Anne Perry's Silent Nights: Two Victorian Christmas Mysteries by Anne Perry

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.

I n 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 variouspeople 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 surely you. It is such a … a barbarous and futile way to solve anything.”
    Runcorn looked at his earnest face and knew that the question was perfectly serious. Perhaps it wasone 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