No Graves As Yet

by Anne Perry

“Can I help?” Joseph offered.

  “No, thank you, sir. Oi’ll do it myself,” Perth insisted. He took his jacket off, reluctantly handing it to Joseph, then rolled up his shirtsleeve and poked his arm up the drainpipe.

  There were several moments of frustrated silence while he wriggled without effort.

  Connie walked over to the delphiniums and plucked out one of the canes that held them up. She returned with it and offered it to Perth.

  “Thank you, madam,” he said, tight-lipped, and extended a dirty hand to take it from her. Three minutes later he retrieved a piece of canvas awning like that used on the punts at night. It was almost a foot square, and there were smudges of oil near the middle. Perth held it to his nose and sniffed.

  “Gun oil?” Joseph asked huskily.

  “Yes, sir, I reckon so. Suppose Oi’d better go an’ have a few words with Mr. Elwyn Allard.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Joseph said without hesitation. He turned to Connie. “I think you’d better stay here.”

  She did not argue. She let Joseph and Perth out of the side gate into the quad, then went back into the house.

  Joseph followed Perth across toward Elwyn’s rooms. He knew it would be desperately painful, the more so because he could understand the passion of hatred, the compulsion that had drawn Elwyn to defend his mother from grief. And perhaps also the hunger within him to do something sufficiently powerful to make her grateful to him, even if she did not know why. Then she might emerge from her obsession with Sebastian long enough to acknowledge that she still had one live son who was equally worthy of her love.

  They found Elwyn in Morel’s rooms. They were studying together, discussing alternative translations of a political speech. It was Morel who answered the door, startled to see Perth again.

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir,” Perth said grimly. “Oi understand Mr. Allard is here.”

  Morel turned just as Elwyn came up behind him.

  “What is it?” Elwyn asked, glancing from Perth to Joseph and back again. If he was afraid, there was no sign of it in his face.

  Joseph spoke before Perth could answer. “I think it would be a good idea if you were to come to the police station in town, Elwyn. There are a few questions you may be able to answer, and it would be better there.”

  Perth glanced at him, a flicker of annoyance across his face, but he conceded.

  “If you want,” Elwyn agreed, the tension greater in him now, too.

  Morel looked at him, then at Joseph. Finally he turned to Elwyn. “Do you want me to come?”

  “No, thank you, sir,” Perth cut him off. “This is a family matter.” He stepped back to block the stairway door. “This way, sir,” he directed Elwyn.

  “What is it?” Elwyn asked halfway down the steps.

  Perth did not answer until they had reached the bottom and were outside in the quad.

  “Oi’m taking you in for questioning, sir, regardin’ the death o’ Dr. Beecher. Oi thought it easier for you if Mr. Morel didn’t have to know that at this point. If you give me your word to come without making a fuss, there’ll be no need for ’andcuffs or anything like that.”

  Elwyn went white. “H-Handcuffs!” he stammered. He turned to Joseph.

  “If you wish me to come with you, then of course I will,” Joseph offered. “Or if you prefer me to contact your parents, or a lawyer, then I’ll do that first.”

  “I . . .” Elwyn looked lost, stunned, as if he had never considered the possibility of this happening. He shook his head, bewildered.

  “Mr. Allard’s an adult, Reverend,” Perth said coldly. “If he wants a lawyer, then o’ course he can have one, but he don’t need his parents, nor you. An’ strictly speaking, sir, this in’t your concern. We’re grateful for your help an’ all you’ve done, but Mr. Allard ain’t going to give no trouble, so you could stay here at St. John’s. Mebbe you’d be more use if you told the master what’s happened, an’ sent for Mr. an’ Mrs. Allard.”

  “Mrs. Thyer will already have done that,” Joseph pointed out, and saw the flash of annoyance on Perth’s face as he realized. “I’ll come with Elwyn, unless he would rather I didn’t.”

  Elwyn hesitated, and it was that instant of indecision which made Joseph certain that he was guilty. He was frightened and confused, but he was not outraged.

  Perth gave in, and they walked together into the shadow of the front gate, and out into the street on the far side.

  At the police station it was a formal matter of charging Elwyn with the murder of Harry Beecher, to which he pleaded not guilty. On Joseph’s advice, he refused to say anything further until he had a lawyer with him.

