by Anne Perry
He had to believe it was more than that. Sebastian had come even earlier than Regina Coopersmith said, and passed along the Hauxton Road before the crash. Or he had gone somewhere else altogether, by another route. Whoever had killed him had done so for a reason that had nothing to do with John and Alys Reavley’s deaths. That was the only answer he could bear.
Joseph turned back toward St. Johns, increasing his pace. Enough had been said about Sebastian and the injuries people felt they had suffered at his hands that a closer look at some of them would lead either to proving them trivial or, if followed to the very end, to the reason for his death.
One episode that came to his mind first was the curious exchange with Eardslie when they were standing outside Eaden Lilley’s and the young woman who walked with such grace had appeared about to speak to them and then changed her mind. It had been suggested that Sebastian had intentionally taken someone else’s girl, simply to show that he could, and then cast her aside. Was that true?
It took Joseph half an hour to find Eardslie, who was sitting on the grass on the Backs, leaning against the trunk of a tree with books spread out around him. He looked up at Joseph in surprise and made as if to stand up.
“Don’t,” Joseph said quickly, sitting down on the ground opposite him, crossing his legs and making himself comfortable. “I wanted to talk to you. Do you remember the young woman who passed us outside Eaden Lilley’s the other day?”
Eardslie drew in his breath to deny it.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t make that a question,” Joseph amended. “It was quite obvious that you did know her, whether it was well or slightly, and that, seeing me there, she decided not to speak to you.”
Eardslie looked uncomfortable. He was a serious young man, the oldest son, of whom his family expected a great deal, and the weight of it frequently lay rather heavily on him. Now in particular he seemed conscious of obligation. “Probably a matter of tact, sir,” he suggested.
“No doubt. What would she need to be tactful about?”
Eardslie colored slightly. “Her name is Abigail Trethowan,” he said unhappily. “She was more or less engaged to Morel, but she met Sebastian, and sort of . . .” He was at a loss to put into words what he meant.
“Fell in love with Sebastian,” Joseph finished for him.
Eardslie nodded.
“And you are suggesting that Sebastian brought that about deliberately?” Joseph asked, raising his eyebrows.
Eardslie’s color deepened and he looked down. “It certainly looked that way. And then he dropped her. She was very upset.”
“And Morel?”
Eardslie raised his eyes. They were wide, golden-flecked, and burning with anger.
“How would you feel, sir?” he said furiously. “Somebody takes your girl from you, just to show you and everybody else that he can? And then he doesn’t even want her, so he just dumps her, as if she were unwanted baggage. You can’t take her back or you look a complete fool, and she feels . . . like a . . .” He gave up, unable to find a word savage enough.
Joseph realized how much Eardslie himself had cared for Abigail, possibly more than he was admitting.
“Where does she live?” Joseph asked.
Eardslie’s eyes widened. “You’re not going to say anything to her!” He was horrified. “She’d be humiliated, sir! You can’t!”
“Is she the kind of woman who would conceal the truth of a murder rather than face embarrassment?” Joseph asked.
Eardslie’s struggle was clear in his face.
Joseph waited.
“She’s at the Fitzwilliam, sir. But please, do you have to?”
Joseph stood up. “Would you rather I ask Perth to do it?”
He found Abigail Trethowan in the Fitzwilliam library. He introduced himself and asked if he might speak to her. With considerable apprehension she accompanied him to a tea shop around the corner, and when he had ordered for both of them, he broached the subject.
“I apologize for speaking of what must be painful, Miss Threthowan, but the subject of Sebastian’s death is not going to rest until it is solved.”
She was sitting straight-backed in her chair, like a schoolgirl with a ruler at her back. Joseph could remember Alys reminding both Hannah and Judith of the importance of posture and poking a wooden spoon through the spokes of the kitchen chairs to demonstrate, catching them in the middle of the spine. Abigail Trethowan looked just as young, proud, and vulnerable as they had. It would be hard to forgive Sebastian if he had done what Eardslie believed.
“I know,” she said quietly, her eyes avoiding his.
How could he ask her without being brutal?
All around them was the clatter of china and the murmur of conversation as ladies took tea and exchanged gossip, in many cases bags and boxes of shopping piled near their feet. No one was vulgar enough to look at Joseph and Abigail openly, but he knew without doubt that they were being examined from head to foot, and speculation was rich and highly inventive.
He smiled at Abigail and saw by the flash of humor in her eyes that she was as aware of it as he.
“I could ask you questions,” he said frankly. “But wouldn’t it be better if you simply told me?”
The color burned up her cheeks, but she did not look away from him. “I’m ashamed of it,” she said in a voice that was little above a whisper. “I’d hoped I wouldn’t ever have to think of it again, much less tell anyone.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid there is no escape. We owe it to everyone else involved.”
Once their tea and scones were served, she began her account. “I met Edgar Morel. I liked him very much, and gradually it turned into love—at least I thought it did. I had never really been in love before, and I didn’t know what to expect.” She glanced up at him and then down at her hands again. She held them clasped in front of her, strong, well-shaped, and bare of rings. “He asked me to marry him, and I was wondering whether to accept. It seemed a little soon.” She drew in her breath. “Then I met Sebastian. He was the most beautiful person I had ever seen.” She raised her eyes to meet Joseph’s, and they were bright, swimming in tears.
