Impulsively he reached across and put his hand over hers, holding her softly. After a moment her fingers responded. He knew what that moment meant. It was the loss of something inside her, which he had taken away. He would have to put it back as soon as he could, however afraid he was for her or for himself without her.

Right now Runcorn was climbing the twisting steps to the high, exposed witness stand. He looked uncomfortable, in spite of the fact that he must have testified in court countless times over the years. He was neatly dressed, even excessively soberly, as if for church, his collar starched and too tight. He answered all Rathbone's questions precisely, adding nothing. His voice was uncharacteristically touched with grief, as if he too was thinking not of James Havilland but of Mary.

Rathbone thanked him and sat down.

Runcorn turned a bleak face towards Mr. Dobie, counsel for the defense, who rose to his feet, straightened his robes, and walked forward into the well of the court. He looked up at the high witness stand with its steps and squinted a little at Runcorn, as if uncertain exactly what he saw. He was a young man with a soft face and a cloud of curly dark hair.

"Superintendent Runcorn-that is your rank, isn't it?" he asked. His expression was bland, almost timid.

"Yes, sir," Runcorn replied.

"Just so. That implies that you are considerably experienced in investigating violent deaths-accidental, suicidal, and murderous?"

"Yes, sir."

"You are good at it?"

Runcorn was startled.

"I apologize." Dobie shook his head. "That was an unfair question. Modesty forbids that you reply honestly. I will accept that you are." He glanced momentarily at Rathbone, as if half expecting an objection.

Rathbone would not object, and they both knew it. "I have no quarrel with Mr. Dobie s conclusion, my lord, even if it seems a little premature."

The judge s face tightened in appreciation of his predicament.

In the dock, high above the proceedings and where those in the gallery had to crane their necks sideways to see him, Aston Sixsmith sat gripping the rails with his hands. His knuckles were white, his eyes un-moving from Dobie s figure.

Dobie looked at Runcorn. "May we assume that you took the death of James Havilland very seriously?"

"Of course." Runcorn could see where this question was leading, but still he could not avoid the trap. He had long since learned not to add anything he did not need to.

"And you concluded that he had taken his own life?"

"Yes, sir-the first time." Runcorn was forcing himself not to fidget. He stood as if frozen.