by Anne Perry
“I wish I had known,” Melisande said at length. “I would at least have told her that it made no difference to me. How terribly alone she must have been.”
“Not alone,” he said gently. “Naomi was always with her.”
She turned to him, hope flaring up in her eyes. “Was she? Please don’t tell me something to comfort me if it is not true. Please, always tell me the truth. I need one person who doesn’t lie, however kind the reason.”
“I won’t lie,” he promised rashly. He would have promised her anything. “Naomi never let her down.”
She smiled slowly, a soft sadness filling her face, more beautiful to him than the radiance of the sun over the ground. “Thank you,” she said sincerely. “I must go, before they ask me why my morning walk took so long. Please … please don’t stop your search. It is too late now to hide anything.” And without waiting for his answer, she walked with increasing speed up the hill back towards the great house.
Runcorn began straight away. He loathed Barclay and despised him for what he seemed to have done both to Olivia and to Newbridge, but still, he wanted to prove beyond all further question that he was not legally guilty of murder even if morally he was. That was a different issue and the law had no remedy for it.
Runcorn knew the date of the birth, it was a matter of tracing back to nine months before that. He was already convinced that Costain knew nothing about the child. His eagerness to marry Olivia to first Faraday, then Newbridge, and finally Barclay, meant that either he was unaware of her child and its death, or he was unbelievably insensitive. Runcorn was certain it was the former.
Still, he should ask Naomi again.
She received him in her own room in the vicarage, a quiet space on the ground floor filled with gardening gloves, secateurs, string, outdoor boots and trugs for carrying cut blooms and greenery. She was arranging a bowl of holly with berries the color of blood, small golden onions, and sprigs of leaves and evergreen that he could not name. Some leaves were dark red as wine, and the bowl glowed with purple, green, gold, and red. He admired it, quite honestly. There was a rich warmth to it, as if it proclaimed hope and abundance in a dark season.
He did not waste her time, or his own, with prevarication. “Do you know who was the father of Olivia’s child, Mrs. Costain?”
“Yes,” she said simply. “But it was no one you know, and I have no desire to tear up his emotions or ruin his reputation, so there is no purpose in your pursuing it. He never knew she was with child, and he is too far away from here to have had any part in her death.”
“Percival, I assume,” he concluded. “I had not thought it was Mr. Newbridge, but I needed to be certain.”
“Newbridge?” she looked startled, almost amused. “Good heavens, no! Whatever made you imagine that?”
“You are perfectly sure?” he persisted.
“Perfectly,” she said with feeling. “But if you doubt me, you can prove it for yourself. He was away in England at the time, Wiltshire, I think. Certainly he was miles from here. He was staying with his sister, and buying cattle, or something of the sort. At that time he was more concerned with improving his livestock than gaining a wife.”
“What sort of man was Percival?” Another idea was gaining strength in his mind.
She smiled, placing a last golden onion in its place to complete the light and shade of the arrangement.
“I never thought of using onions like that,” he said.
“One uses what one has,” she replied. “And onions keep very well. What was he like? He was fun, full of ideas, an imagination which could make you laugh and cry at the same time. He was not particularly handsome, but his face was unique, and he had a smile that lit up his eyes and made you feel as if you could survive anything as long as he liked you.”
“And did he like Olivia?” He did not want to hear that he had not. But if it had been true, he had to know.
Naomi looked away. “Oh yes, as much as she loved him, I think. But he was young and poor, a dreamer. It will be years before he can afford to marry, if ever. And he was not suitable for a girl of Olivia’s breeding. My brother would look far higher than a penniless wanderer for her. My mother-in-law was a lady,” she added. “Very little money, but a heritage back to Norman days.” She sighed. “Which is slightly absurd, since if you think about it, we must all have a heritage back to Eve, or we would not be here. I don’t give a fig who my ancestors were, only what I am, because that I can do something about.”
Runcorn stared at her.
She looked back levelly. “Are you asking me if Olivia could or would have married him? She would have, but he had more sense than to ask her. Newbridge did, and she refused him. Kindly, I hope.”
There it was, as clear as it would ever be. Newbridge had offered her all he had, and she had refused him. And John Barclay had told him that she had been willing to lie with an explorer with neither land nor family, and to bear his illegitimate child. To Newbridge that must have been the ultimate insult, not only to his love but to all his lineage, his values, and his manhood. It remained now only to trace his exact actions on the night of her death, perhaps even to find the knife, or prove from where it was missing, or the clothes he had worn, and probably destroyed.
These were things Faraday had the power to do. Runcorn thanked Naomi and left, out into the day so cold the air stung his skin and the breath of the wind was like ice between the folds of his scarf.
Faraday conducted the search and found the last pieces, as Runcorn had suggested. The knife was hidden in one of the barns. It took great care, but traces of blood were found, and Trimby agreed that the blade’s shape matched the wounds. More incriminating than that, they found the ashes of the clothes Newbridge had worn that night. There were not sufficient remains to identify them, but the suit in question was gone and Newbridge could not explain its absence. He might have considered claiming to have given it to someone, but there was no one to substantiate it. The truth was terribly and agonizingly clear.
By mid-morning Newbridge was arrested and taken to the police cells in Bangor. Faraday told the waiting journalists and the public, briefly and with dignity, that the case was over, and justice would be done. The truth would be told at trial in due course. For now, the solution was plain, and he spoke for Olivia’s family and for all the people of Anglesey when he reminded them that tomorrow was Christmas Day. He asked for respite so they might all, for a brief time, remember the season and give thanks for the birth and life of Christ, and the hope of forgiveness and renewal in the world.
