No Graves As Yet

by Anne Perry

  She reminded him so much of Alys, not only in her looks but in her gestures, the tone of her voice, sometimes even the words she used, the colors she liked, the way she peeled an apple or marked the page in a book she was reading with a folded spill of paper.

  Hannah and Eleanor had liked each other immediately, as if they had been friends who had simply not seen each other for a while. He remembered how much pleasure that had given him.

  Hannah had been the first one to come to him after Eleanor’s death, and she had missed her the most, even though they had lived miles apart. He knew they had written every week, long letters full of thoughts and feelings, trivial details of domestic life, more a matter of affection than of news. Writing to Hannah now was difficult, full of ghosts.

  He had finished, more or less satisfactorily, and was trying to compose a letter to Judith when there was a discreet tap on the door.

  Assuming it was a student, he simply called for whoever it was to come in. However, it was Perth who entered and closed the door behind him.

  “Morning, Reverend,” he said cheerfully. He still wore the same dark suit, slightly stretched at the knees, and a clean, stiff collar. “Sorry if Oi’m interrupting your letters.”

  “Good morning, Inspector,” Joseph replied, rising to his feet, partly from courtesy, but also because he felt startled and at a disadvantage still sitting. “Do you have some news?” He was not even sure what answer he wanted to hear. There had to be a resolution, but he was not yet ready to accept that anyone he knew could have killed Sebastian, even though his brain understood that it had to be true.

  “Not really what you’d call news,” Perth replied, shaking his head. “Oi bin talking to your young gentlemen, o’ course.” He ran his fingers over his thin hair. “Trouble is, if a man says he was in bed at half past foive in the morning, who’s to know if he’s telling the truth or not? But Oi can’t afford to take his word for it, you see? Different for you, ’cos Oi know from Dr. Beecher that you was out rowing on the river.”

  “Oh?” Joseph was surprised. He did not remember seeing Beecher. He invited Perth to sit down. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to help. There would be no one around in the corridors or on the stairs at that time.”

  “Unfortunately for us.” Perth sat in the large chair opposite the one Joseph had risen from, and Joseph sank back into his own. “No witnesses at all,” Perth said dolefully. “Still, people ain’t often obliging enough to commit murder when they know someone else is looking at ’em. Usually we can write off a goodly number because o’ their being able to show they was somewhere else.” He studied Joseph gravely. “We come at a crime, particularly a murder, from three sorts of angles, Reverend.” He held up one finger. “First, who had the opportunity? If somebody weren’t there at the time, that cuts them out.”

  “Naturally,” Joseph nodded.

  Perth regarded him steadily. “Second,” he continued, putting up the next finger, “there’s the means, in this case a gun. Who had a gun?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “That’s a shame, you see, because no one else has neither, leastways not that they’re telling of.” Perth still had a pleasant air about him, as if he were a lecturer with a bright student, leading him through the points of a piece of logic. “We know it was a small gun, a revolver of some sort, because of the bullet—which we got, by the way.”

  Joseph winced at the horrible thought of its passage through Sebastian’s torn brain, presumably into the wall of the room. He had not looked. Now he was aware of Perth’s eyes watching him, but he could not keep the revulsion from his face, or the slight feeling of sickness from his stomach.

  “An’ o’ course it would be awkward like to be carrying a rifle or a shotgun around with you in a place like this,” Perth went on, his voice unemotional. “Nowhere to hide it from being seen, except in a case for a trumpet or something like that. But what would anybody be doing with a trumpet at foive o’clock in the morning?”

  “Cricket bat,” Joseph said instantly. “If . . .”

  Perth’s eyes widened. “Very clever, Reverend! Oi never thought o’ that, but you’re right. A nice early practice out on that lovely grass by the river, or even one o’ those cricket fields—Fenner’s, or what’s the other one, Parker’s Piece?”

  “Parker’s Piece belongs to the town,” Joseph pointed out. “The university uses Fenner’s. But you can’t practice cricket by yourself.”

