by Anne Perry
The contempt in Beecher’s face softened. “Then perhaps he was better than I supposed.”
Joseph smiled, the old warmth returning. This was the friend he knew. “He saw all the fear and the pain,” he said quietly. “The glory of our entire heritage drowned in a sea of violence until we became a lost civilization, and all our wealth of beauty, thought, human wisdom, joy, and experience as buried as Nineveh or Tyre. No more Englishmen, none of our courage or eccentricity, our language or our tolerance left. He loved it intensely. He would have given everything he had to preserve it.”
Beecher sighed and leaned backward, gazing up at the ceiling. “Then perhaps he is in some ways fortunate that he won’t see the war that’s coming,” he said softly. “Inspector Perth is sure it will be the worst we’ve even seen. Worse than the Napoleonic Wars. Make Waterloo look tame.”
Joseph was stunned.
Beecher sat up again. “Mind, he’s a miserable devil,” he said more cheerfully. “A regular Jeremiah. I’ll be glad when he finishes his business here and goes to spread alarm and despondency somewhere else. Would you like another glass of sherry? You didn’t take much.”
“It’s enough,” Joseph replied. “I can escape reality nicely on one, thank you.”
The following day Joseph began his investigation with the worst of all possibilities.
He must begin by learning all he did not already know about Beecher. And surely in this case discretion was the better part of honesty. Candor would ruin Beecher’s reputation, and unless it exposed Sebastian’s murderer, it was no one else’s concern.
The easiest thing to check without speaking to anyone else was with a record of all Beecher’s classes, lectures, tutorials, and other engagements for the last six weeks. It was time-consuming but simple enough and easily concealed by finding the same information for everyone and simply extracting that relating to Beecher.
Correlating times and figures was not Joseph’s natural talent, but with concentration he compiled a record of where Beecher had been, and with whom, for at least most of the previous month.
He sat back in his chair, ignoring the piles of papers, and considered what it proved and what he should search for next. How did one conduct a secret relationship? Either by meeting alone where no one at all would see you, or where all those who did would be strangers to whom you would mean nothing. Or else by meeting in plain sight, and with a legitimate reason no one would question.
In Cambridge there was no place where everyone would be strangers, nor in the nearby villages. It would be crazy to take such a risk.
Completely uninhabited places were few, and not easily reached. Beecher might bicycle to them, but what about a woman? Unless she was very young and vigorous, she would hardly bicycle far, and a woman who drove a car was very rare. Judith was an exception, not the rule.
That left the last possibility: They met openly, with natural reasons that no one would question. Sebastian knew of their feelings either because he had been more observant than others or because he had accidentally seen something acutely private. Either thought was distasteful.
Surely it would prove to be nonsense, his own overheated imagination. Perhaps Beecher was simply one of those scholarly men who do not form attachments. Such men existed. Joseph’s idea that he was not arose simply from his own nature. He failed to imagine living with no desire for intimacy. Possibly Beecher had loved once and could not commit himself again, nor speak of it even to someone like Joseph, who would surely have understood.
And yet even as the thoughts were in his mind, he did not believe them. Beecher was too alive, too physical to have removed himself from any of the richness of passion or experience. They had walked too far, climbed too high, laughed too hard together for him to be mistaken.
Joseph had been hoping to avoid Inspector Perth when he almost bumped into him walking along the path in the middle of the quad, his pipe clenched between his teeth.
He took it out. “Good afternoon, Reverend,” he said, this time not standing aside but remaining in front of Joseph, effectively blocking his way.
“Good afternoon, Inspector,” Joseph answered, moving a little to the right to go around him.
“Any luck with your questions?” Perth said with what looked like polite interest.
Joseph thought for a moment of denying it, then remembered how frequently he had passed Perth coming or going. He would be lying, but more importantly Perth would know it and then assume he was hiding something—both of which were true. “I keep thinking so, and then realizing it all proves nothing,” he answered evasively.
