Mrs. Ewart, who as you may recall is widowed.”
His eyes did not waver from Runcorn’s face. “It is a most fortunate match and will offer her everything she wishes. I hope I do not have to spell out in detail how unfortunate it would be if you were to mention your past professional involvement in London, however innocently intended. It can only raise questions and require explanations that would be wiser to leave unsaid. So please do not force yourself to anyone’s attention by making apparent that you have a past acquaintance, however superficial.”

Runcorn felt as if he had been slapped so hard the breath was momentarily knocked out of him. He drew in his breath, and found nothing to say in return, not a word that could touch the wound in him.

“I knew you’d understand,” Barclay said blithely. “Hope this wretched matter is all ended rather faster than you dealt with the other business. What a mess! Still, this seems clearer. I’m obliged to you. Good day.” And without waiting for Runcorn to think of a reply, he turned and followed after Faraday.