No Graves As Yet

by Anne Perry

  As she said it, he remembered Sebastian’s comments about the richness and diversity of Europe, but he did not interrupt her.

  She went on, controlling her trembling voice with difficulty. “For all his excitement at the different cultures, especially the ancient ones, he was terribly English at heart, you know?” She bit her lip to gain a moment’s hesitation, trying to control herself before she went on. “He would have given anything he had to protect the beauty of this country—the quaint and funny things, the tolerance and the eccentricity, the grandeur and the small, secret things one discovers alone. He’d have died to save a heath with skylarks, or a bluebell wood.” Her voice was trembling. “A cold lake with reed spears in it, a lonely shore where the light falls on pale sandbars.” She gulped. “It’s hard to believe they are all still just the same, and he can’t see them anymore.”

  He was too full of emotion himself to speak. His thoughts included his father as well, and all the multitude of things his mother had treasured.

  “But lots of people love things, don’t they?” She was looking intently at him now. “And there were parts of him I didn’t know at all. A terrible anger sometimes, when he thought of what some of our politicians were doing, how they were letting Europe slip into war because they are all so busy protecting their own few square miles of territory. He hated jingoism, really hated it. I’ve seen him white to the lips, almost so choked with it that he couldn’t speak.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Do you think there will be war, Mr. Reavley? Sebastian wanted peace . . . so much!”

  Joseph saw Sebastian’s face in the fading light again, as clearly as if he had been in the room with them.

  “Yes, I know he did.”

  “I wonder if he would be surprised to see how much turmoil he’s left behind.” She gave a tiny laugh, almost like a hiccup. “We are tearing ourselves apart trying to find out who killed him, and you know, I’m not sure if I want to succeed. Is that wicked of me, irresponsible?”

  “I don’t think we have a choice,” he answered. “We are going to be forced to know.”

  “I’m afraid of that!” She stared at him, searching his face.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “So am I.”

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  On the evening of Friday, July 17, Matthew again left London and drove north toward Cambridge. It was a fine evening, with a slight wind piling clouds into bright towers of light high up in a cobalt sky—a perfect time to be on the road, once he had left the confines of the city. Long stretches opened up ahead of him, and he increased speed until the wind tore at his hair and stung his cheeks and in his imagination he thought what it would be like to fly.

  He reached Cambridge at about quarter past seven. He came in on the Trumpington Road with the river on his left and Lammas Land beyond, past Fitzwilliam, Peterhouse, Pembroke, Corpus Christi, and up the broad elegance of King’s Parade with shops and houses to the right, and intricate wrought iron railings to the left. He passed the ornate spires of the screen that walled off the Front Court of King’s College, then the classical perfection of the Senate House, with Great Saint Mary’s opposite.

  He pulled up at the main gate of St. John’s and climbed out of the seat. He walked stiffly to the porter’s lodge and was about to tell Mitchell who he was and that he had come to see Joseph, when Mitchell recognized him.

  Within a quarter of an hour his car was safely parked and he was sitting in Joseph’s rooms. The sun made bright patches on the carpet and picked out the gold lettering on the books in the case. The college cat, Bertie, sat with his eyes closed in the warmth, and every now and again his tail gave a slight twitch.

  Joseph sat in shadow. Even so, Matthew could see the weariness and the pain of uncertainty etched in his face. His eyes looked hollow in spite of his high cheekbones. His cheeks were thin and there were shadows that had nothing to do with the darkness of his hair.

  “Do they know who killed Sebastian yet?” Matthew asked.

  Joseph shook his head.

  “How’s Mary Allard? Someone told me she came here.”

  “She and Gerald are staying at the master’s house. The funeral was today. It was ghastly.”

  “They haven’t gone home?”

  “They’re still hoping the police will find something any day.”

  Matthew looked at him with concern. He seemed to lack all vitality, as if something inside him were exhausted. “Joe, you look bloody awful!” he said abruptly. “Are you going to be all right?” It was a pointless question, but he had to ask. He had some idea of how fond Joseph had been of Sebastian Allard, and of his acute sense of responsibility, perhaps taken too personally. Was this additional blow too much for him?

