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Runcorn looked at his earnest face and knew that the question was perfectly serious. Perhaps it was one he should have asked himself in more detail days ago. “Several reasons,” he said thoughtfully. “Sometimes it is greed, for money, for power, for property such as a house. Sometimes for something as trivial as an ornament or a piece of jewelry.”

“Not Olivia,” Kelsall said with certainty. “She had no possessions of any note. She was entirely dependent on her brother.”

“Ambition,” Runcorn continued. “It can drive people to violence, or betrayal.”

“Olivia’s death helps no one,” Kelsall responded. “Anyway, there is nothing around here to aspire to. It is all predictable, small offices, of no great power.”

Runcorn turned over all the past cases he could think of, particularly those of passion. “Jealousy,” he said grimly. “She was beautiful, and from what people say, she had a quality unlike anyone else, a fire and a courage different from others of her age and position. That can also make people feel uncomfortable, even threatened. People can kill out of fear.”

Kelsall walked on in silence. “What kind of fear?” he said at last.

Runcorn heard the change in his voice and knew that suddenly they were treading delicately, on the edge of truth. He must act slowly, he might be about to rip the veil from a pain that the young man had been keeping well covered.

“All kinds,” he said, watching Kelsall’s face in profile, his eyes and the lines of his mouth half hidden. “Sometimes it is of physical pain, but more often it is fear of loss.”

“Loss,” Kelsall tasted the word carefully. “What sort of loss?”

Runcorn did not answer, hoping Kelsall would suggest something himself.

They walked another fifty paces. The wind was easing off, although the clouds were low and dark to the east.

“You mean fear of scandal?” Kelsall asked. “Or ridicule?”

“Certainly. Many victims of blackmail have killed their tormentors.” Was this what had happened? Perhaps Olivia had learned a secret that somebody was afraid she would use against them. He looked at Kelsall as closely as he dared, but he could see no change in the curate’s expression. He still looked hurt and confused.

There was no sound but the wind in the grass and, far away, the echo of waves breaking on the rocks.

“Olivia wasn’t like that,” Kelsall said finally. “She would never repeat anyone’s secrets, still less would she use them. What for? The things she wanted could not be bought.”

“What did she want?”

“Freedom,” he said without hesitating to think. “She wanted to be herself, not the person convention said she should be. Perhaps we all want it, or think we do, but few of us are prepared to pay the price. It hurts to be different.” He stopped and faced Runcorn. “Is that why she was murdered, because she made other people aware of how ordinary they were, how easily they denied their dreams?”

“I doubt it,” Runcorn said gently. “Wouldn’t someone able to see that quality in her also know that killing her would make no difference whatever to their own … futility?”

“Not if she laughed at them,” Kelsall replied. “Some people cannot bear to be mocked. Ridicule can hurt beyond some people’s power to bear, Mr. Runcorn. It strikes the very core of who you believe yourself to be. One can forgive many things, but not being made to see yourself as ridiculous, a coward at life. That kind of rage is acid in the soul.”

Was he speaking of himself? Runcorn almost wondered for a moment if he was on the brink of hearing a confession. It would hurt. He genuinely liked the young man. He had seen his gentleness with the frail and old, help given as a privilege, not a duty.

“What do you know, Mr. Kelsall?” he asked. “I think it is time you spoke the truth.”

“I know that Newbridge and Barclay were at daggers drawn over her, but I don’t know if either of them really even wanted her, or simply hated each other because the battle was public. Some people do not take to losing with grace.”

Runcorn struggled to follow. “If that were