No Graves As Yet wwi-1

by Anne Perry

  Joseph knew what was on his mind. “I was going to ask you,” he said coldly, “if Beecher had any opportunity to speak to the master around about that time. He might have some ideas what we should do. As far as I know, Beecher had no close family, but there must be someone who ought to be informed as discreetly as possible, in the circumstances.”

  “Oh.” Gorley-Smith was taken aback. “Actually, I don’t think so. Whatever sent him over the edge must have been rather sudden, and as it so happens, I know the master was in a meeting for at least two hours before we heard about it, because I was there myself. I’m sorry, Reavley, but you’ll have to look elsewhere.”

  “You’re quite sure?” Joseph pressed. He wanted it to be true, and yet it made nonsense of the only answer he could think of.

  “Yes, of course I’m sure,” Gorley-Smith replied wearily. “Basildon went on interminably about some damned building fund, and I thought we were going to be there all day. It was mostly the master he was arguing with.”

  “I see.” Joseph nodded. “Thank you.”

  Gorley-Smith shook his head in incomprehension and closed the door.

  Once again Joseph made his way over the bridge to the Backs. The air was cooling at last, and the light shone through the flowers in rich colors like stained glass. The trees across the grass barely shimmered in the faint sunset wind, and there was no sound but the call of birds.

  If Aidan Thyer had not killed Beecher, and Beecher had not killed Sebastian, then what was the answer?

  He walked slowly, his feet silent on the dry grass. He passed into the shade of the trees. Here it smelled cooler, as if the greenness itself had a fragrance.

  Who else could have put the gun on the roof of the master’s lodgings? Or was he wrong about that after all? He went back to the beginning of all that he knew for certain. Elwyn had come to his rooms, almost hysterical with shock and grief, because he had gone to fetch Sebastian for an early morning walk by the river and found him shot to death. There was no gun there. Anyway, no one had ever suggested Sebastian had any reason on earth to take his own life. No one who knew him had ever imagined such a thing.

  The police had been called and had searched everywhere for the gun, but had not found it. Everywhere except the funnel openings to the drainpipes on the master’s roof.

  Of course, it was always possible there was another answer he simply had not thought of. Maybe someone had quite casually walked out with the gun and put it in another college—or had given it to somebody else.

  Except that unknown person had retrieved it with no difficulty in order to shoot Beecher.

  Joseph concentrated on who could have shot Beecher and who might have wanted to. Everyone seemed to assume after Beecher’s death that he had killed Sebastian. But had anyone assumed it before?

  Mary Allard? She would have had the fury and the bitterness to kill. But how would she have known where the gun was, or got herself to the roof for it?

  Gerald Allard? No, he had not the passion, and he also would not have known where it was.

  Joseph was opposite Trinity now. The wind was rising a little, whispering in the leaves above him, and here in their shade the light was fading rapidly.

  Elwyn? He could not have killed Sebastian. He was accounted for in his own room at the time. Besides, he and Sebastian had been close, even for brothers, and so unalike as to have been rivals in very little. They admired each other’s skills without especially wanting to possess them.

  Nor could Elwyn have had anything to do with crashing the Lanchester. He had been in Cambridge all day.

  But he had been in and out of the master’s lodgings seeing his mother, trying to comfort her and offer her the support his father seemed incapable of giving. He could have retrieved the gun if he had known it was there.

  But how could he have known? Had he seen it somewhere? Could Beecher have hidden it there? For whom? Connie? The thought was ugly, and the pain of it sat so tight in his chest he could hardly breathe. Had Beecher been protecting her?

  And had Elwyn assumed it was Beecher who had shot Sebastian? That would have been motive enough to have killed him and deliberately left the gun there to make it seem like suicide, an admission of guilt.

  Except that he was wrong.

  In the shadows Joseph could hardly see the path at his feet, although there were echoes of light across the sky. He walked onto the grass again. Outside the avenue of trees there was still that tender, airy dusk that seems neither silver nor gray. He looked at the horizon to the east, where the depth of the coming night was a veil of indigo.