He wanted to help her, but there was nothing he could do except listen. If he did not interrupt, it would be over more quickly.
“He was so clever, so quick to understand everything,” she went on, rueful now, obviously curious about the irony of it. “And he was funny. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so much in my life.” She looked at him again. “I never really laughed, not just a little giggle but the sort of aching, uncontrollable laughter my mother would think was totally indecent. And it was such fun! We talked about all sorts of things and it was like being able to fly—in your mind. Do you know what I mean, Mr. Reavley?”
“Yes, certainly I do,” he said with a catch in his voice, partly for Sebastian, partly for Eleanor, perhaps most of all for inner loneliness for something he needed and did not have.
She sipped her tea.
He took one of the scones and put butter, jam, and cream on it.
“I was in love with Sebastian,” she continued with conviction. “It wouldn’t matter what Edgar did. I could never feel like that about him. I couldn’t marry him. It would have been an impossible lie. I told him, and he was very upset. It was awful!”
“Yes, I’m sure it was,” he agreed. “When you are in love, there is not much that hurts as deeply as rejection.”
“I know,” she whispered.
He waited.
She sniffed a little and sipped her tea again, then set down the cup. “Sebastian rejected me. He said he liked me very much, but he liked Edgar also, and he couldn’t do what amounted morally to stealing his girl.” She took a shivery breath. “I never saw him alone after that. I was mortified. For ages I didn’t want to see anyone. But I suppose it passes. We all survive.”
“No, we don’t,” he corrected her. “Sebastian is dead.”
The blood drained from her face, and she stared at him in horror.
“You don’t . . . you don’t think Edgar . . . Oh, no! No! He was upset, but he would never do that! Besides, it really wasn’t Sebastian’s fault. He didn’t do anything to encourage me!”
“Would that make you feel any better if you were in Edgar’s place?” he asked. “It wouldn’t comfort me to know somebody had taken the woman I loved, without even having to try.”
She closed her eyes, and the tears ran down her cheeks. “No,” she said huskily. “No, I think I’d feel worse. I still don’t believe Edgar would kill him. He didn’t love me that much, not to commit murder for. He’s a nice man, really nice, just not . . . not alive as Sebastian was.”
“It isn’t always the value of what is taken that makes us hate,” he pointed out. “Sometimes it’s just the fact that we’ve been robbed. It’s pride.”
“He wouldn’t,” she repeated. “If you think he did, then you don’t know him.”
Perhaps she was right, but he wondered if she was defending him because she carried such a burden of guilt for having hurt him. It would be a way of paying some of that debt.
And yet the Morel he knew would not have killed for such a reason. He could easily see him fighting, perhaps punching Sebastian hard enough to kill him by accident, but not deliberately with a gun. For one thing, the sheer physical release of violence would not be in it. It would leave him still empty, and consumed not only with guilt but with fear also.
“No, I don’t think he would, either,” he agreed.
“Do you have to tell that policeman?”
“I won’t unless something happens to change things,” he promised. “Unfortunately there are many other possibilities, and very few of us can prove we didn’t. Please have one of these scones. They really are excellent.”
She smiled at him, blinking hard, and reached out to accept.
On Tuesday afternoon, Joseph took the train to London and was waiting for Matthew when he came home to his flat.
“What are you doing here?” Matthew demanded, coming into the sitting room and seeing Joseph lounging in his own favorite chair. Matthew was in uniform, and he looked tired and harassed, his fair hair untidy and uncharacteristically in need of cutting, his face pale.
“The doorman let me in,” Joseph replied, climbing to his feet to leave the chair free. “Have you eaten?” It was past dinnertime. He had found bread and a little cheese in the kitchen and some Belgian pâté, and opened a bottle of red wine. “Can I get you something?”
“Like what?” Matthew said a little sarcastically, but easing himself into the chair and relaxing slowly.
“Bread and pâté?” Joseph replied. “I finished the cheese. Wine or tea?”
“Wine, if you haven’t finished that, too! Why have you come? Not for dinner!”
Joseph ignored him until he had cut three slices of the bread and brought it along with butter, pâté, and the bottle of wine and a glass.
“You didn’t answer my question. You look like hell. Has something else happened?”
Joseph heard the edge to his voice. “So do you,” he said, sitting in the other chair and crossing his legs. “How are you progressing?”
Matthew smiled, half ruefully, and a little of the weariness ironed out of his face. “I know more. I’m not sure how much of it is relevant. The British and Irish parties met at the Palace and failed to reach any agreement. I suppose no one is surprised. The king supported the Loyalists yesterday, but I expect you know that.”
“No, I didn’t,” Joseph said. “But I meant to do with Father’s death and the document.”
“I know you did. Let me finish! I’ve spoken to several people—Shanley Corcoran; Ivor Chetwin, who used to be a friend of Father’s; my boss, Shearing; and Dermot Sandwell, from the Foreign Office. Sandwell was actually the most helpful. From everything I can gather, an Irish plot to assassinate the king seems most likely. . . .” He stopped, having seen Joseph’s face. “It answers all Father’s criteria,” he said very quietly. “Think of what British reaction would be.”
