No Graves As Yet

by Anne Perry

  “You’re right,” Matthew agreed quietly, swinging round the curve of the road into St. Giles and seeing the street ahead of them deserted. “There’s nothing either of us can do now. Poor devils. All so bloody pointless. I suppose you’ve still got no idea what happened to the document?”

  “No,” Joseph said bleakly. “I’d have told you.”

  “Yes, of course. And I still don’t know who’s behind it . . . unless it is Aidan Thyer, as you suggest. Damn! I liked him.”

  “So did I. I’m beginning to realize how little that means,” Joseph said ruefully.

  Matthew shot him a glance as he turned right off the main street toward the house. “What are you going to do now? Archie’ll stay at sea as usual. He won’t have a choice. And I’ll keep on with the SIS, naturally. But what about you?” His brow was furrowed slightly, concern in his eyes.

  “I don’t know,” Joseph admitted.

  Matthew pulled the car up in front of the house, its tires crunching on the gravel. A moment later Judith opened the front door, relief flooding her face. She took the steps in two strides and hugged Joseph and then Matthew before turning to go back inside.

  Walking out over the soft grass in the garden under the apple trees, they told her about Elwyn and Sebastian. She was stunned; rage, pity, confusion washed over her like storm waves, leaving her dizzy.

  It was a late and somber lunch, eaten in an agreed silence, each willing to be alone with his or her thoughts. It was one of those strange, interminable occasions when time stands still. The sound of cutlery on the china of a plate was deafening.

  Today, tomorrow, one day soon, Joseph would have to make his decision. He was thirty-five. He did not have to fight. He could claim all kinds of exemptions and no one would object. Life had to continue at home: there were sermons to be preached, people to be christened or married or buried, the sick and the troubled to be visited.

  There were raspberries for dessert. He ate his slowly, savoring the sweetness of them, as if he would not have them again. He felt as if Matthew and Judith expected him to say something, but he had no idea what, and he was saved by Matthew interrupting his indecision.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said slowly. “I don’t know what armaments we have, not in detail. I do know it’s not enough. We may be asked to give up anything we have that works. I don’t know if anyone will want them, but they might.”

  “It’s not going to be that bad! Is it?” Judith looked very pale, her eyes frightened. “I mean . . .”

  “No, of course it isn’t!” Joseph rushed in. He glared warningly at Matthew.

  “They may ask us for guns,” Matthew said stiffly. “I shan’t be home, and I don’t know whether you will or not.” He looked at Joseph, pushing his chair back as he spoke, and standing up. “There are at least two shotguns, one new one and an old one that may not be up to much. And there’s the punt gun.”

  “You could stop an elephant with that!” Judith said wryly. “But only if it was coming at you across the fens and you just happened to be out punting at the time.”

  Matthew pushed the chair back in at the table. “I’ll get it out anyway. It’ll probably be of use to someone.”

  Joseph went with him, not out of any interest in guns—he loathed them—but for something to do. “You don’t need to frighten her like that!” he criticized. “For God’s sake, use some sense!”

  “She’s better off knowing,” was all Matthew replied.

  The guns were kept in a locked cupboard in the study. Matthew took the key from his ring and opened it. Inside were the three guns he had mentioned, and a very old target pistol. He looked at them one by one, breaking the shotguns and examining them.

  “Have you decided yet what you’re going to do?” he asked, squinting down one of the barrels.

  Joseph did not answer. The thoughts in his head had been forming into immovable shapes for far longer than he had realized. They had already cut off every line of retreat from the inevitable. Now he was forced to acknowledge it.

  Matthew looked down the other barrel, then straightened the gun again. He picked up the second gun and broke it. “You haven’t much time, Joe,” he said gently. “It won’t be more than another day or two.”

  Joseph hoped he might be guessing. It was a last grasp at innocence, and it failed. He understood Sebastian’s fear. Perhaps that was what he had seen in him that had found the deepest echo within himself, the helpless pity for suffering he could not reach, even to ease. It overwhelmed him. The anger of war horrified him, the ability to hate, to make one’s life’s aim the death of another . . . for any cause at all. If he became part of it, it would drown him.

  Matthew picked up the big punt gun. It was an awkward thing, long-barreled and muzzle-loaded. It did not break in the middle like a shotgun, but it was lethal over the short distances at which it could be aimed and used.