  Joseph raised his eyes. “Probably.” He rubbed his hand over his forehead. “It just takes a day or two. There doesn’t seem to be any sense in this. I feel as if everything is slithering out of my grasp.”

  Matthew leaned forward a little. “Sebastian Allard was extraordinarily gifted, and he could be more charming than anyone else I can think of, but he wasn’t perfect. Nobody is entirely good—or bad. Someone killed Sebastian, and it’s a tragedy, but it’s not inexplicable. There’ll be an answer that makes as much sense as most things ever do . . . when we know it.”

  Joseph straightened up. “I expect so. Do you suppose reason is going to be any comfort?” Then before Matthew could answer he went on. “The Allards brought Regina Coopersmith with them.”

  Matthew was lost. “Who is Regina Coopersmith?”

  “Sebastian’s fiancée,” Joseph replied.

  That explained much, Matthew thought. If Joseph had not known of her, he would feel excluded. How odd that Sebastian should not have told him. Usually when a young man was engaged to marry he told everyone. A young woman invariably did.

  “His idea, or his mother’s?” Matthew asked bluntly.

  “I don’t know. I’ve talked with her a little. I should think it’s his mother’s. But it’s probably irrelevant to his death.” He changed the subject. “Are you going home?”

  “For a day or two,” Matthew replied, feeling a sense of darkness inside him as he recalled the anger he had felt listening to Isenham the previous week. The wound was far from healed. He thought of his father and the interpretation Isenham had had of his actions, and it felt like an abscessed tooth. He could almost ignore it until he accidentally touched it, then it throbbed with all the old pain, exacerbated by a new jolt.

  Joseph was waiting for him to go on.

  “I went to see Isenham when I was up last weekend,” Matthew said finally. And then he recounted his conversation with the former army man.

  Joseph listened thoughtfully.

  “I talked to him for quite a long time,” Matthew concluded, “but all he told me that was specific was that Father wanted war.”

  “What?” Joseph’s voice was angry and incredulous. “That’s ridiculous! He was the last man on earth to want war. Isenham must have misheard him. Perhaps he said he thought war was inevitable! The question is, was it Ireland or the Balkans?”

  “How would Father know anything about either?” Matthew was playing devil’s advocate and hoping Joseph could beat him.

  “I don’t know,” Joseph answered. “But that doesn’t mean he didn’t. You said he was very specific that he had discovered a document outlining a conspiracy that would be dishonorable and change—”

  “I know,” Matthew cut across him. “I didn’t tell Isenham that, but he said Father had been there, and was . . .” He paused.

  “What? Losing control of his imagination?” Joseph demanded.

  “More or less, yes. He was kinder about it than that, but it comes to the same thing. I know you’re angry, Joe. So was I, and I still am. But what is the truth? No one wants to think someone they love is mistaken, losing their grip. But wanting doesn’t alter reality.”

  “Reality is that he and Mother are dead,” Joseph said a little unsteadily. “That their car hit a row of cal
trops on the Hauxton Road and crashed, killing them both, and whatever document he had, whatever it said, wasn’t with him. Presumably whoever killed him searched the car and the bodies and found it.”

  Matthew was forced to carry on the logic. “Then why did they search the house for it?”

  “We only think they did,” Joseph said unhappily, then added, “but if they did, then they must have thought it important enough to take the risk of one of us coming back early and catching them. And don’t tell me it was a petty thief. No valuables were taken, though the silver vase, the snuffboxes, the miniatures were all in plain sight.”

  “But it could still have been a small scandal rather than a major act of espionage affecting the world.”

  “It was major enough to murder two people in order to hide it,” Joseph said, his jaw tight. “And apart from that, Father didn’t exaggerate.” He made it a simple statement, no additions, no emphasis.

