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.