  “O’ course. Town and gown—separate.” Perth nodded, pursing his lips. The difference was a gulf between them, uncrossable, and Joseph had inadvertently just reminded him of it. “But then, you see, our fellow might not have bin sticking to the rules,” he said stiffly, his expression tight, defensive. “In fact, he might not even have practiced at all, seeing as he would have had a gun in his case, not a bat.” He leaned forward. “But since we’re having a lot o’ trouble finding this gun, which could be anywhere by now, that means we got just the last thing left on which to catch him, doesn’t it? Motive!” He held up his third finger.

  Joseph should have realized it from the moment Perth had come in. The inspector knew Joseph would have nothing to give him on means or opportunity. He would hardly be here simply to keep Joseph informed. “I see,” he said flatly.

  “Oi’m sure as you do, Reverend,” Perth agreed, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. “Not easy to find that out. Not even counting the fact that no one wants to incriminate ’emselves, they don’t want to speak ill o’ the dead neither. It ain’t decent. People talk the greatest rubbish Oi ever heard about a person just because they’re dead. Why do you think that is, Reverend? You must come across a lot of that in your line o’ work.”

  “I don’t have an active ministry now,” Joseph explained, surprised by the pang of guilt it caused him, like a captain having left his ship in bad weather, and before his crew. That was ridiculous; what he was doing here was just as important a job, and one to which he was far better suited.

  “Still ordained, though, aren’t you.” Perth made it a statement.

  “Yes.”

  “You must be a good judge o’ folk, an’ Oi dare say as they trust you more’n most, tell you things?”

  “Sometimes,” Joseph said carefully, aware with a biting hollowness that he had been confided in very little, or he would not be as confused as he was by this eruption of violence. “But a confidence is precisely that, Inspector, and I would not break it. However, I can tell you that I have no idea who killed Sebastian Allard, or why.”

  Perth nodded slowly. “Oi took that for granted, sir. But you know these young men mebbe better’n anyone else.”

  “I don’t know of any reason!” Joseph protested. “Being a minister means that people tend not to tell you their uglier thoughts!” He realized with dismay how profoundly that was true. How many things had he been blind to? For how long? Years? Had his own pain made him retreat from reality into uselessness? Then, without grasping the fullness of what he said, he spoke with sudden intensity. “But I shall find out! I ought to have known!” He meant it, savagely, with the intensity of a drowning man’s need for air. Perth might need to solve Sebastian’s murder for his professional reputation, or even to prove that town was as good as gown, but Joseph needed to do it for his belief in reason and the power of men to rise above chaos.

  Perth nodded slowly, but his eyes were wide and unblinking. “Very good, Reverend.” He drew in his breath as if about to add something more, then just nodded again.

  After Perth had gone, Joseph began to appreciate the enormity of what he had promised himself. There was no point in waiting for people to reveal some anger or resentment against Sebastian. They had not done so before; they certainly would not now. He had to go and investigate for himself.

  The first person he spoke to was Aidan Thyer. He found him at home finishing a late breakfast. He looked tired and flustered, his fair hair more faded by gray than had been apparent at a glance, his face unrefreshed by sleep. He looked up
at Joseph in surprise as the maid showed him into the dining room.

  “Good morning, Reavley. Nothing wrong, I hope?”

  “Nothing new,” Joseph replied a trifle drily.

  “Tea?” Thyer offered.

  “Thank you.” Joseph sat down, not because he particularly wanted tea, but it obliged the master to continue the conversation. “How are Gerald and Mary?”

  Thyer’s face tightened. “Inconsolable. I suppose it’s natural. I can’t imagine what it is like to lose a son, let alone in such a way.” He took another bite of his toast. “Connie’s doing everything she can, but nothing makes the slightest difference.”

  “I suppose one of the worst things is realizing that someone hated him so much they resorted to murder. I admit, I had no idea there was such a passion in anyone.” Joseph poured himself tea from the silver pot and sipped it tentatively. It was very hot; obviously someone had refilled it. “Which shows that I was paying far too little attention.”

