Dobie smiled. "I will ask you in due course why you judged it necessary to consider it a second time. You did judge it necessary, didn't you? It was not some other sort of reason that drove you to go back again to a closed case-a favor owed, or a sense of pity, for example?"

"No, sir." But Runcorn's face betrayed that the answer was less than the whole truth.

Monk moved uncomfortably in his seat. He ached to be able to help Runcorn, but there was nothing at all he could do.

"What made you conclude that Havilland had killed himself? The first time, that is?" Dobie asked with gentle interest.

"The gun beside him, the fact that nothing was stolen, and no sign of a break-in," Runcorn said miserably.

"Was there anything of value a thief could have taken?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you find any evidence that Mr. Havilland had been anxious or distressed recently?"

"No one expected him to take his own life," Runcorn insisted.

"People seldom do." Dobie gave a slight shrug. "It is always difficult to imagine. Whose gun was it that he used-I'm sorry, that was used, Superintendent?"

Runcorn's face was tight, his jaw clenched. His large hands gripped the rail of the stand. "His own."

"And of course you verified that?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps you would be good enough to tell the court what on earth made you go back two months later and question your first decision. That initial decision seems eminently sensible-in fact, the only decision you could have reached."

Runcorn's face was deep red, but his gaze back at Dobie did not waver. "His daughter also died in tragic and questionable circumstances," he replied.

"Questionable?" Dobie's eyebrows rose, and his tone was one of disbelief. "I thought she also took her own life. Have I misunderstood? Is she not also buried in a suicide's grave?"

It was Dobie's first tactical error. Beside Monk, Hester closed her eyes, and the delicate corners of her mouth tightened. She sat motionless, old memories clearly raw inside her. In the rest of the gallery there was a slight sigh. Monk turned to see the jurors' faces and found pity and distaste. They might not disagree, but they found the reference cruel.

Dobie had not realized it yet. He was waiting for Runcorn to answer.

Runcorn's face was bleak, his voice soft and startlingly full of emotion. "It was the haste and possible injustice of that decision that made me look at Mr. Havilland's death again," he replied. "I knew Mary Havilland because of her father's death. She was always certain he was murdered. I didn't believe her then, but her own death drew me to go back and look at her father's once more."