  Images raced through Matthew’s mind: his father standing in the garden in old clothes, trousers a trifle baggy, mud-stained at the knees, watching Judith picking blackberries; sitting in his armchair in the winter evening by the fire, a book open on his lap as he read them stories; at the dining room table on a Sunday, leaning a little forward in his chair as he argued reasonably; reciting absurd limericks and smiling, singing the Gilbert and Sullivan patter songs as he drove along the road with the top of the old car down in the wind and the sun.

  The pain of loss was sweet for all he had been, and almost too sharp to bear because it no longer existed except in memory. It was a moment before Matthew could control his voice enough to speak. “I’ll go and see Shanley Corcoran.” He took a deep breath. “He was Father’s closest friend. I can at last tell him the truth, or most of it.”

  Joseph hesitated a moment or two before speaking. “Be careful,” was all he said.

  Matthew spent the evening at home in St. Giles, and he telephoned Corcoran to ask if he could call the next day. He received an immediate invitation to dinner, which he accepted unhesitatingly.

  He was glad of a lazy morning, and he and Judith dealt with a number of small duties. Then in the hot, still afternoon they took Henry and walked together to the churchyard and on through the lanes, Henry scuffling happily in the deep grasses on either side. The wild rose petals had mostly fallen.

  Matthew changed for dinner early and was glad to be able to put the top down on the car and drive the ten or twelve miles to Corcoran’s magnificent home. As he passed through Grantchester, a dozen or more youths were still practicing cricket in the lengthening sun, to the cheers and occasional shouts of a handful of watchers. Girls in pinafore dresses dangled hats by their ribbons. Three miles further on, children were sailing wooden boats in the village duck pond. A hurdy-gurdy man cranked out music, and an ice cream seller was packing his barrow to go home, his wares gone, his purse heavy.

  Matthew crossed the main road between Cambridge and the west, then a mile and a half further along he swung off just short of Madingley, and in through the gates of Corcoran’s house. He had barely stepped out of the car when the butler appeared, solemn-faced and punctilious.

  “Good evening, Captain Reavley. How pleasant to see you, sir. We have been expecting you. Have you anything you wish carried, sir?”

  “No, thank you.” Matthew declined with a smile, reaching into the car to pick up the box of Orla’s favorite Turkish delight from the passenger seat. “I’ll manage these myself.”

  “Yes, sir. Then if you leave your keys, I’ll see that Parley puts your car away safely. If you’d like to come this way, sir?”

  Matthew followed him under the portico and up the shallow steps, through the door and into the wide, stone-flagged hallway, black and white squared like a chessboard. A full suit of medieval armor stood beside the carved newel post at the right-hand side of the mahogany staircase, its helmet catching the sun through the oval window on the landing.

  Matthew dropped the car keys onto the tray the butler was holding, then turned as the study door opened and Shanley Corcoran appeared.

  A wide smile lit Corcoran’s face and he came forward, extending both his hands. “I’m so glad you could come,” he said enthusiastically, searching Matthew’s face. “How are you? Come in and sit down!” He indicated the study doorway, and without waiting for a reply he led the way in.

  The room was typical of the man—exuberant. The books and artifacts were highly individual, and there were also scientific curiosities and exquisite works of art. There was a Russian icon, all gold and umber and black. Above the fireplace hung an Italian old master drawing of a man riding a donkey, probably Jesus entering Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. An astrolabe made of silver, polished bright, stood on the mahogany Pembroke table by the wall, and an illustrated copy of Chaucer on the drum table in the center of the room.

  “Sit down, sit down,” Corcoran invited, gesturing toward the other chair.

  Matthew sank back into it, at ease already in the familiar room with its happy memories. It was quarter past seven, and he knew dinner would be served by eight. There was no time to waste on a preparatory conversation. “Did you hear about the death of Sebastian Allard?” he asked. “His family is devastated. I don’t suppose it will begin to heal until they find out what happened. I know how they feel.”