“Oi know exactly what you mean,” Perth sympathized, knocking his pipe out on his shoe, examining it to make certain it was empty, then putting it in his pocket. “Oi come up with bits an’ pieces, then it slips out o’ my hands. But then you know these people, which Oi don’t.” He smiled pleasantly. “You’d know, fer instance, why Dr. Beecher seems t’ve made an exception for Mr. Allard, letting him get away with all kinds o’ cheek an’ lateness an’ the loike, where he’d punish someone else.” He waited, quite obviously expecting an answer.
Joseph thought quickly. “Can you give me an example?”
Perth replied without hesitation. “Mr. Allard handed in a paper late, an’ so did Mr. Morel. He took a mark off Mr. Morel for it, but not off Mr. Allard.”
Joseph felt a chill and stared fixedly at Perth, because he was suddenly more afraid of him. He did not want him poking around in Beecher’s private affairs. “People can be eccentric in marking sometimes,” he said, affecting an ease he was very far from feeling. “I have been guilty of it myself at times. Translation in particular can be a matter of taste as well as exactness.”
Perth’s eyes widened. “Is that what you think, Reverend?” he said curiously.
Joseph wanted to escape. “It seems probable,” he said, moving a little to the right again, intending to go around Perth and continue on his way. He wanted to end this conversation before Perth led him any further into the morass.
Perth smiled as if Joseph had met his prejudices exactly. “Dr. Beecher just loiked Mr. Allard’s style, did he? Poor Mr. Morel just ain’t in the same class, so when he’s late, he’s in trouble.”
“That would be unfair!” Joseph said hotly. “And it was not what I meant! The difference in mark would have had nothing to do with being late or early.”
“Or being cheeky or careless?” Perth persisted. “Discipline’s not the same for the clever students from what the way it is for the less clever. You know Mr. Allard’s family quite well, don’t you?”
It was not himself Joseph was afraid for, it was Beecher, and the thoughts that were darkening in his own mind.
“Yes, I do, and I never allowed him the slightest latitude because of it!” he said with considerable asperity. “This is a place of learning, Inspector, and personal issues have nothing to do with the way a student is taught or the marks given to his work. It is irresponsible and morally repugnant to suggest otherwise. I cannot allow you to say such a thing and be uncorrected. You are slandering a man’s reputation, and your office here does not give you immunity to do that!”
Perth did not seem in the least disconcerted. “Oi’ve just bin going around asking and listening like you have, Reverend,” he replied quietly. “And Oi’ve begun to see that some people thought Dr. Beecher really din’t like Mr. Allard very much. But that don’t seem to be true, because he bent over backwards to be fair to him, even done him the odd favor. Now why d’yer think that was?”
Joseph had no answer.
“You know these people better’n Oi do, Reverend,” Perth went on relentlessly. “Oi’d’ve thought you’d want the truth o’ this, because you can see just how hard everybody’s taking it. Suspicion’s an evil thing. Turns people against each other, even when there’s really no cause for it.”
“Of course I do,” Joseph responded, then had no idea what to say next.
Perth was smiling. It was amusement and a faint, r
ather sad compassion. “Hard, ain’t it, Reverend?” he said gently. “Discovering that a young man you thought so well of weren’t above using a spot o’ blackmail now an’ then?”
“I don’t know anything of the sort!” Joseph protested. It was literally true, but already morally a lie.
“O’ course not,” Perth agreed. “Because you stopped before you had any proof as you couldn’t deny. If you did, then you’d have to face it, and maybe even tell. But you’re an interesting man to follow, Reverend, an’ not nearly as simple as you’d have me think.” He ignored Joseph’s expression. “Good thing Dr. Beecher was way along the river when Mr. Allard was killed, or Oi’d have to suspect him, an’ of course Oi’d have to find out exactly what it was Mr. Allard knew, although Oi can think of it easy enough. A very handsome woman, Mrs. Thyer, an’ mebbe just a little bit lonely, in her own way.”