  Gerald and Mary Allard arrived at St. John’s an hour after Joseph returned. Mary was beside herself, her face contorted with fury. The moment Joseph walked into the sitting room at the master’s lodgings, she swung around from Aidan Thyer, to whom she had been speaking, and glared at Joseph. Her thin body looked positively gaunt in its tight black silk, like a winter crow.

  “This is monstrous!” she said, her voice strident. “Elwyn couldn’t possibly have killed that wretched man! For heaven’s sake, Beecher murdered Sebastian! When he knew you were closing in on him, he took his own life. Everybody knows that. Let Elwyn go immediately—with an apology for this idiotic mistake. Now!”

  Joseph stood still. What could he tell her? One of her sons was dead and the other guilty of murder, even if he had done it in mistaken revenge.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to her—and he meant it profoundly, with a pain that throbbed inside him. “But they have proof.”

  “Nonsense!” she spat. “It is totally absurd. Gerald!”

  Gerald came to stand almost level with her. He looked wretched; his skin was pale and blotchy and his eyes blurred. “Really, for God’s sake, what is going on?” he demanded. “Beecher killed my son and now you have arrested my other son when quite obviously Beecher took his own life.” He put out a hand tentatively as if to touch Mary, but she pulled away from him.

  “No,” Joseph said as gently as he could. He could not like Gerald, but he was fiercely sorry for him. “Beecher did not kill Sebastian. He was seen elsewhere at the time.”

  “You are lying!” Mary accused him furiously. Her face was ashen, with scarlet splashes on her cheeks. “Beecher was your friend, and you are lying to protect him. Who on earth would see Beecher anywhere at five o’clock in the morning? Unless he was in bed with somebody? And if he was, then she is a whore, and her word is worth nothing!”

  “Mary . . . ,” Gerald began, then faltered under her withering glance.

  “He was out walking,” Joseph replied. “And the gun that killed Sebastian was hidden where only a limited number of people could have placed it or retrieved it.”

  “Beecher!” Mary said with scalding triumph. “Naturally! It is the only answer that makes sense.”

  “No,” Joseph told her. “He might have been able to hide it there, but he could not have retrieved it. Elwyn could have.”

  “It’s still ridiculous,” she asserted, her whole body so tense she was shuddering. “If he had known where it was, he would have told the police! It might have led to the arrest of whoever killed Sebastian. Or are you insane enough to believe he did that, too?”

  “No. I know he didn’t. I don’t know who did,” he admitted. “And I believe that Elwyn sincerely thought it was Beecher and that the law could not touch him.”

  “Then he was justified!” she said savagely. “He killed a murderer!”

  “He killed someone he thought was a murderer,” Joseph corrected. “And he was mistaken.”

  “You’re wrong,” she insisted, but she turned away from him. Her voice rose, shrill with desperation, as if the world no longer made sense. “Beecher must have done it! Elwyn is morally innocent of any crime, and I shall see to it that he doesn’t suffer.”

  Joseph looked past her at Aidan Thyer, and again the darkness filled his mind that it could have been he who was behind the docu
ment, and perhaps Sebastian’s death. He looked pale and tired today, the lines in his face deeper. Did he know about Connie and Beecher? Had he always known? Joseph stared at him, searching, but there was nothing in Thyer’s eyes to betray him.

  “Dr. Reavley?” Gerald said tentatively. “Would you . . . would you do what you can for Elwyn? I mean, I wish he would . . . you are a person of standing here . . . the police will . . .” He floundered helplessly.

  “Yes, of course I will,” Joseph agreed. “Do you have legal representation in Cambridge?”

  “Oh, yes . . . I meant as a . . . I don’t know . . . as a friend . . .”

  “Yes. If you wish, I’ll go right away.”

  “Yes . . . please do. I’ll stay here with my wife.”

  “I’m going to Elwyn!” Mary shouted at him.

  “No, you are not,” Gerald answered, unusually firmly for him. “You are staying here.”

  “I . . .” she began.

  “You are staying here,” he repeated, catching hold of her arm as she lunged forward, and bringing her to a stop. “You have done enough harm already.”

