Anne Perry - A Christmas Beginning

The silence was deafening. They were all staring at him, Costain with bewilderment, Naomi with hope, Faraday with contempt.

“This is an island where there is very little crime,” Faraday replied. “And even that is mostly the odd theft, or a fight that’s more hot temper than cold violence.”

“Yes,” Costain agreed quickly. “We … we’ve never had anyone killed … so long as I’ve been here. We’ve never dealt with anything like this before. What … what do you advise?”

Faraday glared at him. His question had been peculiarly tactless.

Runcorn knew to retreat. A word of pride or the slightest suggestion of professional superiority, and he would be excluded in such a way that there would be no room for Faraday to change his mind and ask him back.

“I don’t know enough to advise,” he said hastily. “All I meant to do was offer whatever help I can, as an extra pair of legs, so to speak.”

Faraday moved his weight from one foot to the other, still standing directly in front of the fire.

“Thank you,” Naomi said sincerely, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“To do what?” Faraday asked with an edge to his voice.

Runcorn hesitated, wondering if Faraday’s question was a demand that he explain himself, or an oblique and defensive way of asking him for advice. He looked at Faraday, who, as usual, was immaculately dressed, his thick hair neat. But there were hollow shadows smudged around his eyes and a tension in the way he stood which had little to do with the cold. He was in an unenviable position, and with a sudden surge of pity that startled and disconcerted him, Runcorn realized just how out of his depth Faraday was. He had never faced murder before, and people who were frightened and bewildered were looking to him for help he had no idea how to give.

“Ask some of the questions that may lead us towards whoever attacked Miss Costain,” he answered. He chose the word “attacked” because it was less brutal than “murdered.”

Outside, thunder rolled and the rain beat against the windows.

“Of whom?” Faraday raised his eyebrows. “We have already spoken to all those who live anywhere near the graveyard. Everyone in Beaumaris is appalled by what has happened. They would all help, if they could.”

“No, sir,” Runcorn spoke before he thought about it. “At least one would not, and maybe many others.” He ignored Faraday’s scowl, and Costain’s wave of denial. “Not because they know who is guilty,” he explained. “For other reasons. Everyone has things in their lives they would not share with others: mistakes, embarrassments, events that are private, or which might compromise someone they care for, or to whom they owe a loyalty. It’s natural to defend what privacy you have. Everyone does.”

Costain sank back in his chair. Perhaps as a minister he was beginning to understand.

Faraday stared. “What are you suggesting, Runcorn? That we dig into everyone’s private lives?” He said it with immeasurable distaste.

Again Runcorn hesitated. How on earth could he answer this without either offending Costain and his wife or else retreating until he lost whatever chance he had of conducting a proper investigation? He knew the answer was to be brutal, but he loathed doing it. Only the thought of Olivia lying in the churchyard, soaked in her own blood, and his promise to Melisande, steeled him.

“Until you find the cause of this crime, yes, that is what I am suggesting,” he answered, meeting Faraday’s blue eyes steadily. “Murder is violent, ugly, and tragic. There is no point investigating it as if it were the theft of a pair of fire dogs or a set of silver spoons. It’s the result of hatred or terror, not a moment of misplaced greed.”

Costain jerked back as if he had been hit.

“Really!” Faraday protested.

“Mr. Runcorn is quite right,” Naomi said softly, her voice sounding with a trace of hesitancy in the quiet room. “We must all put up with a little inconvenience or embarrassment if it is necessary to learn the truth. It is very good of you, Alan, to wish to protect us, and I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but we must face … whatever we must to put this behind us.”

Faraday waited only a moment, then he turned again to Runcorn. He had no choice but to concede. He got it over with quickly. “Yes. Yes, I regret it, but that does seem to be the situation. Perhaps it would be helpful if you were to give us some of your time, and it is most honorable of you, when I assume you are on holiday. Naturally I shall require you to report to me regularly, not only anything that you may feel you have learned, but also, of course, your intentions for the next step. I had better advise you what we have done so far, and where you should proceed.”

“Yes sir,” Runcorn said quietly. He had no intention whatsoever of taking instructions from Faraday, who was obviously as concerned with appearances and order as with the darker sides of truth.

Faraday turned to Costain. “If I might speak alone with Runcorn for a few minutes?” he requested. “Is there somewhere suitable?”

“Oh … yes, yes, of course.” Costain rose wearily to his feet. He looked like an old man, confused, stumbling in both mind and body, although he was barely over fifty. “If you would come this way.”

Runcorn excused himself to Naomi, thanking her for her support, nodding to Warner, then he followed Faraday and Costain across the hall to a small study. The fire in this small room was only just dying, still offering considerable warmth, since Faraday didn’t resume a position in front of it. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn against the night and the spattering of rain on the glass was almost inaudible here. The walls were lined with bookshelves. Runcorn had a moment to spare in which to notice that, predictably, a large proportion of them were theological, a few on the history or geography of biblical lands, including Egypt and Mesopotamia.

As soon as the door had closed behind Costain again, Faraday turned to Runcorn.

Outside the thunder cracked again.

“I appreciate your help, Runcorn, but let me make this perfectly clear, I will not have you taking over this investigation as if it were some London back-street. You will not cross-question these good and decent people about their lives as if they were criminals. They are the victims of a hideous tragedy, and deserving of every compassion we can afford them. Do you understand me?” He looked doubtful, as if already he was seeking a way to extricate himself from his decision to allow Runcorn to help.

“Even in London, people are capable of honor and grief when someone they love is murdered,” Runcorn said hotly, his good intentions swept away by a protective anger for the people he had known, and for all the other victims of loss, whoever they were. The poor did not love any less or have any different protection from pain.

Faraday flushed. “I apologize,” he said gruffly. “That was not what I meant to imply. But these people are my responsibility. You will be as discreet as you can, and report to me every time you make any discovery that could be relevant to Miss Costain’s death. Where do you propose to begin?”

“With the family,” Runcorn replied. “First I would like to know far more about her than I do. Ugly as it is, she was killed by someone who was standing in front of her, and she was not running from him. She must have known him. Had a stranger accosted her alone at night, in the churchyard, she would have run away, or at the very least have fought. She did neither.”

“For God’s sake, what are you suggesting?” Faraday said hoarsely. “That someone of her family butchered her? That is unspeakable, and I will not have you …”

“I am stating the facts to you,” Runcorn cut across him. “Of course I will not put it in those terms to her family. What are you suggesting, sir? That we allow whoever it was to get away with it because looking for him might prove uncomfortable, or embarrassing?”