A Christmas Beginning Read Online Free PDF Page A

with violence and fear was the one thing he was good at. It was where his skills were truly valued.
    But of course the chief constable was coming. It was too grave a case for him not to. It was not even twenty-four hours since the murder, and panic was already rising, fear cold and dark, wakening like the wind rattling at the windows. Except that the wind could be shut out, and fear entered in spite of all the locks and bars in the world.
    â€œGlad to help,” he said quietly. “Sorry it wasn’t more.”
    Warner held out his hand suddenly. “Very glad you were here, Mr. Runcorn. Very glad.”
    Runcorn took it. There did not seem any more to add, and now he would leave to be alone, to face the fact that he did not belong here as he walked down the incline towards Mrs. Owen’s house, and another night before an empty day.

    But in spite of his resolution, by early evening Runcorn walked back towards Warner’s house, past the field where the redwings were still busy. He was hungry for information, though he knew it was foolish because they could not tell him anything. It was no longer his concern, he was not one of them. The reminder was painful. It forced him to realize more vividly an emptiness inside himself, a growing need for something more than he had.
    As he passed the entrance to the churchyard, memory and grief clenched inside him again, making him even colder. He was surprised to see John Barclay ahead of him, walking beside a man almost his own height, a man who was bare-headed even in this wind, his hair thick and fair. He had an almost military precision to his step, and even at a distance Runcorn could see the elegance in the cut of his clothes. It had to be Sir Alan Faraday, the chief constable. But why was he talking so closely to Barclay, as if they were friends?
    Runcorn stopped, and perhaps the unexpected action caught Barclay’s eye, because he put his hand on Faraday’s arm and said something, and both of them turned towards Runcorn. Barclay took the first step forward, and there was something obscurely threatening to his action.
    Runcorn stood his ground.
    â€œGood evening,” Barclay said quite loudly, speaking when they were still several yards distant. “Runcorn, isn’t it?”
    â€œGood evening, Mr. Barclay,” Runcorn replied, still not moving.
    Closer to, the other man was good looking, his eyes were steady and remarkably blue.
    â€œThis is the London fellow I was mentioning,” Barclay told him. “Runcorn gave us a hand before you could get here.” He looked at Runcorn. “Sir Alan Faraday, chief constable of the county. Obviously this is in his hands now. Very serious case, indeed. Warrants the highest attention, I think, before the horror of it can cause public fear and unrest. But we’re obliged to you for your help in the beginning.”
    â€œIndeed,” Faraday affirmed, watching cautiously. “Very good of you to step in so professionally. It seems you’ve left all the evidence well ordered for us. Very nasty case, and of course people are terrified. It looks as if we have a lunatic on the island. We must do all we can to reassure them, and see that panic does not take hold.”
    Runcorn was at a loss to know how to respond graciously and without allowing his emotions to betray him. It was at times like this he wished desperately that he had more polish, more of the assurance of a gentleman, which would allow him to assume he was in the right and demand others to assume it also. Instead, he felt like a good servant being dismissed for the night. And yet to resent it would make him look absurd.
    But he was absurd. It stung, it was humiliating. Monk would have known how to carry it off with such flare that Faraday and Barclay would have been the ones to feel foolish. But he was not Monk, he was not clever with words. Above all, he had no grace, no elegance.
    â€œYou are welcome to such help as I can