Joseph closed his eyes for a moment. Views of rage, bloodshed, martial law, and oppression filled his mind, sickening him. He had wanted his father to be right, to be justified rather than foolish, but not at this cost. He looked up at Matthew, seeing the grayness in him with an overwhelming understanding. “Is there anything we can do?” he asked.
“I don’t know. At least Sandwell is aware of it. I imagine he will warn the king.”
“Will he? I mean, would he even be able to get access to see him without alarming . . . ?”
“Oh, yes. I think they’re distantly related somewhere along the line. From the marriage of one of Victoria’s umpteen children. I just don’t know if Sandwell can make the king believe it. No one has ever assassinated a British monarch.”
“Not assassinated, perhaps,” Joseph agreed. “But we’ve certainly had a good few murdered, deposed, or executed. But the last was bloodless, and a long time ago: 1688, to be precise.”
“Rather beyond living memory,” Matthew pointed out. “Did you come to ask what I’d found so far?” He took another bite of his bread and pâté.
“I came to tell you that the police have discovered that Sebastian lied about when he left home to go back to college the day Mother and Father were killed. He actually left a couple of hours earlier.”
Matthew was puzzled. “I thought he was killed over a week later. What difference does that make?”
Joseph shook his head. “The point is that he lied about it, and why do that unless there was something he wanted to conceal?”
Matthew shrugged. “So he had a secret,” he said with his mouth full. “Probably he was seeing a girl his parents wouldn’t approve of, or who was involved with someone else, possibly even someone’s wife. Sorry, Joe, but he was a remarkably good-looking young man, which he was well aware of, and he wasn’t the saint you like to think.”
“He wasn’t a saint!” Joseph said a trifle abruptly. “But he could behave perfectly decently where women were concerned, even nobly. And he was engaged to marry Regina Coopersmith, so obviously any involvement with someone else would be something he wouldn’t want known. But that isn’t why I’m telling you about it. What does matter is that to drive from Haslingfield to Cambridge he would pass along the Hauxton Road, going north, and it now seems that it must have been at pretty much the same time as Father and Mother were going south.”
Matthew stiffened, his hand with the bread in it halfway to his mouth, his eyes wide. “Are you saying he could have seen the crash? In God’s name, why wouldn’t he have said so?”
“Because he was afraid,” Joseph replied. He felt the tightness knot inside him. “Perhaps he recognized whoever it was, and knew they had seen him.”
Matthew’s eyes were fixed on Joseph’s. “And they killed him because of what he had seen?”
“Isn’t it possible?” Joseph asked. “Someone killed him! Of course, he may have passed before the crash and known nothing at all about it.”
“But if he did see it, that would explain his death.” Matthew ignored his supper and concentrated on the idea, leaning forward in his chair now, his face tense. “Have you come up with any other motive for what seems to be a pretty cold-blooded shooting?”
“Cold-blooded?”
“Do your students usually call on each other at half past five in the morning carrying guns?”
“They don’t have guns,” Joseph replied.
“Where did it come from?”
“We don’t know where it came from or where it went to. No one has ever seen it.”
“Except whoever used it,” Matthew pointed out. “But I presume no one left the college after Elwyn Allard found the body, so who left before? Don’t they have to pass the porter’s lodge at the gate?”
“Yes. And no one did.”
“So what happened to the gun?”
“We don’t know. The police searched everywhere, of course.”
Matthew chewed on his lip. “It begins to look as if
you’ve got someone very dangerous indeed in your college, Joe. Be careful. Don’t go wandering around asking questions.”
“I don’t wander around!” Joseph said a little tartly, stung by the implication not only of aimlessness, but of incompetence to look after himself.
Matthew was deliberately patient. “You mean you are going to tell me this about Sebastian and leave it for me to investigate? I’m not in Cambridge, and anyway, I don’t know those people.”
“No, of course I don’t mean that!” Joseph retorted. “I’m just as capable as you are of asking intelligent and discreet questions, and deducing a rational answer without annoying everybody and arousing their suspicions.”
“And you’re going to do it?” That seemed to be a question.
“Of course I am! As you pointed out, you are not in a position to. And since Perth knows nothing about it, he won’t. What else do you suggest?”
“Just be careful,” Matthew warned, his voice edgy. “You’re just like Father. You go around assuming that everyone else is as open and honest as you are. You think it’s highly moral and charitable to think the best of people. So it is. It’s also damn stupid!” His face was angry and tender at the same time. Joseph was so like his father. He had the same long, slightly aquiline face, the dark hair, the kind of immensely reasonable innocence that left him totally unprepared for the deviousness and cruelty of life. Matthew had never been able to protect him and probably never would. Joseph would go on being logical and naive. And the most infuriating thing about it was that Matthew would not really have wished his brother to be different, not if he was honest.
“And I can’t afford for you to get yourself killed,” he went on. “So you’d better just get on with teaching people and leave the questions to the police. If they catch whoever shot Sebastian, we’ll have a lead toward who’s behind the conspiracy in the document.”