Joseph froze, his heart racing. Beecher and Connie? Could that be true? Images teemed through his mind becoming sharper and sharper—Connie’s face, beautiful, warm, vivid.
Perth shook his head. “Don’t look at me like that, Reverend. Oi haven’t suggested something improper. All men have feelings, an’ sometimes we don’t want ’em seen by others. Makes us feel kind of . . . naked. Oi wonder what else Mr. Allard’s sharp eyes noticed? You wouldn’t happen to know, would you?”
“No, I wouldn’t!” Joseph snapped, feeling the heat in his face. “And as you say, Dr. Beecher was at least a mile away when Sebastian was shot. I told you that I can’t help you, Inspector, and it is the truth. Now would you be good enough to let me pass?”
“Course Oi would, Reverend. You be about your business. But Oi’m telling you, all of you here: You can go round an’ round the houses all you like, an’ Oi’m still going to find out who did it, whoever he is, no matter what his father paid to have him up here. An’ Oi’m going to find out why! Oi may not be able to argue all kinds o’ fancy logic like you can, Reverend, but Oi know people, an’ Oi know why they do things against the law. An’ Oi’ll prove it. Law’s bigger’n all of us, an’ you being a religious man, yer oughta know that!”
Joseph saw Perth’s antipathy and understood it. The inspector was out of his depth in surroundings he could never aspire to or be comfortable in. He was being patronized by a number of men considerably younger than he, and they were probably not even aware of what they were doing. The law was both his master and his weapon, perhaps his only one.
“I do know that, Inspector Perth,” Joseph said. “And we need you to find the truth. The uncertainty is destroying us.”
“Yes,” Perth agreed. “It does that to people. But Oi will!” At last he stepped aside, nodding graciously for Joseph to proceed.
Joseph walked on rapidly with the certain knowledge that he had come off second best and that Perth understood him far better than he wished. Once again he had misjudged somebody.
He was invited to dine at the master’s lodgings the following day, and accepted because he understood Connie Thyer’s desperation to escape the sole responsibility for looking after Gerald and Mary Allard under the weight of their grief. She could hardly offer them anything that could be construed as entertainment, and yet they were her guests. But their unalloyed presence at her table must be almost more than she could bear. Joseph at least was an old family friend, also mourning a close and almost equally recent loss. Also, his religious calling made him extremely suitable. He could hardly refuse.
He arrived a little before eight to find Connie in the drawing room with Mary Allard. As always, Mary was head to toe in black. He thought it was the same dress he had seen her in last time they met, but one black gown looked much like another to him. She certainly appeared even thinner, and there was no doubting the anger in her face. It did not soften in the slightest when she saw Joseph.
“Good evening, Reverend Reavley,” she said with polite chill. “I hope you are well?”
“Yes, thank you,” he replied. “And you?” It was an absurd exchange. She was obviously suffering intensely. She looked anything but well. One inquired because it was the thing to say.
“I am not sure why you ask,” she answered, catching him off guard. “Do I tell you how I feel? Not only has some murderer robbed me of my son, but now vicious tongues are fouling his memory. Or would you feel less guilty if I merely tell you that I am perfectly well, thank you? I have no disease, only wounds!”
Neither of them noticed that Gerald Allard had come into the room, but Joseph heard his swift intake of breath. He waited for Gerald to make some attempt to retrieve his wife’s naked rudeness.
The silence prickled as if on the brink of thunder.
Connie looked from one to the other of them.
Gerald cleared his throat.
Mary swung around to him. “You were going to say something?” she accused. “Perhaps to defend your son, since he is lying in his grave and cannot defend himself?”
Gerald flushed a dark red. “I don’t think it is fair to accuse Reavley, my dear—” he started.
“Oh, isn’t it?” she demanded, her eyes wide. “He is the one who is assisting that dreadful policeman to suggest that Sebastian was blackmailing people, and that is why someone murdered him!” She swiveled back to Joseph, her eyes blazing. “Can you deny it, Reverend?” She loaded the last word with biting sarcasm. “Why? Were you jealous of Sebastian? Afraid he was going to outshine you in your own field? He had more poetry in his soul than you will ever have, and you must realize that. Is that why you are doing this? God! How he’d have despised you for it! He thought you were his friend!”