  “Damn!” he said irritably, peering up the barrel. “I can’t see a thing! Whoever designed these bloody guns should be made to look after them. I don’t know whether it’s working or not. Do you remember the last time anybody used it?”

  Joseph was not listening. His mind was back in the hospital where he had started his medical training—the injuries, the pain, the deaths he could not prevent.

  “Joe!” Matthew said savagely. “Damn it! Pay attention! Pass that rod and let me see if this is clean or not!”

  Joseph passed over the rod obediently, and Matthew rammed it up the barrel of the punt gun.

  “There’s something up here,” he said impatiently. “It’s . . .” Very slowly he lowered his hands, still holding the gun. “It’s paper,” he said huskily. “It’s a roll of paper.”

  Joseph felt the sweat break out on his skin and go cold. “Hold the gun!” he ordered him, taking the rod from Matthew and beginning to tease very gently. He found his hands were shaking, as was the barrel of the punt gun in Matthew’s grip.

  It took him nearly ten minutes to prise the paper out without tearing it, and then unroll it and hold it open. It was in German. They read it together.

  It was an agreement between the kaiser and King George V, the terms of which were shatteringly simple. Britain would stand aside and allow Germany to invade and conquer Belgium, France, and of course Luxembourg, saving the hundreds of thousands of lives that would be lost in trying to defend them.

  In return, a new Anglo-German empire would be formed with unassailable power on land and sea. The riches of the world would be divided between them: Africa, India, the Far East, and best of all, America.

  The surgery of war would be swift and almost painless, the reward beyond measure. The document was signed by the kaiser, and obviously had been on its way to the king for countersignature.

  “God almighty!” Matthew said hoarsely. “It’s . . . it’s monstrous! It’s . . .”

  “It’s what Father died to prevent,” Joseph said, tears choking his voice. It was the one thing he had believed that had stood fast and whole through all the loss. His father had been right. Nothing had misled or deceived him; he had been right. It spread a peace through Joseph, a kind of certainty at the core. “And perhaps he succeeded,” he went on aloud. “There will be war. God knows how many will die, but England gave her word to Belgium, and she will not betray it. That would be worse than death.”

  Matthew rubbed his hands over his face. “Who’s behind it?” He was weary, but in him, too, there was something stronger within, a doubt, a vulnerability gone.

  “I don’t know,” Joseph said. “Someone in Germany close to the kaiser, very clever, with a great deal of vision and power. And more importantly to us, someone here in England, too, who was going to get it to the king—and damn nearly did.”

  “I know.” Matthew shook his head. “It could be anyone. Chetwin . . . Shearing himself, I suppose. Even Sandwell! I don’t know, either.”

  “Or anyone else we haven’t even thought of,” Joseph added.

  Matthew stared at him. “But whoever it i
s, he’s brilliant and ruthless, and he’s still out there.”

  “But he’s failed. . . .”

  “He won’t accept failure.” Matthew bit his lip, his voice tight, his face almost bloodless. “A man who could dream up this won’t stop here. He’ll have contingency plans, other ideas. And he’s far from alone. He has allies, other naive dreamers, wounded idealists, the disaffected, the ambitious. We never know who they are until it’s too late. But by God, I’ll put every spare minute I’ve got into hunting him down. I’ll follow every trail, wherever it goes, whoever it touches, until I’ve got him. If we don’t, he’ll destory everything we care about.”

  Something in the words crystalized the knowledge in Joseph’s mind, and it became undeniable, sealed forever. Whatever he felt, regardless of mind or heart, horror or his own weakness to achieve anything of use, he must join the war. If honor, faith, any values, human or divine, were to be kept, then there was no escape. He would do everything he could. He would learn to preserve his emotions apart, not to feel the rage or the pity; then he could survive.

  “I’ll join the army,” he said aloud. “As a chaplain.” It was an absolute statement, no question, no alteration possible. “I won’t fight, but I’ll be there. I’ll help.”

  Matthew smiled, his face softening to an extraordinary gentleness. In his eyes was something that Joseph recognized with amazement as pride.

  “Thought you would,” Matthew said quietly.

  Somewhere far away in the house the telephone rang.

  The light outside was softening, turning hazy.

  “What are we going to do with this?” Matthew asked, looking at the document.

  “Put it back in the gun,” Joseph answered without hesitation. “We may want it one day. No one would believe its existence without seeing it. They didn’t find it here before, and they looked. That’s as safe as anywhere. Disable the gun where they’ll see it, and then no one will think to use it.”

