Anne Perry's Silent Nights: Two Victorian Christmas Mysteries (9 page)

He gave a slight smile. “Made me grateful that my own sister is so much more sensible. Faraday will make an excellent husband for her. He has every quality one could desire. He is of fine family, he can provide for her both financially and socially. He is of spotless reputation, good temperament, altogether a thoroughly decent fellow. And fine looking as well, which is hardly necessary, but it is very agreeable. Melisande is a beautiful woman, and could take her pick from quite a few. I’m most grateful that she has more good sense than Olivia had, and does not entertain absurd fancies.” He held Runcorn’s gaze and smiled steadily and coldly.

Runcorn’s head was crowded with an avalanche of thoughts and feelings, bruising him, crushing sense and rational meaning. He struggled to think of something
to say that was sensible, purely practical, and would remove that smirk from Barclay’s lips.

“You are right,” the words were thick and clumsy on his tongue. “A sane man does not murder his sister because she is disinclined to marry the suitor he has chosen for her. But have you ever had a suggestion that Costain may not be entirely sane?”

Barclay’s smile vanished. “No, of course not. Olivia could at times try the patience of even a good man, but her brother is beyond reproach. If he were a man less devoted to decency, less governed by the affections of a brother and more of a lover, or would-be lover, then he might be less … sane.” He lifted his shoulders very slightly. “Thank God it is not my trade or my duty to find out who killed her. I cannot think of anything more unsavory than hunting through the sins and griefs of other people’s lives in search of the final depravity, but I appreciate that someone has to do it if we are to have the rule of law. If I can be of assistance to you, then naturally I shall do what I can.”

“Thank you,” Runcorn said bleakly.

Barclay dismissed his thanks with a gesture of his hand, and before Runcorn could frame the next question, he continued. “I would be obliged if you did not harass my sister with this any more than is absolutely necessary. She was fond of Miss Costain. They had certain situations in life in common, and Melisande is a soft-hearted woman, at times a trifle naïve. She was inclined to believe whatever Olivia told her, and I fear it was not always the truth. Olivia was not a good influence.” His smile returned.

“I am glad that Melisande is committed to Faraday, and will soon be settled. Perhaps she would have been able to prevail upon Olivia, had she lived. But that is tragically of no importance any more. If I can think further, I shall certainly inform you.” He turned the corners of his mouth down. “Unpleasant word, inform. Sounds as if it were clandestine, somehow deceitful, but then, to defend someone guilty of such a crime would be even worse, wouldn’t it?” It was half a question, the answer assumed.

Runcorn found the words sticking in his throat, but he had to force himself to agree. “Yes sir, I regret
that murder frequently exposes many smaller sins that can change the quality of our lives forever afterwards.”

Barclay stared at him, an expression in his eyes that was impossible to read: anger, triumph, a knowledge of his own power, an uncertainty.

“Thank you, Mr. Barclay,” Runcorn said quietly. “I appreciate your assistance. I wish everyone were as honorable in their duty.”

If Barclay detected any sarcasm, he did not show it even by a flicker.

T
he curate, Thomas Kelsall, was utterly different. His slender figure was bent forward as he walked and there was tension in the angle of his shoulders. Runcorn caught up with him as he strode doggedly through the pounding rain on his visits to the parish’s old and needy. Some of them would normally be Costain’s duty, but considering the circumstances, young Kelsall had taken it upon himself.

“You may think it arrogant of me,” he said to Run
corn as they kept pace with each other. “Some people might prefer to see the minister himself, but just now not only is he spending time with poor Mrs. Costain, but he does not know how to answer people. What can they say to him? That they are sorry? That she was the most charming, the most vividly alive person they ever knew, and her death is like God taking some of the light from the world?” He kept his face resolutely forward. “And what can he say, except agree, and try to keep from embarrassing them with his pain? It is better I go. At least they do not feel as if they have to comfort me. I can address their problems, which is what I am there for.”

“But you did know her well, and feel her death very hard.” Runcorn knew it was brutal, but stretching it out with euphemisms would be like pulling a bandage off slowly. And it was less honest.

“We were friends,” Kelsall replied simply. “We could speak to each other about all manner of things, without having to pretend we felt differently. If something was funny we laughed, even if sometimes people like the vicar thought it was inappropriate. He was her brother, and my superior, but our eyes
would meet and we would each know the other thought the same. We both understood what it was to have dreams … and regrets.” His voice trembled a little. “I cannot imagine I will ever like anyone else quite so much, so fully.”

Runcorn looked sideways at him, plunging forward into the wind and rain, and did not know for certain whether it was tears that wet his cheeks or the weather. They reached the house of one elderly parishioner, and Runcorn waited outside shivering in the lee of the porch until Kelsall returned. They set out walking again.

“Is it true that she refused Mr. Newbridge’s offer of marriage?” Runcorn asked after forty or fifty paces.

Kelsall hunched his shoulders and walked more intently forward. Thunder rumbled around the horizon. “She was a woman of deep feelings,” he said, shaking his head a little and fumbling for the right words. “Visionary. You could never have tied her down to petty things. It would have broken her. He couldn’t see that. He didn’t love her, he liked what he thought she was, and did not look closely enough
to see that he was utterly wrong. I don’t think he even … listened.” He looked suddenly at Runcorn. “Why do people marry someone they don’t even listen to? How can they bear to be so lonely?” He was shuddering, waving his hands as he strode. “Of course she refused him. What else could she do?”

