by Anne Perry
Joseph took the brandy offered to him and drank it, choking on the unaccustomed fire of it in his throat. Then he felt it blossom inside him with artificial warmth, and it did help. It steadied him, gave him a little strength, even though he knew it was only temporary, and changed nothing.
Thyer took over. “We don’t know what happened yet,” he was telling Connie. “The gun was there on the floor beside him. It looks as if it is maybe the end of all this.”
She stared at him and started to say something, but the words died in her throat. She shook her head, whimpering in pain she would always have to conceal. No one would understand; no one would offer her sympathies or make allowances for her grief. She would have to bear it alone, even pretend it did not exist.
That was something Joseph could do for her; he could share his own loss of a friend, recall all the good things about him and let her borrow his grief. Without the embarrassment of saying so, or requiring any confession or acknowledgment from her, he could let her know that he understood.
He stayed a little longer. They made meaningless remarks. Thyer offered them each another brandy, and this time he had one himself as well. After about half an hour, Joseph left and walked in a daze of grief back to his own rooms for one of the worst nights he would ever endure. He sank into sleep at last a little before one, and was engulfed in nightmare. He slipped in and out of it until five, then woke with a tight, pounding headache. He got up, made himself a cup of tea and took two aspirins. He sat in the armchair and read from Dante’s Inferno. The passage through hell was vaguely comforting; perhaps it was the power of Dante’s vision, the music of the words, and the knowledge that even in the worst pain of the heart he was not alone.
Finally at eight o’clock he went outside. The weather was exactly as it had been nearly all summer—calm and still, with a slight heat haze on the town—but inside St. John’s suddenly the pressure seemed to have lifted.
Joseph met Perth, who was setting out across the quad.
“Ah! Morning, Dr. Reavley,” Perth said cheerfully. He still looked tired, shadows around his eyes, but his shoulders were squared and his step was lighter. “Shame about Dr. Beecher. Oi know he were a friend o’ yours, but mebbe it’s the best way. Clean end. No trial. Best for poor Mr. Allard’s family, too. Now the public don’t need to have all the details.”
The words, with Perth’s unquestioning assurance, crystallized the anger inside Joseph. All Perth knew was that Beecher was dead and the gun was found next to him, yet he was happy, almost gleeful, to take it for granted that he had killed Sebastian and then himself. Arguments boiled up in Joseph’s mind, along with fury at Perth’s willingness to believe without looking any further. What about the others? They had known Beecher for years. Was all that carried away as if by a single flash flood? He wanted to shout at Perth to stop, to think, to weigh and measure. It was nothing like the man Joseph had known! How dare Perth, or anyone, be so certain?
But then Joseph himself had not seen the affair with Connie Thyer, right under his nose! Or that Sebastian had seen it and was using it in subtle blackmail. How well did he know anyone?
And it was all hideously reasonable. The words died on his lips. He was really only angry because Perth was relieved. Everyone would be. The suspicion had stopped. They would be able to start rebuilding all the old friendships that had been the fabric of their lives.
“Are you so very sure?” he said thickly, his voice strained.
Perth shook his head. “Makes sense, Reverend. About the only answer what does—when you think on it.”
Joseph said nothing. The courtyard seemed to waver around him, like a picture blurred by rain.
“Looks like the same gun,” Perth went on. “When we test it, Oi reckon we’ll find as it is. Was a Webley that killed Mr. Allard. Did Oi ever tell you that.”
Joseph stared into space, trying not to visualize it. Whatever had happened to Beecher, the scholarly, dry-humored man he had known, the good friend, that he would have killed Sebastian to protect his own reputation? Or was it Connie’s? Thyer could have overlooked it if no one knew. Such things happened often enough. But to have made it public would be different. No man could ignore that. Beecher would have lost his position, but he could have found another, even if not in such a prestigious university as Cambridge, if not even in England! Surely better anything rather than murder?
Or was it to protect Connie? Perhaps she would have been divorced by Thyer. But even that was something they could have lived with.