  Thyer looked at him with surprise. “I had no idea, either! For God’s sake, do you think that if I had—”

  “No! Of course not,” Joseph said quickly. “But you might at least have been more aware than I of an undercurrent of emotion, a rivalry, an insult, real or imagined, or some kind of a threat.” The truth embarrassed him, and it was hard to admit. “I had my head so buried in their academic work that I paid too little attention to their other thoughts or feelings. Perhaps you didn’t?”

  “You’re an idealist,” Thyer agreed, picking up his tea, but the sharp perception in his eyes was not unkind.

  “And you can’t afford to be,” Joseph replied. “Who hated Sebastian?”

  “That’s blunt!”

  “I think it would be better if we knew before Perth did, don’t you?”

  Thyer put down his cup again and regarded Joseph steadily. “Actually, more people than you would care to think. You were very fond of him, knowing the family, and perhaps he showed you the best of himself for that reason.”

  Joseph took a long breath. “And who saw the other side?” Unwittingly, Harry Beecher’s wry, familiar face came to his mind, sitting on the bench in the Pickerel, watching the boats on the river in the evening light, and the sudden tightness in his voice.

  Thyer considered for a moment. “Most people, one way or another. Oh, his work was brilliant, you were right about that, and you perceived it long before anyone else. He had the potential to be excellent one day, possibly one of the great poets of the English language. But he had a long way to go to any kind of emotional maturity.” He shrugged. “Not that emotional maturity is any necessity for a poet. One could hardly claim it for Byron or Shelley, to name but two. And I rather think that both of them probably escaped murder more by luck than virtue.”

  “That is not very specific,” Joseph said, wishing he could leave it all to Perth and never know more than simply who had done it, not why. But it was already too late for that.

  Thyer sighed. “Well, there’s always the question of women, I suppose. Sebastian was good-looking, and he enjoyed exercising his charm and the power it gave him. Perhaps in time he would have learned to govern it, or on the other hand it might have grown worse. It takes a very fine character indeed to have power and refrain from using it. He was a long way from that yet.” His face tightened until it was curiously bleak. “And of course there is always the possibility that it was not a woman but a man. It happens, particularly in a place like Cambridge. An older man, a student who is full of vitality and dreams, hunger . . .” He stopped. Further explanation was unnecessary.

  Joseph heard a sound in the doorway and swiveled around to see Connie standing behind him, her face grave, a flash of anger in her dark eyes.

  “Good morning, Dr. Reavley.” She came in and closed the door behind her with a snap. She was wearing a deep lavender morning dress, suitable both for the heat and for the tragedy of her houseguests. The sweeping lines of it, impossibly slender at the knees, became her rich figure, and the color flattered her complexion. Even in these circumstances it was a pleasure to look at her.

  “Really, Aidan, if you have to be so candid, you might at least do it with more discretion!” she said sharply, coming further into the room. “What if Mrs. Allard had overheard you? She can’t bear to hear anything but praise for him, which I suppose is natural enough in the circumstances. I don’t suppose the boy was a saint—few of us are—but that is how she needs to see him at the moment. And apart from unnecessary cruelty to her, I don’t want a case of hysteria on my hands.” She turned away from her husband, possibly without seeing the shadow in his face, as if he had received a blow he half expected. “Would you like some breakfast, Dr. Reavley?” she invited. “It won’t be the least difficulty to have Cook prepare you something.”

  “No, thank you.” Joseph felt discomforted for having wanted Thyer to be candid, and a degree of embarrassment at having witnessed a moment of personal pain. “I am afraid the master’s comments were my fault,” he said to Connie. “I was asking him because I feel we need to have the truth, if possible before the police uncover every mistake of judgment by a student—or one of us, for that matter.” He was talking too much, explaining unnecessarily, but he could not stop.

  Connie sat down at the head of the table, managing the restriction of her skirts with extraordinary grace, and Joseph was aware of the faint lily-of-the-valley perfume she wore. He felt a wave of loss for Alys that was momentarily overwhelming.

