Here via a recommendation on crack_van, and I hope you don't mind me popping in to say that this was wonderful, in its own dark way, and it made me cry, as other posters have said. Like the comment above, the following line has a terrible beauty:

The dawn rose cold and pale over the Fens, and far away in London they hanged Harriet Vane.

I also liked this line very much indeed:

She was growing steadily more remote from him, from the living world, further away at every meeting, as if the glass between them was ice thickening in a still-deepening frost.

Oddly, I've just been re-reading Gaudy Night and Busman's Honeymoon so to come across this right now is fascinating.