“Mary!” Gerald said desperately.
She ignored him. “I’ve listened to him talk about you as if you were flawless!” she said, her voice shaking with contempt, tears glistening in her eyes. “He thought you were wonderful, an unparalleled friend! Poor Sebastian—” She stopped only because her voice was too thick with emotion to continue.
Connie was watching, white-faced, but she did not interrupt.
“Really—” Gerald tried again.
Joseph cut across him. “Sebastian knew I was his friend,” he said very clearly. “But I was not as good a friend to him as I would have been had I tried more honestly to see his faults as well as his virtues. I would have served him better had I tried to curb his hubris instead of being blind to it.”
“Hubris?” she said icily.
“His pride in his own charm, his feeling of invulnerability,” he started to explain.
“I know what the word means, Mr. Reavley!” she snapped. “I was questioning your use of it with reference to my son! I find it intolerable that—”
“You find any criticism of him intolerable.” Gerald managed to make himself heard at last. “But somebody killed him!”
“Envy!” she said with absolute conviction. “Some small person who could not endure being eclipsed.” She looked at Joseph as she finished.
“Mrs. Allard,” Connie said, “we all sympathize with your grief, but that does not excuse you for being both cruel and unjust to another guest in my house, a man who has also lost his closest family almost as recently as you have. I think perhaps in your own loss you had temporarily forgotten that.” It was said calmly, even gravely, but it was a bitter rebuke.
Aidan Thyer, who had entered the room during the exchange, looked startled, but he did not intervene, and his expression as he glanced at Connie was unreadable, as if stemming from emotions profound and conflicting. In that instant Joseph wondered if he knew that Beecher was in love with his wife, and if it hurt him or made him fear he could lose what he must surely value intensely. Or did he? What was there, really, behind the habitual courtesy? Joseph glimpsed with pain the possibility of a world of loneliness and pretense.
But the present hauled him back. Mary Allard was furious, but she was too clearly in the wrong to defend herself. She adopted Connie’s offer of escape.
“I’m sorry,” she said stiffly. “I had forgotten. I daresay your own loss has . . .�
�� She had obviously been going to say something like “cramped your judgment,” but realized it made things no better. She left the sentence hanging in the air.
Normally Joseph would have accepted any apology, but not this time. “Made me think more deeply about reality,” he finished for her. “And see that no matter how much we love someone or regret lost opportunities to have given them more than we did, lies do not help, even when we would find them more comfortable.”
The color drained out of Mary’s face, and she looked at him with loathing. Even if she understood anything he said, she was not going to concede it now. “I have no idea what things you may regret,” she said coldly. “I do not know you well enough. I have heard no one speak ill of your parents, but if they have, then you should do all within your power to silence them. If you have not loyalty, above all to your own family, then you have nothing! I promise you I will do anything in my power to protect the name and reputation of my dead son from the envy and spite of anyone cowardly enough to attack him in death when they would not have dared to in life.”
“There are many loyalties, Mrs. Allard,” he answered, his voice grating with the intensity of his feelings: the misery and loneliness of too many losses of his own, the anger at God for hurting him so profoundly and at the dead for leaving him with such a weight to bear, the crush of responsibilities he was not ready for, and above all the fear of disillusion, of the disintegration of the love and beliefs dearest to him. “It is a matter of choosing which to place first. Loving someone does not make them right, and your family is no more important than mine or anyone else’s. Your first loyalty ought to be to honor, kindness, and some degree of truth.”
The hatred in her face was answer enough without words. She turned to Connie, her skin white, her eyes burning. “I am sure you will understand if I do not choose to remain for dinner. Perhaps you will be good enough to have a tray sent to my room.” And with that she swept out through the door in a rustle of black silk taffeta and the faintest perfume of roses.
