Anne Perry's Silent Nights_ Two Victorian Christmas Mysteries - Anne Perry [27]
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.
In 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.
“Do you know something new?” he asked, striding towards Runcorn, black cassock swinging.
Runcorn felt a twinge of failure, as if he should have done better. “Not yet.”
“Perhaps if we leave, we will not be interrupted,” Kelsall suggested. “Here I am always ‘on duty,’ as it were. It’s cold outside, but at least it’s not raining.” He suited his actions to the words without waiting to see if Runcorn agreed. In the graveyard he matched his steps to Runcorn’s and guided their way out of the gate and onto a road leading out of the village towards the open hillside.
“Why do people kill others, Mr. Runcorn?” he asked. “I have been thinking of it all night. If any man knows, it is