Anne Perry - A Christmas Beginning

“Won’t it?” she said softly. “You know about these things. Does somebody do this once and then stop? Won’t they defend themselves if we get close to them, if we seem to be about to tear the mask off and show who they really are?”

He shivered in spite of himself. Her fear touched him more sharply than the dusk wind. She was right, the only safety lay in swiftness, in striking before the victim knew the direction of the blow, and striking fatally. He longed to be able to protect her, but he had no duty, no place here at all.

“Won’t they?” she repeated. “Have I put you in an impossible position?” She looked away from him. “I am very afraid that we are out of our depth. Sir Alan is speaking as if it is some random beast come out of the wild places in the center of the island, the hills beyond our climbing.” She stopped abruptly, biting her lower lip, afraid to say the rest of what was crowding her mind.

He said it for her. “But you think the beast comes from within someone here in the houses and streets you think you know?”

Her eyes opened wide and there was a warmth in them, even a kind of relief. “Don’t you? Please be honest with me, Mr. Runcorn. This is too terrible for us to be exchanging lies because we think they are easier. Olivia deserves better than that, and for our own sakes we can’t afford to keep looking the other way.”

Why did she think so? She had not seen the body as he had. What had she heard or felt that she understood this? Who was she afraid for? Did she know who it was, or perhaps suspect? She knew Costain and his wife, and of course she knew her brother Barclay. She had been fond of Olivia, so it was possible she had learned from her something of Newbridge, or even of the curate Kelsall. Was she afraid the investigation would expose things that were ugly in any of them, or all?

Everyone has actions, wounds they are ashamed of, secrets they will fight to protect. Someone might even lash out to protect the memory of Olivia herself. Grief can cause many violent things no one could foresee, even in those most affected. Sometimes it deepens love, other times it breaks it.

“Have you told Sir Alan your fears?” He hated even mentioning the man’s name.

She shook her head fractionally. “No. I think he has enough to worry about, with the feeling that’s growing among people, and their demands for help, and for a solution. Nobody can just … produce it because it’s needed. We are not children to have all our fears soothed away. Something terrible has happened, and Alan cannot undo it for us, or provide the answers we want.” Distress, and something like pity, touched her face. “I don’t suppose anyone can.”

Runcorn wondered if she meant only what she said—that they must all endure it because there was no other way, and it was unfair to expect it. Was she defending Faraday, or saying he could not handle the task, or both? Runcorn struggled to read her eyes, the line of her lips, but it was too dark to see clearly anymore, and he did not understand anyway.

He knew she was afraid, but then only a fool would not be. Whatever the truth was, it would bring pain. Their lives would never heal over the things they would hear of each other, the shortcomings, the secrets ordinary life could have left decently covered. Murder swept all that away.

Did she love Faraday? The helplessness and the mercy of it was that one did not have to be perfect to be loved, one did not even have to be especially good. Love was a gift, a grace. He had never tested it himself. He was clumsy, ungenerous, never knowing how to respond.

He longed now to say something that would comfort her, be of more help in the days ahead, which would hold pain for her, but all he could do was tell her the truth. Of course he wanted to protect her, most of all from the actual danger. It was the one skill he had, but he was unable to use it because this was not his jurisdiction. He had no more authority here than the postman or the fishmonger—less, because he did not belong.

“Mr. Runcorn …” she said tentatively.

“Yes?”

“You found Olivia’s body, didn’t you.” It was not really a question. She was leading to something further.

“Yes.” The misery of it was in his voice.

“Do you think she was killed by a madman, someone none of us know?”

He hesitated.

“Please?” she said urgently. “This is no time for comfortable lies. Do not treat me as if I were foolish. Olivia was my friend. I really cared for her very much, even though I knew her well only a short time. We … we had much in common.

“I would like to know the truth, and Alan will not tell me.”

“Then …” he started, and stopped. She was inviting him to tell her something that the man she was going to marry had refused her.

“Your silence is answer.” She turned away from him, her voice tight with disappointment.

He could not bear it. “No, it was someone she knew,” he admitted. “She was facing him, not running away.”

She looked at him again, her expression filled with grief. “Poor Olivia. Can you think of anything more terrible? I want to ask you if she felt much pain, but I am not sure if I can endure the answer.”

“No,” he said quickly. “It can only have been a few moments at most.”

“Thank you.” Her voice was soft. “I’m sorry to have … Mr. Runcorn, will you please help us? I don’t think we know how to deal with this. We are not used to such … discomfort of the mind, such feelings of pain and fear when we don’t know what to do.”

He was stunned, and yet this was exactly what he had wanted, to help! Had she any idea what she asked of him? He had no authority, no rights here at all. Faraday would resent it. Barclay would be furious. He should tell her that, explain all the reasons why he could not do it. Instead, he simply said, “Yes, of course I will.”

“Thank you.” The faintest smile softened her mouth for a moment. “I am very grateful. I should not have kept you standing here in the cold so long. Good night, Mr. Runcorn.” And slowly, with intense grace, she turned and walked away.

He was too overwhelmed to reply. He remained where he was, shivering in the wind until he could no longer see her figure in the shadows, then at last he turned to go back to Mrs. Owen.

There was only one obvious place to begin, and that was with Constable Warner.

Runcorn arrived at Warner’s kitchen the next morning at eight o’clock, having risen when it was still dark and walked up the incline so as to know exactly when Warner turned his light on.

“Doing everything we can think of,” Warner said, offering Runcorn fresh, hot tea, which was accepted gratefully. The day was bitter, a raw wind edged with sleet blowing in from the east. “Hard to know what to do next,” he went on, bending to open up the stove so the heat spread out into the room. He did not look at Runcorn. “Porridge?” he asked.

“Thank you.” It had been too early to expect breakfast from Mrs. Owen, and actually he had barely thought of it.

“I feel helpless,” Warner added, his voice full of misery.

Runcorn recognized it as an oblique way of telling him that Faraday was making no progress, and possibly had little idea what to do next. He had painted himself into something of a corner with his assumption that it was a madman. It was easy enough to understand why he had done so, faced with the brutality of the crime and the horror it had awoken in everyone, family and stranger alike. The whole town suffered under a weight of shock as if life had been darkened for all of them. Something irreparable had been destroyed.

Warner was too loyal to say outright that Faraday was floundering; in fact, he would not even look Runcorn in the eye as he tried to find the right words, but that was what he meant.