  Corcoran’s face darkened. “I understand your grief.” His voice was very gentle. “I miss John. He was one of the kindest, most honest men I knew. I can’t begin to imagine how you must feel.” A frown of puzzlement creased his brow. “But what more is there to know about his death? No one was responsible. Perhaps it was a slick of oil on the road, or something wrong with the steering of the car? I don’t drive, personally. I know nothing about the mechanics.” He smiled at the irony of it. “I understand airplanes a little, and submarines a lot, but I imagine there are considerable differences.”

  Matthew attempted to smile in answer. Being here with Corcoran brought back memories with an intensity he had been unprepared for. The veil between past and present was too thin. “Well, neither airplanes nor submarines are going to crash off the road, if that is what you meant. But I don’t believe that was what happened. In fact, I’m sure it wasn’t.” He saw Corcoran’s eyes widen slightly. “Joseph and I went to the place,” he explained. “We saw the skid marks exactly where the car veered off. There was no oil.” He hesitated, then took the plunge. “Only a line of scratches, as if made by a row of iron caltrops across the tarmacadam.”

  The silence was so heavy in the room that Matthew could hear the ticking of the long-case clock against the far wall as if it were beside him.

  “What are you saying, Matthew?” Corcoran said at last.

  Matthew leaned forward a little. “Father was on his way to see me in London. He called me up to arrange it the night before. I’ve never heard him more serious.”

  “Oh? About what?” If Corcoran already had any idea, there was no indication of it in his face.

  “He said he had discovered a conspiracy that was highly dishonorable and would eventually affect the whole world. He wanted my advice on it.”

  Corcoran’s vivid blue eyes were unblinking. “Your professional advice?” he said cautiously.

  “Yes.”

  “You couldn’t have misunderstood?”

  “No.” Matthew was not going to elaborate and perhaps put words into Corcoran’s mouth. Suddenly the conversation was no longer easy, or simply between friends.

  “I knew he was concerned about something,” Corcoran said, looking at Matthew over the top of his steepled fingers. “But he didn’t confide in me. In fact, he was politely evasive, so I didn’t pursue it.”

  “What did he say to you, exactly?” Matthew pressed.

  Corcoran blinked. “Very little. Only that he was worried about the pressure in the Balkans—which we all are, but he seemed to think it were more explosive than I did.” Corcoran’s expression tightened, his lips a thin line. “It seems he was right. The assassination of the archd
uke is very ugly. They’ll demand reparation, and of course Serbia won’t pay. The Russians will back the Serbs, and Germany will back Austria. That’s inevitable.”

  “And us?” Matthew asked. “That’s still a long way from Britain, and it has nothing to do with our honor.”

  Corcoran was thoughtful for a moment. The ticking of the clock measured the silence in the room.

  “The alliances are a web right across Europe,” he said at last. “We know some of them, but perhaps not all. It’s fears and promises that could be our undoing.”

  “Do you think Father could possibly have known about the assassination before it happened?” It was a wild thought, but he was reduced to desperation.

  Corcoran lifted his shoulders, but there was no incredulity in his face and no ridicule. “I can’t think how!” he answered. “If he had any connections with that part of the world, he didn’t mention them to me. He knew France and Germany well, and Belgium, too, I think. He had some relative who married a Belgian, I believe, a cousin he was fond of.”

  “Yes, Aunt Abigail,” Matthew confirmed. “But what has Belgium to do with Serbia?”

  “Nothing, so far as I know. But what puzzles me far more is that he should want to involve you professionally.” He looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, Matthew, but you know as well as I that he hated all secret services.”

  “Yes, I know!” Matthew cut in sharply. “He wanted Joseph to go into medicine, and when Joseph didn’t, he wanted me to. He never really said why. . . .” He stopped, seeing surprise and a swift tenderness in Corcoran’s face.

  “He didn’t tell you?” Corcoran asked.

  Matthew shook his head. It was a place inside him that still hurt too much to explore. He had always believed that one day he would have the chance to show his father the value of what he did. Discreetly, it also saved lives; it saved the peace in which people could go about their ordinary, open business without fear. It was one of those professions that, if practiced with great enough skill, one was unaware of. It was visible only when it failed. But John’s death had made that proof impossible, and it was an unresolved pain he had no way to deal with.