  “I suppose you are right,” Connie conceded. “Sometimes fear is worse than the truth. At least the truth will destroy only one person. Or am I creating a fool’s paradise?”

  A flicker of awareness crossed Thyer’s face, and he drew in his breath, then changed his mind and did not speak.

  This time Joseph was honest. “Yes . . . I’m sorry, but I think you are,” he said to her. “Students have asked me whether they should tell the inspector what they know about Sebastian or be loyal to his memory and conceal it. I told them to tell the truth, and because of it Foubister and Morel, who have been friends ever since they came up, have quarreled so bitterly, both feel betrayed. And we have all learned things about each other we were far happier not knowing.”

  Still not looking at her husband, she reached across and touched her fingers to Joseph’s arm. “It seems ignorance is a luxury we can no longer afford. Sebastian was very charming, and he was certainly gifted, but he had uglier sides as well. I know you would prefer not to have seen them, and your charity does you great credit.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” he contradicted her miserably. “It was a matter of self-protection, not generosity of spirit. I rather think cowardice is the correct name for it.”

  “You are too hard on yourself.” She was very gentle. There was a softness in her face he had always liked. Now he thought briefly, and with a respect that surprised him, how fortunate a man Aidan Thyer was.

  In the evening, Joseph went as usual to the senior common room for a few moments’ quiet companionship and time to relax before dinner. Almost as soon as he entered he saw Harry Beecher sitting in a comfortable chair near the window, nursing a glass of what looked like gin and tonic.

  Joseph walked toward him with a sudden lift of pleasure. He had shared many years of friendship with Beecher and never found in him meanness of spirit or that self-absorption that makes people blind to the feelings of others.

  “Your usual, sir?” the steward asked, and Joseph accepted, sitting down with a deep sense of ease at the sheer luxurious familiarity of the surroundings, the people he had known and found so congenial over the last, difficult year. They thought largely as he did. They had the same heritage and the same values. Disagreements were minor and on the whole added interest to what might otherwise have become flat. The challenge of ideas was the savor of life. Always to be agreed with must surely become an intolerable loneliness in the end, as if anchored by endless mirrors of the mind, sterile of anything new.

  “Looks as if the French presid
ent is going to Russia to speak to the czar,” Beecher remarked, sipping at his glass.

  “About Serbia?” Joseph asked, although it was a rhetorical question.

  “What a mess.” Beecher shook his head. “Walcott thinks there’ll be war.” Walcott was a lecturer in modern history they both knew moderately well. “I wish to hell he’d be a bit more discreet about his opinions.” A flicker of distaste crossed his face. “Everyone’s unsettled enough without that.”

  Joseph took his glass from the steward and thanked him, then waited until the man was out of earshot. “Yes, I know,” he said unhappily. “Several of the students have spoken about it. You can hardly blame them for being anxious.”

  “Even at the worst, I don’t suppose it would involve us.” Beecher dismissed the idea, taking another sip of his drink. “But if it did—if, say, we were drawn in to help?” His eyebrows lifted with faint humor. “But I don’t know whom. I can’t see us being overly concerned with the Austrians or the Serbs. Regardless, we don’t conscript to the army. It’s all volunteer.” He smiled lopsidedly. “I think they are rather badly upset about Sebastian Allard’s murder, and that’s what they are really worried about.” His mouth tightened momentarily. “Unfortunately, from the evidence, the murderer has to have been someone here in college.” He looked at Joseph with sudden, intense candor. “I suppose you haven’t got any idea, have you? You wouldn’t consider it your religious duty to protect them . . . ?”

  Joseph was startled. “No, I wouldn’t!” The hot anger still welled up inside him at the thought of Sebastian’s vitality and dreams obliterated. “I don’t know anything.” He looked at Beecher earnestly. “But I feel I need to. I’ve gone over everything I can remember of the last few days I saw Sebastian, but I was away, because of my parents’ death, for a good while right before he was killed. I couldn’t have seen anything.”

  “You think it was foreseeable?” There was surprise and curiosity sharp in Beecher’s eyes. He ignored his unfinished drink.