  In the morning he would have to face Connie again and put it to the final test.

  He slept badly and woke with a nagging headache. He had a hot cup of tea and two aspirins, and then as soon as he knew Aidan Thyer would have begun his college duties, he went across to the master’s lodgings.

  Connie was surprised to see him, but there was no shadow in her eyes. If anything, she seemed pleased.

  “How are you, Joseph? You look tired. Have you had any breakfast? I’m sure Cook could make you something if you wish.” They were in the sitting room with the light slanting in through the French windows.

  His stomach was knotted far too tightly to eat, and the aspirins had not yet had much effect. “I have been thinking a great deal about what must have happened, and I’ve asked a few questions.”

  She looked puzzled, but there was neither hope nor fear in her face.

  “The police never found the gun after Sebastian was killed,” he said. “Although they believed they searched everywhere.”

  “They did,” she confirmed. “Why do you say believed? Do you know of somewhere they didn’t look? They were here. They searched the entire house.”

  “When?”

  She thought for a moment. “I . . . I think we were about the last. I suppose they came here only as a matter of form. And at first Elwyn was here, because he was desperately shocked and grieved, and then of course his parents.”

  “Did they search the roof?”

  Would she lie to protect herself, even if it was only to leave the matter closed? Was it she who had originally started the subtle suggestion that the love affair over which Beecher was blackmailed was not with her but with Sebastian himself? That was a repulsive thought. He pushed it away.

  “They were up on the next roof,” she replied thoughtfully, remembering it as she spoke. “They can see all of this one from there. It’s not so big. Anyway, I really don’t think anybody could have been up there. We would have heard. How can you hide a gun on a rooftop? It would be obvious.”

  “Not if it were poked barrel first into one of the funnels at the top of a downpipe,” he said.

  Her eyes widened. “You could reach those from the dormer windows. It could be anyone who was in this house!”

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  “Aidan? Harry?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Neither of them had the opportunity. Harry could not have killed Sebastian—you told me that yourself. Weren’t you telling the truth?”

  “Yes! Yes, I was!” she assured him. “You don’t think Aidan? But why? Not over . . .” Again the blood flushed up her cheeks. “He doesn’t know,” she said huskily.

  “What about Elwyn?” he asked her. “Could he have found the gun there and taken it to kill Beecher, believing Beecher had killed Sebastian?”

  She stared at him, misery and grief swimming in her eyes.

  “Could he?” he repeated.

  “Yes.” She nodded. “But how would he know it was there? Who killed Sebastian? I can’t believe Aidan would have, and I know I didn’t. And it wasn’t Harry, so who was it?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’m right back to the beginning with that. Who else could have put the gun up there? He would have to have come through the house.”

  “No one,” she said after a moment. “It must have been somewhere else. Unless . . .” She blinked several times. “Unless Aidan was hiding it
for someone. Do you think he would have done that, and Elwyn knew?”

  “Perhaps, but why?” And the moment the words were spoken he knew the answer. It was back to the document again, but he dared not tell her that. “Of course, it depends upon other things,” he added.

  She opened her mouth to ask, then changed her mind. “The police, the whole college, think that Harry killed Sebastian,” she said instead. “And that when he thought they were about to arrest him, he killed himself.” Her voice was shaking. “I wish I could prove that wasn’t true. I loved him very much, but even if I hadn’t, I don’t think I could allow anyone to be blamed for something terrible if I could prove they were innocent.”

  “Then I think we had better go and tell Inspector Perth. I imagine we can find him at the police station in the town.”

  She hesitated only a moment. She might never have to do anything that would cost her more than this. Once the words were said, she could not ever return to this privacy, this safety of unknowing. Then she took a step forward, and he followed her out of the room and to the front door.

  They walked to the police station. It was less than a mile, and at this hour in the morning it was still cool and fresh. The streets were busy with tradesmen, early deliveries, shoppers seeking a bargain. The footpath was bustling with people and the roadway loud with hooves of horses pulling wagons and drays, delivery carts, and a doctor’s gig. There were several cars and a motor van with advertisements printed on the side, and, as always, dozens of bicycles. Only if one listened carefully did one hear a different tone in the voices or realize that conversations were not about the weather and there was no gossip. It was all news, carefully disguised anxiety, forced jokes.