Runcorn did not reply. In his mind for a moment he saw the face of the girl in green as she had passed him in church, then he saw Melisande, and the bland, handsome features of Faraday, and he was filled with the same helpless despair that he heard in Kelsall. Had the curate loved Olivia? Would it have been infinitely more than friendship if he could have chosen? Was there a completely different kind of hunger beneath the grief he displayed in his young, vulnerable face?

They walked together without speaking again, and he left Kelsall at his next parishioner’s house.

Making his way back up the incline again to find Warner, he did not change his mind. He still thought Kelsall a friend, but perhaps a closer one, more observant, more of a confidante than he had at first assumed.

The redwings were gone from the field. He hoped they would be back after the rain.

He spent the afternoon with Warner, but the only thing that emerged from their efforts was that Kelsall’s alibi was finally confirmed by the absentminded old gentleman he had been visiting, who had been up late with the croup.

In the late afternoon, just before dusk, there was a sudden lifting of the clouds and the air was filled with the soft, warm light of the low sun, already touching the high ground with a patina of gold. Suddenly the sea was blue and the Menai Strait a shining mirror barely wind-rippled as the icy breath of the sky whispered across it and disappeared.

Runcorn started to walk again, drawn towards the shore. It was cold, but he did not mind. There was a simplicity to it, a perfect melting of solid earth with the living, changing sea, a boundlessness of one into the other.

He turned and craned his neck upwards as he watched gulls soaring inland on the invisible currents, careening sideways and slipping down and
then up, looking effortless as they mounted into the light and were lost to view.

It was almost silent, a faint whisper of water behind him. London had never offered him such infinite peace. There was always noise, some kind of clatter of human occupation, an end to vision, to possibility.

He began climbing upwards, away from the shore. Perhaps he was wrong, and he had allowed himself to believe in limits where there were none, except those he made for himself. He thought of the past with a different view, almost as if he were regarding someone else. He saw in himself a man of practical common sense, one whose judgment of character was usually right but without empathy. He lacked a passion, an understanding of dreams. Had he guarded himself from such things, afraid to face his own smallness? He had hated Monk’s anger and his fire, his impatience with stupidity, his arrogance. Or more truly, was he afraid of it, because it challenged the conformity that was so much less dangerous?

Was that what Olivia had done, too, challenged
conformity? She had climbed these hills, he knew that from Naomi Costain. She might even have stood on this level stretch of the path and stared at the fire of the setting sun, as he was doing, and looked at the horizon where the sky and the sea became one.

Thinking of Olivia, Runcorn realized that small people like himself who want to be safe, who have no driving hunger, are afraid of those who upset their world, remove the boundaries that close them in and excuse their cowardice. He had hated Monk for that. Who had hated Olivia? Not Naomi. But what about Costain? Did she question this edifice of his faith, the daily justification of his status, his income, his reason for being? Could he forgive her for that?

Or was he simply a good man who did not understand a difficult sister who was his responsibility to feed and clothe, and keep within society’s bounds, for her own sake?

The sun was a scarlet ball on the horizon, and even as he watched, it dropped below the rim, spilling fire across the sea. He decided he would stand here
as darkness gathered and closed in, wondering what Olivia had felt. What visions had she seen, and perhaps died for? Was Melisande anything like her, except in his imagination? But he was a practical man, trained from years of making himself fit the mold of necessity, and the only real service he could perform now was to discover the truth. It might help no one to name the guilty, but it was surely a necessary service to free the innocent from blame, of others and their own.

I
n the morning Runcorn rose early and ate the rich breakfast Mrs. Owen cooked for him. She seemed to enjoy filling the plate to overflowing with bacon, eggs, and potato cakes, then watching him make his way through it. He did not really want so much, and initially he ate it only to satisfy her sense of hospitality. But in succeeding days, as he worked his way through the meal he had talked to her and learned with growing interest her opinions of various
people in the village and involved in the case. Her perception was simple, but sometimes surprisingly acute.

“Just the right man for the vicarage here, Mr. Costain is,” she said. “Poor soul, his wife. Lonely I think. No children. Doesn’t know how to talk without really saying anything, if you know what I mean? People don’t always want to think. Like Miss Olivia, she was.”

Runcorn had his mouth full and was unable to ask her to explain further, and he worried that if he did, she might think that perhaps she had said too much, and be more discreet in the future.

“Like some more tea, Mr. Runcorn?” she offered, the pot in her hand.

“Helps a lot of things, from a headache to a broken heart. Lovely girl, Miss Olivia was. Quick to sorrow, and quick to joy, God rest her. Never found anyone for herself, that I know of, in spite of what they said.”

Runcorn swallowed his mouthful whole and nearly choked himself. “What did they say?” he asked huskily, reaching for the tea to wash it down.

“Just silly gossip,” she replied. “Nothing to it. Would you like another piece of toast, Mr. Runcorn?”

He declined, finished his tea, and set out to look for Kelsall. This time he found the curate in the church, tidying up.