who killed Olivia Costain. And he realized with a rising sickness in his stomach, they must also prevent the murderer from killing anyone else who might threaten him in any way. Runcornâs mind turned immediately to another unique and lovely womanâMelisande. That was the core of his fear, and for that he would sacrifice any dignity or personal pride, any ambition whatever.
But two days went by, and as far as he could tell, or hear from a fearful Mrs. Owen, no progress at all had been made. It was now less than a week until Christmas. Parties were canceled. Whenever they could, people remained in their homes. After dark the streets were deserted, even though there was no snow yet, and the wind no fiercer or colder than before. There were whispers of madness, even of something loose that was less than human, some creature of the dark that must be destroyed before the light of Christmas and hope returned to the world.
In the street a little before noon, Runcorn passed Trimby, still looking as untidy as before. He was striding out, his coattails flying, his hat abandoned and his hair streaming out like a wind-blown banner, and he went by without speaking, consumed in his own thoughts.
Runcorn could bear it no longer. He went to the vicarage where he knew Faraday would be, and found him speaking to writers and journalists from the island, and from mainland Wales as far away as Denbigh and Harlech.
No one took any notice as one more man pushed his way into the crowded withdrawing room, and he stood at the back and listened while Faraday did his best to dispel the fear rising with every new question. What kind of a lunatic was loose among them? Had there been sightings? When? Where? By whom? Could somebody be sheltering this creature? Did the vicar have any opinions? Why had Olivia Costain been the victim?
Faraday kept on trying to soothe the fear. At the end, he answered so decisively that Olivia was an exemplary young woman, known and loved in the community and of an unblemished reputation, that his very vehemence suggested doubt.
And when Runcorn spoke to him later, alone, his words reinforced that impression. They were in the room Costain had set apart for Faradayâs use, a cozy study with a good fire burning, and walls crowded with books and hung with an odd jumble of paintings, cartoons, and drawings. There were papers spread over the table and a pen and inkwell beside them.
âThank you for coming,â Faraday said rather abruptly. âAs long as youâre here, I might as well ask if you have anything to add. You seem to have interested yourself rather much.â It was a graceless turn of phrase, but he was asking for help.
âIt wasnât a madman,â Runcorn said grimly. âYou know that, sir. The evidence says it was someone she knew.â He remained standing, too angry to sit, although in truth, he had not been invited to do so.
âNo,â Faraday agreed unhappily. âAt least, I appreciate that she knew him, but I think itâs not wise to say so.â He looked up at Runcorn intently. âI hope you will have the decency not to speak irresponsibly? It will only increase the fear there is already. As long as people think it is someone they donât know, at least they are not turning upon each other.â He seemed to be concerned that Runcorn understood. âThere is a sense of unity, a willingness to help. That is why I am not saying that she was a difficult young woman with some very unsatisfactory ideas, even dangerous in a way. Poor Costain had his troubles with her. She appeared to be unwilling to settle down. She refused several very good offers of marriage, and it looked as if she was not prepared to become adult and accept her role in society. She expected her brother to keep her indefinitely, while she drifted from one rather foolish dream to another. Her virtue had not yet been questioned openly, but it was only a matter of time before that
Elizabeth Amelia Barrington