And would Sebastian really have sunk so low as to tell people? It would have ruined Connie and Beecher, and made Thyer the butt of pity. But it would have broken forever Sebastian’s own image as a golden youth. Surely he would not have done that simply to exercise power?
“I’m sorry, Reverend,” Perth said again. “Very sad thing, an’ hard to believe it o’ friends. That’s the trouble with a calling like yours. Always reckoning the best o’ folk. Comes a shock when you see the other side. Now for me, Oi’m afraid it’s no shock at all.” He sniffed. “Still a shame, though.”
“Yes . . .” Joseph pulled his thoughts together. “Yes, of course it is. Good day, Inspector.” Without waiting for a reply he walked away toward the dining hall. He did not want to eat, and he certainly did not want company, but it was like getting into cold water—better done quickly.
In the hall there was the same slightly hysterical air of relief. People launched into conversation, then stopped suddenly and burst into high-pitched, self-conscious laughter. They were not sure whether it was decent to show their happiness that the weight of suspicion was gone, but they dared to look at each other, because words were no longer guarded against hidden meaning. They spoke of the future; they even told jokes.
Joseph found it intolerable. After a couple of slices of toast and a single cup of tea, he excused himself and left. They were behaving as if Beecher had not been one of them, as if they had not lost a friend in the most hideous way imaginable. The moment real friendship was put to the test they cut and ran.
That judgment was unfair, but it would not leave his mind, for all the sensible reasoning he used. The hurt was too great.
He was not certain whether to go back to the master’s lodgings or not. He did not want to intrude on Connie in what must be a time she would bear only because there was no possible alternative. One could not die purely from misery. He had discovered that after Eleanor’s death.
But even if he did not go specifically to see Connie, he should speak to Mary now that Beecher’s death was generally accepted as the close of the case. They would be leaving to go home, and if he waited, it might be too late; it would seem as if he were indifferent.
He was shown into the sitting room by the parlor maid, and a few moments later Connie appeared. She might have doubted within herself whether she should wear black or not, but even if she had considered that it might be too revealing of her emotions, she had cast aside such caution. She wore a fashionable silk dress with a deep sash and pleated tunic, black from neck to hem, and black shoes. Her face was as white as chalk.
“Good morning, Joseph,” she said quietly. “I imagine you have come to see Mrs. Allard. She has her vengeance now, and she can leave.” Her eyes expressed the fury and the pain she dared not speak aloud. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Thank you for coming yesterday evening. I . . . I . . .”
“You don’t need to thank me,” he interrupted. “I liked him very much. He was my best friend, right from the beginning.” He saw her eyes fill with tears, and it was almost impossible to continue, his own throat was so tight. He could scarcely breathe from the weight constricting his chest.
At that moment Mary Allard came in through the door.
“Oh, good morning, Dr. Reavley.” She still looked proud and angry, and she was dressed in unrelieved black. It flattered her olive complexion but not her gaunt body. “It is good of you to come to wish us goodbye.” There was a faint softening in her voice.
; He could not think what to say to her. Nothing in her yielded or offered warmth.
“I hope the resolution of the matter will give you some measure of peace,” he said, and an instant later wished he had not. In saying that, he had wished Beecher’s death to give her peace, and he felt like a betrayer.
“Hardly,” she snapped. “And I would not have expected you, of all people, to suggest it!”
Connie drew in her breath. She stared back at Joseph defensively. Her voice shook when she spoke. “You have been willing to allow it said that my son blackmailed this wretched man over some sin or other, God knows what—no one will tell me—and that he murdered Sebastian to keep him quiet.” She was trembling with bewilderment and unanswered pain. “The suggestion is monstrous! Whatever he had done, or Sebastian knew about, Sebastian would never have put pressure upon him, except to persuade him to act honorably.” She gave a little gulp. “Obviously that failed, and the miserable man murdered Sebastian in order to protect himself. Now not only has this damnable place taken my son’s life, but you would like to take from him as well the very memory of who and what he was. You are beneath contempt! If I do not meet you again, Dr. Reavley, I shall be much better suited.”
