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happened, which is hard for any man, but especially one in his profession.”
    Thoughts raged through Runcorn’s mind, memories of Olivia walking up the aisle of the church with the same careless grace she might have displayed on the beach, the foam breaking around her, the wind off the sea in her face. Why should she marry to suit her brother’s social or religious life? Then Runcorn realized he was actually thinking of Melisande marrying Faraday to suit Barclay’s ambition, and to free him from responsibility for her.
    He looked at Faraday, straight-backed, good-looking, unimaginative, comfortable. Did he love Melisande? Did he adore her, see in her unique courage and grace? Certainly she possessed a will strong enough to defy convention and risk her own safety to give witness to a crime, as she had done in London for Monk and Runcorn when they had been pursuing a dangerous assassin. Did Faraday care desperately that she was happy, that nothing in her was forced, crushed, distorted into duty rather than belief? Or was she just a lovely and very suitable wife, one of whom he need never be anxious or ashamed, one who would fit all his social and political ambitions?
    That was what Barclay wanted for her, never to be in want or need in the conventional sense, to be respected, even envied, to be secure for the rest of her life. In many ways perhaps that was more than most women could expect. And yet Runcorn, who could offer her nothing but admiration, was incensed for her. He wanted her to have so much more than that.
    It was impertinent of him, and arrogant. Perhaps she was realistic, and for her such a marriage would be sufficient.
    He finished the rest of his conversation with Faraday hardly knowing what he was saying, except that at the end he was dismissed knowing little more than he had when he came in. There was fear and confusion everywhere, and Faraday was, so far, at a loss to know where to proceed next. His knowledge of men and events, his ability to command, did not extend to anything like this.

    The following morning, Runcorn set off alone. He followed the south shore of the island, over rocks and sand, always watching the tide, aware of its danger. The sea was both provider and destroyer, it granted no mercy to anyone. He had read that somewhere. Looking at its constantly shifting surface, its blind power, its beauty and deceit, he believed that absolutely.
    He walked until he could see the towers of Caernarfon across the strait, then he rested a short while and walked back again through occasional rain, with the wind behind him. He was exhausted and it was late in the day when, without thought, his feet took him back to walk up towards the churchyard. He knew why, Barclay and Melisande were staying in the big house beyond the green. If there was anywhere he might catch a glimpse of her, it was here.
    It was a quarter of an hour later as he was watching the light fade on the hills that he heard her voice behind him. Her footsteps had been soundless on the grass.
    â€œMr. Runcorn?”
    He swung around, his breath catching in his throat. He had difficulty answering her. She was wearing a dark gown with a hooded cloak over it to protect her against the wind. The amber light from the last of the sun was soft on her face, accentuating her cheekbones and the line of her chin. He had never seen anyone so beautiful, or so able to hope, to care, and to be hurt.
    â€œGood evening, Mrs. Ewart,” he said hoarsely.
    â€œI am glad you are here,” she answered. “Sir Alan is a good man, and I suppose John was right to send for him …” she hesitated. “But I don’t believe he has the experience of … of a terrible crime like this, to be able to learn quickly enough what happened, and who is responsible.”
    Should he try to comfort her? He could see the fear in her eyes. She was right, Faraday had no idea how to investigate a murder. It was not really what chief