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It would make him an easy mark for Barclay’s cruelty.

“I think I’ll wait until I’ve been in touch with my brother, thank you,” Runcorn said to Jenkins. “I’ll let you know.”

Faraday sent for Runcorn that evening. He looked tired and disappointed, and even though he had demanded Runcorn’s presence, he paced the carpet in front of the fire and seemed reluctant to broach the subject.

They spoke of trivialities. Outside the rain lashed at the windows and the wind was rising steadily, roaring in off the great sweep of the Celtic Sea.

Runcorn grew impatient. “If you’ve learned something, sir, and I can be of help, perhaps you’d tell me what it is.”

Faraday winced at Runcorn’s lack of polish, and instantly Runcorn felt gauche. He had a hideous vision of doing something appalling that he did not even understand until too late, and Melisande being ashamed of him. Except that that was absurd. She might be disgusted. But to be ashamed one had to care, to feel some kind of kinship with the one at fault.

Faraday was still pacing back and forth, lost in his own inabilities.

“You suggested that Miss Costain might have discovered something about her own family, a secret that was shameful or embarrassing,” he began.

Runcorn was unhappy with the thought, but its ugliness did not invalidate it. He was afraid that it could be true, and Naomi’s strong, weary face filled his mind. “I thought of it as unlikely but not impossible,” he conceded.

Faraday’s voice was heavy. “I’m grateful for your professional skill, and glad I don’t have to share the kind of experience that has given it to you.”

In spite of the fire, Runcorn felt colder.

“You recognized a crime committed with intense hatred,” Faraday continued. “I used to assume all murders were, but you exposed the difference for me to see. I should be obliged to you for that also, but I’m not sure that I am.”

“Do you know something further?” Runcorn demanded, his voice betraying his emotion. “You didn’t send for me in this weather to thank me for teaching you a part of your job you’ll almost certainly never need again.”

A slow stain of color spread up Faraday’s cheeks. “Yes I do, but I have more yet to learn. Mrs. Costain is concealing something of which she is deeply ashamed, or if not ashamed, then at least terrified that it might become known. Costain’s sister was slaughtered like an animal. This we all know.” Faraday shifted his eyes. “And now it looks as if his wife might be an adulteress and have conceived to another man the child she never bore him.” His voice choked with emotion, and for a moment he was unable to speak. His strong hands clenched at his sides until the knuckles shone white, and he could not keep them still.

Runcorn felt the wave of misery engulf him also. Had it been Olivia’s own need for freedom which had driven her to confront Naomi, or the defense of her brother? Murder is never without pain, but this seemed even more steeped in it than most.

Faraday was staring at him still.

“What is it?” Runcorn demanded.

Faraday’s voice was little more than a whisper, all but choking off at the end. “The baby is dead. It looks as if she killed him.”

Runcorn was stunned, as if he had walked face-first into a wall and the pain of it dizzied his senses. Naomi Costain with her strange, powerful face, and a late-born, illegitimate child, which she had murdered with her own hands. Why? To hide her adultery? The obvious thought. But perhaps the child had been misshapen, abnormal? He found himself blinking and his throat inexplicably tight and rough. Could that be forgiven, such a helpless child robbed of life? Or snatched from pain? Or was she only saving herself, her humiliation? And then to be faced with blackmail by Olivia? “I can’t do anything,” he said aloud. “You’ll need police authority to follow that.” It was not cowardice speaking, even though he was glad he had no jurisdiction here.

“I’ll get it for you,” Faraday said hoarsely. “Please, Runcorn? These people are my friends, my neighbors. I have no idea how to deal with a crime like this.”

Runcorn