  Perth was busy upstairs, and they were obliged to wait over a quarter of an hour in tense, unhappy impatience. When he finally arrived, he was less than enthusiastic to see them, and only when Joseph insisted did he take them to a small, cluttered office where they could speak without being overheard.

  “Oi don’t know what you want, Reverend,” Perth said with barely veiled impatience. He looked tired and anxious. “Oi can’t help you. Oi’m very sorry about Mr. Beecher, but there’s an end to it. Oi don’t know if you’ve seen the papers this mornin’, but the king o’ the Belgians has gone against his own government and mobilized all his armies. There’s a whole lot more at stake than any one man’s reputation, sir, an’ that’s something we can’t tossle about no more.”

  “Truth is always worth arguing about, Inspector Perth,” Connie said gravely. “That’s why we fight wars: to keep the right to rule ourselves and make our own laws, to be who we want to be and answer to no one but God. Dr. Beecher did not kill himself, and we believe we can prove it.”

  “Mrs. Thyer—” Perth began with exaggerated patience.

  “You never found the gun, did you!” Joseph exclaimed. “Until it was by Dr. Beecher’s body.”

  “No, we didn’t,” Perth admitted reluctantly, anger sharpening his voice. It was a failure he did not like having pointed out to him. “But he must have known where it was, because he got it back again!”

  “Did you search his rooms?”

  “O’ course we did! We searched the whole college! You know that, sir. You saw us.”

  “There must be somewhere you missed,” Joseph said reasonably. “The gun did not dematerialize and then reappear.”

  “Are you bein’ sarcastic, sir?” Perth’s eyes hardened.

  “I am stating the obvious. It was somewhere that you did not look. I have spent some time considering where that could be. You looked on the roof, didn’t you? I can remember seeing your men up there.”

  “Yes, we did, sir. Very thorough, we were. Not that there’s a lot o’ places on a roof as you could hide a gun. Quite a big thing, a revolver, an’ not the same shape as anything else. Not to mention that metal shines in the sun.”

  “What about the bucket at the top of a drain pipe?” Joseph asked. “With the barrel pointing down and the top covered with, for example, an old handkerchief, suitably dusty, and a few leaves?”

  “Very good, sir,” Perth conceded. “That could be. Except we looked.”

  “How about the downpipes on the master’s lodgings?” Joseph asked. “Did you look there, too?”

  Perth stood absolutely still, his face frozen.

  Joseph waited, aware of Connie holding her breath beside him.

  “No,” Perth said at last. “We reckoned . . . nobody’d be able to hoide anything there unless they went through the master’s lodgings to do it. Are you saying as they did?” The last was addressed to Connie.

  “Elwyn Allard was in and out of the house a great deal while his mother and father stayed with us,” she replied, her voice very nearly steady. “He was there within an hour of Dr. Beecher being shot.”

  Perth stared at her. “If you’re saying that he shot his brother, Mrs. Thyer, you got it wrong. We thought o’ that. Lots of families don’t get on all that well.” He shook his head dismally. “Brother killing brother is as old as the Bible, if you’ll excuse me saying so. But we know where he was, an’ he couldn’t’ve. You’d not understand the medical evidence, mebbe, but you’ll have to trust us in that.”

  “And Dr. Beecher didn’t do it, either,” she said, her voice tight as if her throat would barely open. “He was with me.” She ignored Perth’s expression of incredulity. “I am perfectly aware of what time it was, and of the impropriety of it. I would not admit to it lightly, and I can barely imagine what my husband will feel if it has to be public—or what he will do. But I will not allow Dr. Beecher, or anyone else, to be branded for a crime they did not commit.”

  “Where were you . . . and Dr. Beecher, madam?” Perth asked, his face sour with disbelief, and perhaps disapproval.

