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“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 hesitate to 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 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