Anne Perry's Silent Nights: Two Victorian Christmas Mysteries by Anne Perry Read Free Book Online Page A

that he could not refuse. He had made enough mistakes in the past with clumsiness of words, lack of judgment, selfishness, that he ought to have learned all the lessons by now. If he wanted to badly enough, he could place Faraday in a position where it would be impossible for him to refuse help. This was his one chance to become the man he had always failed to be. He had let pride, anger, and ambition stop him.
    “I’ll have to have Sir Alan’s permission,” he said to Warner, and saw the constable’s face cloud over instantly. “I couldn’t do it behind his back, even if I would like to.”
    Warner shook his head. “He’ll likely not give it.”
    “He might if I ask him the right way,” Runcorn explained. “It’d be hard for him to say no in front of you, and whatever other men he has on the case, and perhaps the vicar as well? Even Mrs. Costain. She was very close to Olivia. It would be hard to explain to her why he refused help.”
    Warner’s eyes widened with sudden understanding, and a new respect. “Well, I’d never have thought of that,” he said slowly. “Maybe I’ll just have a word with Mrs. Costain, and see as how that can be done. You’re a clever man, Mr. Runcorn, and I’m much obliged to have you on our side.”
    So it was that evening that Runcorn walked up the incline through heavy rain beside Warner and they knocked at the vicarage door a few moments after Sir Alan Faraday had gone inside to inform Mr. and Mrs. Costain of his progress on the case. Warner was due to report also, so the housemaid did not hesitateto take their wet coats and show them both into the parlor where the others were gathered close to the fire.
    Naomi Costain looked years older than she had a week ago. Her strong features were deeply marked by grief, her skin so pale she seemed pinched with cold, although the room was warm. She wore black, without ornament of any kind. Her appearance did not seem an ostentatious sign of mourning but simply as if she had not thought about it since the tragic events. Her hair was pinned up and kept out of her way, but it did not flatter her.
    Costain himself sat in one of the armchairs, his clerical collar askew, his shoulders hunched. Faraday stood with military stiffness in front of the fire, successfully blocking it from anyone else, but apparently unaware of it. He stared at Warner with a look of hope, then seeing Runcorn behind him, his expression closed over.
    “Good evening,” he said tersely. “Is there something we can do for you, Mr. Runcorn?” He did not use Runcorn’s police rank, although he knew it.
    Runcorn assessed the situation. There was no room for prevarication. He must either explain himself, or retreat. He felt foolish for having allowed Warner to do this in front of Costain and his wife. Now his humiliation would be that much more public. Faraday could not afford to lose face in front of others; this had been a tactical error, but it was too late to mend now. He chose his words as carefully as he could, something he was not used to doing.
    “It appears to be a far more difficult case than it looked to begin with,” he began. “I imagine that this close to Christmas, like everyone else, you are short-handed, especially of men used to dealing with crime.”
    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 neverhad 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