  She swiveled around and gaped at him in stupefaction, fury and pain struggling in her face. But she did not argue.

  Joseph bade goodbye to them and went out again.

  Perth placed no barrier to Joseph seeing Elwyn alone in the police cell. It was late afternoon, and the shadows were lengthening. The room smelled stale, of old fears and miseries.

  Elwyn sat on one of the two wooden chairs and Joseph on the other, a bare, scarred table between them.

  “Is Mother all right?” Elwyn asked as soon as the door was closed and they were alone. He was very pale, and the shadows around his eyes looked like bruises.

  “She is very angry,” Joseph replied truthfully. “She found it hard to accept that you could be guilty of Beecher’s death, but when she could no longer avoid it, she believed that you had just cause and were morally innocent.”

  The rigidity eased out of Elwyn’s shoulders. His skin looked oddly dead, as if it would be cold to touch.

  “Your father will engage a lawyer for you,” Joseph went on. “But is there anything I can do, as a friend?”

  Elwyn looked down at his hands on the table. “Look after Mother as much as you can,” he answered. “She cares so much. You wouldn’t understand if you hadn’t seen Aunt Aline. She is Mother’s older sister. She always does everything right, and first. And she boasts about it all the time. Her sons win everything, and she makes us feel as if we’ll never be as clever or as important. I think she’s always been like that. She made it . . .” He stopped suddenly, realizing it was all pointless now. He drew in his breath. And went on more quietly. “You cared about Sebastian; you saw the best in him. Go on caring, and don’t let them say he was a coward.” He looked up quickly, searching Joseph’s face.

  “I’ve never heard anyone say he was a coward,” Joseph replied. “No one has even suggested it. He was arrogant and at times manipulative. He enjoyed the power his charm gave him. But I think, in time, even that will be forgotten, and people will choose to remember only what was good.”

  Elwyn nodded briefly and brushed his hand across his face. He looked desperately weary.

  Joseph ached with pity for him. Too much had been asked of him, far too much. His brother had been idolized, and Mary, in her grief, had expected Elwyn to ignore his own pain and carry hers for her, defend her from the truth and bear the weight of her emotions. And as far as Joseph knew, she had given him nothing back, not even her gratitude or her approval. Only now, when it was far too late, did she consider him and prepare to defend him. In a way it was her passion that had driven Elwyn to seek such a terrible revenge—as it turned out, a mistaken one.

  The truth was still to be found. Someone else had put the gun in the drainpipe after killing Sebastian, someone with access to the master’s lodgings. Connie, in order to protect her reputation and thus all her marriage gave her? Or Aidan Thyer, because it was he whom Sebastian had seen on the Hauxton Road when the Lanchester crashed? Perhaps this was the last chance for Joseph to ask, and the moment when Elwyn had nothing left to lose and would tell him if he knew.

  “Elwyn . . . ?”

  Elwyn moved slightly in acknowledgment, but he did not look up.

  “Elwyn, how did you find the gun?”

  “What? Oh . . . I saw it.”

  “Out of the upstairs window?”

  “Yes. Why? What does it matter now?”

  “It matters to me. Dr. Beecher didn’t put it there, did he? Was it Mr. Thyer—or Mrs. Thyer? Did you see?”

  Joseph waited. It seemed almost a battle of wills.

  “Yes, I did,” Elwyn said at last. “It was Dr. Beecher.”

  “Then he did it for someone else,” Joseph told him, knowing the blow he was dealing him, but it was a truth he could not hide forever. “Dr. Beecher did not kill Sebastian. He couldn’t have. He was somewhere else, and he has a witness to prove it.”

  Elwyn’s body was rigid, his eyes hollow, almost black in the fading light of the room. “Somewhere else?” he whispered in horror—but it was not disbelief. Joseph saw it in him the moment before he tried to mask it, and for an instant they saw in each other that terrible understanding that can never be taken back.

