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“I don’t know, sir. I was—”
“John Barclay,” the man said brusquely. “Who are you and how may we be of assistance? Are you lost?”
“Superintendent Runcorn, Mr. Barclay,” Runcorn introduced himself. “And Inspector Monk, of the Thames River Police. Sorry to disturb you so late, sir, but since you’ve been out at this hour, we wondered if you might do so quite often.”
Barclay’s eyebrows rose. “What of it? And what on earth can it have to do with the River Police? I haven’t been anywhere near the river. Except across the bridge, of course. Did something happen?”
“Not tonight, sir.” Runcorn was shivering, so his words were a trifle blurred.
Monk sneezed.
“I haven’t seen anything to interest the police at any time,” Barclay said a little impatiently. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” He glanced at Monk. “For heaven’s sake, man, go home and get a hot toddy or something. It’s nearly one in the morning!”
Something in the man’s attitude irritated Runcorn. Monk saw it in the tightening of the muscles of his jaw and a slight alteration to the angle of his head. “Were you acquainted with Mr. James Havilland, four doors up, across the road, sir?” he asked.
Barclay stiffened. “I was, but not more than to be civil to. We had little in common.”
“But you knew him?” Runcorn was determined either to keep Barclay on the step or to be invited inside. The night was bitter and the wind was coming from the northeast and blowing right into the house.
“I’ve told you, Inspector, or whatever your rank is—” Barclay began.
“Superintendent, sir,” Runcorn corrected him.
“Yes, Superintendent. I knew him as one casually knows neighbors! One is civil, but one does not mix with them socially if they are not of the same…interests.”
There was a light tap of heels across the parquet floor of the hall behind him, and the door opened, showing a woman of about his own age. She too was slender, with brown hair, blue eyes, and winged brows that gave her face a highly individual look.
“It’s nothing, Melisande,” he said hastily. “Go back into the warmth. It’s a filthy night.”
“Then don’t keep the gentleman on the step, John,” she said reasonably. She looked beyond him at Runcorn, and then at Monk. “Please come in and speak in comfort. Perhaps you would like something hot to drink? As my brother says, it’s a rotten night. Your feet must be frozen at least. I know mine are.”
“For heaven’s sake, Mel, they’re police!” Barclay hissed in what might have been intended as an aside but was perfectly audible, probably as far as the street.
“Oh, dear! Has something happened?” She came closer. Monk could see in the vestibule light that her face was lovely, but there was a patience and even a sadness in it that suggested that life was not as easy for her, or as rich, as superficial judgment might assume.
“Nothing that needs to concern you, my dear,” Barclay said pointedly.
“They are merely looking for witnesses.”
She did not move away. “It must be urgent to bring you out at this time of night.” She looked to Runcorn, who was standing more in the light than Monk was. “What is it you need to know, Mr….?”
“Runcorn, ma’am,” he replied, suddenly sounding a trifle self-conscious. There was something in the elegance of her gown, the flawless curve of her throat, that seemed to make him more than normally aware of her, not only professionally but personally.
She smiled. “What is it that we might have seen, Mr. Runcorn?”
Runcorn coughed as if his throat was tight. “There’s not much chance, ma’am, but we’re pursuing everything we can. It’s about Mr. James Havilland.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t know him well,” she began.
“You didn’t know him at all,” Barclay exclaimed, then turned to Runcorn again. “We really have no idea what happened or why, except that the poor man shot himself. Frankly I can’t imagine why you’re wasting your time delving into it. Is there not enough crime to keep you busy? If you don’t know where it is, I can certainly tell you!”
“John!” she remonstrated, then looked at Runcorn as if in apology.
“What is it you think we may have seen?”
There was a sudden gentleness in Runcorn’s face. Monk was beginning to realize how much he had changed in the last two years. Some kind of confidence within him had enabled him to look outwards with less need to defend himself, more awareness of the hurt of others.
“Anyone else in the street, or coming out of the mews,” he answered her. “Apart from your own immediate friends and servants, any stranger at all, or person you wouldn’t expect to see. Actually anyone else at all, because they might have seen something and be able to help.”