Her words were both arbitrary and unjust. He was angry enough to retaliate, but the words did not come easily.
“People will say what they wish to say, Mrs. Allard,” he said stiffly, his mouth dry. “Or what they believe to be true. I cannot stop them, nor would I, any more than I can stop you saying whatever you wish to about Dr. Beecher, who was also my friend.”
“Then you are unfortunate in your choice of friends, Dr. Reavley,” she snapped. “You are naive, and think too well of many people, but not well enough of others. I think you would be better served by some long and deep contemplation of your own powers of judgment.” She lifted her chin a trifle higher. “It was civil of you to come to wish us goodbye. No doubt you considered it your duty. Please accept that it is done, and feel no need to call upon us further. Good day.”
“Thank you,” Joseph said with unaccustomed sarcasm. “That puts my mind greatly at ease.”
She swung round and glared at him.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I shall feel free not to call upon you again,” he answered. “I am obliged to you.”
She opened her mouth to make some reply, and to her fury the tears flooded her eyes. She swung around and marched out, black silk skirts crackling, shoulders stiff.
Joseph felt guilty, and angry, and thoroughly miserable.
“Don’t,” Connie whispered. “She deserved that. She has been behaving for three weeks as if she were the only person in the world who has ever been bereaved. My heart aches for her, but I can’t like her!” She took in a long, deep breath and let it out in a sob. “Even less now.”
He looked at her. “Nor I,” he said gently, and they both stood there, smiling and blinking, trying not to weep.
Joseph spent the rest of the day in a haze of misery. At night he slept poorly and rose late, grief washing back over him like a returning tide. He missed breakfast altogether, and forced himself to go back to the dining hall for luncheon. He had expected the conversation still to be about Beecher’s death. He was startled to find instead that it was about yesterday’s newspaper headlines, added to by this morning’s. Somehow he had not taken any notice until now.
“Troops?” he said, turning from one colleague to another. “Where?”
“Russia,” Moulton replied to his left. “Over a million men. The czar mobilized them yesterday.”
“For the love of heaven, why?” Joseph was stunned. A million men! It was shattering and absurd.
Moulton stared at him dourly. “Because two days ago Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia,” he replied. “And yesterday they bombed Belgrade.”
“Bombed . . . !” The coldness went through Joseph as if someone had opened a door onto a freezing night. “Bombed Belgrade?”
Moulton’s face was tight. “I’m afraid so. I suppose with poor Beecher’s death no one mentioned it. Ridiculous, I know, but the death of someone we know seems worse than dozens or even hundreds of deaths of people we don’t—poor devils. God only knows what’ll happen next. It seems we can’t stop it now.”
“I’m afraid it looks as if war in Europe is inevitable,” Gorley-Smith said from the other side, his long face very grave, the light shining on his bald head. “Can’t say whether it’ll drag us in or not. Don’t see why it should.”
Joseph was thinking of a million Russian soldiers and the czar’s promise to support Serbia against Austria-Hungary.
“Makes our troops in the streets of Dublin look like a very small affair, doesn’t it?” Moulton said wryly.
“What!” Joseph exclaimed.
“On Monday,” Moulton told him, raising his wispy eyebrows. “We sent the troops in to disarm the rebels.” He frowned. “You’ll have to pull yourself together, Reavley. It seems Allard was a bit of a wrong ’un after all. And poor old Beecher lost his head completely. Woman’s reputation, I suppose, or something of the sort.”
“Of the sort,” Addison said sourly from the other side of the table. “Never saw him with a woman, did you?”
Joseph jerked up and glared at him. “Well, if it were something worth blackmailing him about, you wouldn’t, would you!” he snapped.