  Then Joseph looked away, the knowledge burned into him. Elwyn had known Beecher had not killed Sebastian! Then why had he shot Beecher? To protect whom? Not Connie. Aidan Thyer? Had Sebastian seen Thyer on the Hauxton Road and told Elwyn before he was killed? Was that why Elwyn would not speak, even now? Was it even conceivable that he had killed Beecher on Thyer’s orders, rather than be killed himself? The thoughts whirled in Joseph’s mind like leaves in a storm—chaotic, battering. Was this all part of the plot John Reavley had discovered in Reisenburg’s document? And was it going to cost Elwyn Allard his life as well?

  He closed his eyes. “I’ll help you if I can, Elwyn,” he said softly. “But so help me God, I don’t know how!”

  “You can’t,” Elwyn whispered, covering his face with his hands. “It’s too late.”

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  Joseph woke up late on Sunday morning, his mind still consumed with Elwyn’s last words to him and with the picture of the young man’s utter despair. And yet Elwyn was determined to hide some secret of Sebastian’s death, even at this cost. Joseph had turned it over and over in his wakeful hours, grasping and losing, finding nothing that made sense.

  It was the second of August, and he still did not know who had killed his parents, what the document was, or what had happened to it. He had tried, and every answer had evaporated the moment he framed it. But John and Alys Reavley were dead, and so were Sebastian Allard, the German Reisenburg, and now Harry Beecher. And poor Elwyn might well be, when the fullness of the law had run its course. Joseph knew of no way to help any of it.

  Tomorrow was a bank holiday; he should go back to St. Giles and spend it with Judith. He had been too overwhelmed in the last few days even to write to her, or to Hannah.

  He got up slowly, shaved, and dressed, but he did not go down to the dining hall for breakfast. He was not hungry, and certainly he did not want to face Moulton or any other of his colleagues. He was not going to explain about Elwyn or discuss the matter. It was a consuming tragedy, but it was a private one. The Allards had more than enough to bear without the added scourge of other people’s speculation.

  He spent the morning tidying up various books and papers, then writing a long letter to Hannah, which he knew said little of any meaning—it was simply a way of keeping in touch. He went to the eleven o’clock service in the chapel, and found it washed over him without giving him any of the deep comfort he needed. But he had not honestly expected that it would. Perhaps he knew the words so well that he no longer heard them. Even the perfection of the music seemed irrelevant to the world of everyday life, the disillusion and all the loss he knew of around him.

  He saw Connie Thyer briefly in th
e afternoon, but she had only a few minutes to talk. Again she was overtaken by the growing hysteria of Mary Allard and the futility of attempting to help, and yet she was obliged by circumstances and her own sense of pity to try.

  Joseph walked out of the front gate and ambled aimlessly along the nearly deserted streets of the town. All the shops were closed in Sabbath decency. The few people he saw were soberly dressed and merely nodded to him respectfully as they passed.

  Without intending to, he found himself on Jesus Lane, and instinctively turned right down Emmanuel Road. He strolled past Christ’s Pieces and eventually across St. Andrews Street, along to Downing Street toward Corpus Christi and the river again.

  He was not really thinking so much as letting things run through his mind. It was still teeming with questions, and he had no idea where to find a thread to begin untangling even one answer. Perhaps it began with who had killed Sebastian, and why.

  The longest day of summer was well past, and by half past six he was tired and thirsty, and the sun was lowering in the west. Maybe he had come to the pub near the millpond intentionally, even if it had not been consciously in his mind. He would be able to sit down here and have supper and a long, cool drink. In time he could make the opportunity to talk with Flora Whickham again. If Sebastian had known anything about the crash of the Lanchester, then she would be the one person he might have told, other than Elwyn, and there was no chance that Joseph could draw it out of him. He was locked inside his own misery and grief, and perhaps fear as well. If he held that lethal knowledge, it could be the catalyst for his own death if he spoke it aloud to anyone. And why should he trust Joseph? So far he had succeeded in nothing except proving that Beecher did not kill Sebastian or take his own life.

  The pub was quiet—a few older men sitting over pints of ale, faces grim, voices subdued. The landlord moved among them quietly, filling tankards, wiping tables. Even for Flora there were no jokes.

  Joseph had cold game pie with fresh tomatoes, pickles, and vegetables, then raspberries and clotted cream. The other tables were empty and the air was already hazed with gold when at last he was able to gain Flora’s attention undivided. It was deserted now, and the landlord granted her an early evening.