  Connie blushed, understanding his contempt. “On the Backs along the river, Inspector Perth. At this time of the year, as you say, the daylight hours are long, and it is a pleasant place if you wish to talk unobserved.”

  His expression was unreadable. “Very interesting, Oi’m sure. Why didn’t you mention this before? Or has Dr. Beecher’s reputation suddenly got so much more important to you?”

  Her face tightened. She was white about the lips. Joseph could see how intensely she would like to have lashed back at Perth and withered him, but she had already given away her weapons. “Like others, I’m afraid I thought Sebastian Allard had been blackmailing him over his regard for me and the indiscretion of it for both of us,” she replied. “I thought he had killed himself rather than have it exposed, which he believed was going to happen because of the investigation into Sebastian’s murder.”

  “Then who did kill Sebastian, Mrs. Thyer?” Perth asked, leaning forward a little across the desk. “An’ who put the gun down the drainpipe on your roof? You? If you’ll excuse me saying so, we only got your word that Dr. Beecher was with you. Same as we only got his word that you was with him . . . an’ he ain’t here to back you up.”

  She understood perfectly, but her eyes did not waver from his. “I am aware of that, Inspector. I do not know who killed Sebastian, but it was not Dr. Beecher, and it was not I. But I believe that if you investigate a little further, you will find that Elwyn Allard shot Dr. Beecher, and you cannot find it difficult to understand why, since you yourself assumed that Dr. Beecher was guilty of killing Sebastian.”

  “Oi’m not sure as how Oi do believe it.” Perth bit his lip. “But Oi suppose Oi’d better go back to St. John’s an’ ask around a bit more, leastways find out if anyone saw Elwyn near Dr. Beecher’s rooms just before he were shot. But Oi still don’t see how he could have known where the gun were if it were in the pipe from the roof of the master’s lodgings!”

  “The gun was on the floor, by Dr. Beecher’s hand,” Joseph said suddenly. “Did you do any tests to see if that was where and how it would fall if dropped from a man’s hand after he was shot?”

  “An’ how would we do that, sir?” Perth asked dourly. “We can’t hardly ask
somebody to shoot theirselves to show us!”

  “Haven’t you ever seen suicides before?” Joseph was thinking rapidly. How on earth could he prove the truth he was more and more certain of with every moment? “Where do guns fall after the shock of death? A gun is heavy. If you shoot yourself in the head”—he carried on regardless of Connie’s gasp—“you fall sideways. Does your arm go down as his was, and the gun slither out of your fingers? For that matter, were there any fingerprints on it?”

  “Oi dunno, sir,” Perth said sharply. “It was plain it was suicide to me, seeing as you yourself showed us that Sebastian Allard had been blackmailing him into doing all kinds o’ favors for him, things as he wouldn’t do o’ hisself, an’ ruining his name as a professor.”

  “Yes, I know that,” Joseph said impatiently. “But I’m talking about proof. Think back on it now, with other possibilities in mind! Was that how a gun would fall?”

  “Oi dunno, sir.” Perth looked troubled. “Oi suppose it were a bit . . . awkward. But that ain’t proof of anything. We dunno how he sat, nor what way he moved when he were shot. Begging your pardon, ma’am. Oi’d like to spare your feelings, but you ain’t making it possible.”

  “I know that, Inspector,” she said quietly, but her face was ashen.

  Joseph’s mind was racing urgently. “Surely, Inspector, if we could prove that the gun was in the bucket at the top of the drainpipe on the master’s roof, that would also prove that Dr. Beecher could not have got it to shoot himself?”

  “Yes, sir, it would. But how are we going to prove that? Guns don’t leave nothin’ behind, an’ if it were there, likely it were wrapped in a cloth or something, to keep it from being seen, or getting wet.”

  Wet. The idea was like a lightning flare. “We had rain the day Beecher was killed!” Joseph almost shouted the words. “If there was a cloth around the gun, then the whole thing would have blocked the drain! There are barrels at the bottom of the drainpipes in the Fellows’ Garden! If one of them is dry, that’s your proof! And he would choose that side, because the other overlooks the quad, where it was far more exposed.”