Gorley-Smith raised his glass. “Gentlemen, we have far larger and graver issues to concern ourselves with than one man’s tragedy and a young man who, it appears, was not as good as we wished to believe. It seems that Europe is on the brink of war. A new darkness threatens us, unlike anything we have seen before. Perhaps in a few weeks young men all over the land will be facing a far different future.”
“It won’t touch England!” Addison said with contempt. “It’ll be Austria-Hungary and east, or north if you count Russia.”
“Since they’ve just mobilized over a million men, we can hardly discount them!” Gorley-Smith retorted.
“Still a long way from Dover,” Moulton said with assurance, “let alone London. It won’t happen. For one thing, think of the cost of it! The sheer destruction! The bankers will never let it come to that.”
Addison leaned back, holding his wineglass in his hand, the light shining through the pale German white wine in it. “You’re quite right. Of course they won’t. Anyone who knows anything about international finance must realize that. They’ll go to the brink, then reach some agreement. It’s all just posturing. We’re past that stage of development now. For God’s sake, Europe is the highest civilization the world has ever seen. It’s all saber rattling, nothing more.”
The conversation swirled on around Joseph, but he barely listened. In his mind he saw not the oak-beamed dining hall, the windows with their centuries of stained-glass coats of arms, but instead the evening sun shining long and golden across the river. He saw Sebastian staring at the beauty of Cambridge—the architecture as well as the glories of the mind and the heart treasured down the centuries—and dreading the barbarity of war and all it would break in the spirit of mankind.
Joseph still found it impossible to believe that Sebastian had really been a grubby blackmailer. And Harry Beecher. How could he have killed Sebastian?
And was any of it tied to the murders of John and Alys Reavley? Had Sebastian witnessed their deaths and known who was responsible? Or was that only a hideous coincidence? How could it have anything to do with Reisenburg and whoever had killed him?
Or the worst thought of all: Was Sebastian blackmailing Beecher not over Connie but over the Reavleys’ deaths?
Or was there someone else who had taken advantage of Beecher’s love affair to hide the fact that it was he whom Sebastian was blackmailing? Someone Sebastian had seen lay that string of caltrops across the road?
Or was Joseph simply trying, yet again, to avoid a truth he found too painful to believe? For all his proclaimed love of reason, the faith in God he professed aloud, was he a moral coward, without th
e courage to test the truth, or the real belief in anything but the facts he could see? Did he trust God at all? Was it a relationship of spirit to spirit? Or just an idea that lasted only until he tried to make it carry the weight of pain or despair?
He laid down his napkin and rose to his feet. “Excuse me. I have duties I must attend to. I’ll see you at dinner.” He did not wait for their startled response, but walked quickly across the floor and out of the door into the sun.
It was time he looked at Sebastian’s murder without any evasion or protection for his own feelings. He must have at least that much honesty. Perhaps he had not really accepted it until now. His emotions were still trying to absorb the death of his parents.
He was walking aimlessly, but swiftly enough to distract anyone from speaking to him.
Sebastian had been shot early in the morning, before most people were up. According to Perth, it had been with a Webley revolver, probably like the one that had killed Beecher. No one had admitted ever seeing such a gun in college. So where had it come from? Whose was it?
Surely the fact of having such a thing indicated intent to kill. Where did one buy or steal a gun? It was certain beyond any reasonable doubt that the same gun had been used both times, so where had it been that the police had not found it?
He walked over the Bridge of Sighs and out into the sun again. He knew St. John’s better than the police possibly could. Surely if he applied his mind to the problem, he could deduce where the gun had been.
He passed a couple of students strolling, deep in conversation. A man and a young woman in a punt drifted lazily along the river. Three young men sat on the grass, absorbed in conversation. Another sat alone, lost in a book. Peace soaked into the bones like the heat of the sun. If they had read the same news as Moulton and Gorley-Smith, they did not believe it.
Where could one hide a gun that it would be retrievable, and in a condition in which it could be used again? Not the river. And not where anyone else would find it, either casually or because they were looking for it.