  Matthew regarded the old gun ruefully. “I hate to do that,” he said, but even as he spoke, he removed the firing pin.

  Joseph rolled up the document again and pushed it down the barrel, using the rod to jam it in as far as possible.

  They had just finished when Judith came to the door, her face pale.

  “Who was it?” Joseph asked.

  “It was for Matthew,” she said a little jerkily. “It was Mr. Shearing. Sir Edward Grey said in Parliament that if Germany invades Belgium, then Great Britain will honor the treaty to safeguard Belgian neutrality and we will be at war. He wants you back as soon as we know.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “It will happen, won’t it?”

  “Yes,” Joseph answered. “It will.” He glanced at Matthew.

  Matthew nodded.

  “We found the document Father died for,” he said to Judith. “You’d better come to the sitting room and we’ll tell you about it.”

  She stood motionless. “What is it?” she demanded. “Where was it? Why didn’t we find it before?”

  “In the punt gun,” Joseph told her. “It was every bit as terrible as he said . . . more.”

  “I want to see it!” she said without moving.

  Matthew drew in his breath.

  “I want to!” she repeated.

  It was Joseph who went to the gun and very carefully started to lever the paper out again. Matthew held the gun to help him. Finally he had it. He unrolled it and opened it for Judith.

  She took it in her hands and read it slowly.

  Instead of fear in her face there was a kind of fierce, hurting pride. The tears stood out in her eyes, and she ignored them as they slid down her cheeks. She looked up at them. “So he was right!”

  “Oh, yes!” Joseph found his own voice choked. “Typical of Father—he understated it. It would have changed the whole world and made England the most dishonorable nation in the annals of history. It might have saved lives, or not—but only in the short term. In the end the cost would be beyond counting or measuring. There are things we have to fight for. . . .”

  She nodded and turned away, walking back to the sitting room. The sun was sinking already, casting long shadows.

  Joseph and Matthew carefully replaced the treaty yet again, then went after her.

  They sat quietly together, remembering, while the light lasted, all the moments they had shared, past laughter, the happier times woven into the fabric of memory to shine in the darkness ahead.

  Later Shearing telephoned again. Matthew answered it and listened.

  “Yes,” he said at length. “Yes, sir. Of course. I’ll be there first thing in the morning.” He hung up and turned to Joseph and Judith. “Germany has declared war on France—and is massed to invade Belgium. When it happens, we will send Germany an ultimatum, which, of course, they will refuse. By midnight tomorrow we shall be at war. Grey said, ‘The lamps are going out all over Europe. We shall not see them lit again in our lifetime.’ “

  “Perhaps not.” Joseph took a deep breath. “We shall have to carry our own light . . . the best we can.”

  Judith buried her head in his shoulder, and Matthew reached out around her to take Joseph’s hand and grip it.

  By Anne Perry

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group

  Featuring William Monk

  The Face of a Stranger

  A Dangerous Mourning

  Defend and Betray

  A Sudden, Fearful Death

  The Sins of the Wolf

  Cain His Brother

  Weighed in the Balance

  The Silent Cry

  A Breach of Promise

  The Twisted Root

  Slaves of Obsession

  Funeral in Blue

  Death of a Stranger

  Featuring Thomas and Charlotte Pitt

  The Cater Street Hangman

  Callander Square

  Paragon Walk

  Resurrection Row

  Bluegate Fields

  Rutland Place

  Death in the Devil’s Acre

  Cardington Crescent

  Silence in Hanover Close

  Bethlehem Road

  Highgate Rise

  Belgrave Square

  Farriers’ Lane

  The Hyde Park Headsman

  Traitors Gate

  Pentecost Alley

  Ashworth Hall

  Brunswick Gardens

  Bedford Square

  Half Moon Street

  The Whitechapel Conspiracy

  Southampton Row

  Seven Dials

  A Ballantine Book

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group

  Copyright © 2003 by Anne Perry

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Perry, Anne.

  No graves as yet : a novel of World War I / Anne Perry.

  p. cm.

  1. Great Britain—History—George V, 1910–1936—Fiction. 2. World War, 1914–1918—England—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6066.E693N6 2003

  823′.914—dc21

  2003052233

  eISBN: 978-0-345-46978-6

  v3.0

 

 

 
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