Runcorn stood in the crowd and felt the surge of gratitude that some kind of resolution had been reached, and there was justice and healing ahead. The admiration for Faraday was palpable, a new respect for more than the office. This was for the man himself, and the patience and skill he had shown. They believed in him. They would not forget this, please heaven, the most horrific case Anglesey would ever know.
Not once did Faraday mention Runcorn’s name, let alone suggest that he had been the one to find the solution.
Runcorn separated himself from the crowd and walked away towards the wide sweep of the water. The sun, low in the west, made the great span of the bridge look like black fretwork on the sky across the burning colors of the sunset-painted water.
He would leave now. Melisande was as safe as he could make her. Barclay was shallow and manipulative, a man of innate cruelty, but Faraday would protect her from the worst of that. It was the best he could hope for. At least now Faraday would not have to prove himself any more. There must be a certainty that he had succeeded and so Barclay would be held back from ever criticizing him. Runcorn could hardly do anything but give his blessing to the marriage.
The wind stung Runcorn’s eyes and he blinked hard. He refused to acknowledge, even to himself, that he was crying. But he was smiling as well. It was he who had solved the case, he who had found justice for Olivia, and some kind of safety for Melisande. She would never know Faraday had not been as inquisi
tive, or as successful, as he allowed people to suppose.
Runcorn was second fiddle, never first, but he had played the more beautiful tune. He had allowed himself to be guided by his emotions, and that was something he had never done before. This great clean land and water, with its light, its horizon beyond dreaming, had made a better man of him. He did not need anyone else to reassure him of that. He would carry it away with him, a better gift for Christmas than all the wealth, the food, the colors, or the rejoicing.
“Mr. Runcorn.”
He turned around slowly. Melisande was standing on the quay behind him, the wind in her hair and the sunset light on her face. He gulped, all his resolve blown away in a single instant.
“Thank you,” she said gently. Her cheeks were burning, more than the fire on the water could reflect. “I know it was you who worked out who killed Olivia, and why. And I know my brother well enough to guess at the part he played. I long ago ceased to believe he was a nice person, but I am grateful that you tried to protect me from knowing the extent of his cruelty.”
He could still think of nothing to say. He wanted to tell her that he loved her, he would always love her, and no price to his own pride or ambition was too great to pay for her happiness. But that would only embarrass her, and forfeit the last, brief thread of friendship that they had, which he could keep bound to his heart.
“You gave Alan all the pieces, didn’t you?” she asked.
He would not answer. It was the last temptation, and he refused to succumb. He smiled at her. “He’s going to make a good policeman.”
“I hope so,” she agreed. “I think it matters to him. But he is not as good as you are, because there will probably never be another case like this.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “And he is not as good a man as you are. Truth means less to him, and he does not seek it for its own sake.”
He felt his cheeks burn. He would never in all his life forget this moment. From now on, forever, he would strive to be the man she had said he was to her. He wanted to tell her how great a gift that was, that the fire of it burned inside him, lighting every corner, every wish and thought, but there were no words big enough, gracious enough, articulate enough to do this feeling justice.
“Mr. Runcorn,” she said impatiently, her face burning. “Do I have to ask you if you love me? That is so undignified for a woman.”
He was stunned. She knew. All his careful concealment, his efforts to behave with dignity had been for nothing.
“Yes,” he said awkwardly. “Of course I do. But—”
“But you don’t want a wife?”
“Yes! Yes, I do … but …”
He was paralyzed. This was not possible.
She lowered her eyes and slowly turned away.
He took a step after her, and another, catching her arm gently, but then refusing to let go. “Yes, I do, but I could not marry anyone else. Every time I looked at her, I would wish she were you. I’ve never loved before, and I cannot again.”
She smiled at him. “You don’t need to, Mr. Runcorn. Once will be enough. If you would be so good as to ask me, I shall accept.”
To all those who
dream impossible dreams
BY ANNE PERRY
(published by The Random House Publishing Group)
FEATURING WILLIAM MONK
The Face of a Stranger
A Dangerous Mourning
Defend and Betray
A Sudden, Fearful Death
The Sins of the Wolf
Cain His Brother
Weighed in the Balance
The Silent Cry
A Breach of Promise
The Twisted Root
Slaves of Obsession
Funeral in Blue
Death of a Stranger
The Shifting Tide
Dark Assassin
FEATURING THOMAS AND CHARLOTTE PITT
The Cater Street Hangman
Callander Square
Paragon Walk
Resurrection Row
Bluegate Fields
Rutland Place
Death in the Devil’s Acre
Cardington Crescent
Silence in Hanover Close
Bethlehem Road
Highgate Rise
Belgrave Square
Farriers’ Lane
The Hyde Park Headsman
Traitors Gate
Pentecost Alley
Ashworth Hall
Brunswick Gardens
Bedford Square
Half Moon Street
The Whitechapel Conspiracy
Southampton Row
Seven Dials
Long Spoon Lane
THE WORLD WAR I NOVELS
No Graves As Yet
Angels in the Gloom
Shoulder the Sky
At Some Disputed Barricade
We Shall Not Sleep
THE CHRISTMAS NOVELS
A Christmas Journey
A Christmas Guest
A Christmas Visitor
A Christmas Secret
A Christmas Beginning
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ANNE PERRY is the bestselling author of four earlier holiday novels—A Christmas Journey, A Christmas Visitor, A Christmas Guest, and A Christmas Secret— as well as two acclaimed series set in Victorian England—the William Monk novels and the Charlotte and Thomas Pitt novels—and five World War I novels. Anne Perry lives in Scotland. Visit her website at www.anneperry.net.
