No Graves As Yet (15 page)

Matthew felt the accusation of weakness scald with a pain almost physical. John Reavley was not weak! Matthew drew in his breath in a gasp, longing to retort with something that would crush the notion out of existence, but he could not find even an idea, let alone words.

“There are no grand conspiracies, only nasty little plots now and then,” Isenham continued, as if unaware of the emotions raging inside Matthew. “He wasn’t in government anymore, and I think he missed it. But look around you.” He waved his free hand. “What could be going on here?”

The truth sank in on Matthew with a slowly crushing weight: Isenham was probably right, and the harder he struggled against the realization, the tighter it coiled around him.

“You should remember the best in him, Matthew,” Isenham said. “That was what he was really like.”

Then Isenham deliberately changed the subject, and Matthew allowed the conversation to move to other matters: the weather, people in the village, an upcoming cricket match, the daily minutiae of a safe and gentle life in the peace of a perfect summer.

He walked home again when the rain had stopped. The elms were still dripping, and the road steamed in glittering drifts like silken gauze, too faint to catch, and yet weaving brightness around him. The perfume of the earth was almost overpowering. Wet leaves and flowers shone as the sunlight caught them.

Birdsong was sudden and liquid, a beauty of sound, and then gone again.

As he passed the church he saw a man move very quickly into the shadow of the lych-gate, the thick honeysuckle completely hiding him. When Matthew drew level and looked sideways, he was gone. He was certain from his height and the oddly sloping angle of his shoulders that it was the same man he had seen earlier on his way to Isenham’s house. Was he going somewhere and had taken shelter from the rain? Without having any reason he could name, Matthew went under the lych-gate and into the churchyard.

There was no one there. He walked a few paces between the gravestones and looked toward the only place where anyone could be concealed. The man had not gone into the church; the door had been in Matthew’s sight all the time.

He walked two or three yards farther on, then to the right, and saw the outline of the man half concealed by the trunks of the yew trees. He was standing motionless. There was nothing ahead of him but the churchyard wall, and he was looking not down, as if at headstones, but out across the empty fields.

Matthew bent his head as if reading the gravestone in front of him. He remained motionless for several moments. The man behind the yew tree did not move, either.

Finally Matthew walked over to his parents’ grave. There were fresh flowers. Judith must have put them there. There was no stone yet. It looked very raw, very new. This morning two weeks ago they had still been alive.

The world looked just the same, but it wasn’t. Everything was altered, as a golden day when suddenly the clouds mass across the sun. All the outlines are the same, but the colors are different, duller, something of the life gone from them.

The caltrop marks on the road had been real, the rope on the sapling, the shredded tires, the searching of the house, and now this man who seemed to be following him.

Or was this exactly what his father had done, added together little pieces that had no connection with each other, and made of them a whole that reflected no reality? Maybe the marks were not caltrops but something else, put there not at the time of the crash but some other time that day. Perhaps an agricultural implement of some sort had stopped and left scars from the blades of a harrow?

Had there really been anyone in the house, or was it just things rearranged wrongly in the shock of tragedy, a reversal of habit, along with everything else?

And what was to prove the man behind the yews had anything to do with Matthew? He might not want to be seen for a dozen reasons: something as simple as an illicit Sunday afternoon assignation, or a grave to visit privately, to conceal his emotion. Was this how delusion started? A shock, too much time to think, a need to feel as if you understood, so you find yourself weaving everything together, regardless of wherever it fits?

For a moment he considered speaking to the man, a comment on the rain, perhaps, then decided not to intrude on his contemplation. Instead he straightened up and walked back through the lych-gate and out into the lane without looking toward the yews again.

CHAPTER
SIX

Afew miles away in Cambridge the Sunday was also quiet and miserable. Thunder threatened all morning, and by the afternoon it rolled in from the west with heavy rain. Joseph spent most of the day alone. Like everyone else, he went to chapel at eleven, and for an hour he drowned all thought in the glory of the music. He ate luncheon in the dining hall; in spite of its magnificence, it was claustrophobic because of the heat and the oppressive weather outside. With an effort he joined in casual conversation with Harry Beecher regarding the latest finds in Egyptology, about which Beecher was wildly enthusiastic. Afterward he went back to his rooms to read. The
Illustrated London News
lay on the table in his study, and he glanced at the theater and arts sections, avoiding the current events, which were dominated by pictures of the funeral of the great statesman Joseph Chamberlain. He had no desire whatever to look at pictures of mourners, whoever they were.

He considered scriptures, then instead lost himself in the familiar glory of Dante’s
Inferno
. Its imagery was so sharp it carried him out of the present, and its wisdom was timeless enough, at least for the moment, to lift him above personal grief and confusion.

It was infinitely just—the punishments for sin were not visited from outside, decided by a higher power, but were the sins themselves, perpetuated eternally, stripped of the masks that had made them seductive once. Those who had given in to the selfish storms of passion, regardless of the cost to others, were now battered and driven by unceasing gales, forced to rise before them without rest. And so it was, down through the successive circles, the sins of indulgence, that injured self, the sins of anger that injured others, to the betrayal and corruption of the mind which damaged all mankind. It made infinite sense.

And yet, Joseph reasoned, beauty was there. Christ still “walked the waters of Styx with unwet feet.”

If Inspector Perth was working, Joseph did not see him that day. Nor did he see Aidan Thyer or any of the Allard family.

Matthew called in briefly on his way back to London, simply to say how sorry he was about Sebastian. He was gentle, full of a tacit compassion.

“It’s rotten,” he said briefly, sitting in Joseph’s rooms in the last of the twilight. “I’m very sorry.”

Hundreds of words turned in Joseph’s mind, but none of them seemed important, and certainly none of them helped. He remained in silence, simply glad that Matthew was there.

However, Monday was entirely different. It was July 13. It seemed that on the previous day the prime minister had spoken at length about the failure of the army’s present methods of recruitment—a sharp and unpleasant reminder that if the Balkan situation was not resolved and war erupted, then Britain might be unable to defend itself.

Far more immediate to Joseph was Perth’s presence in St. John’s. The inspector moved about discreetly, speaking to one person after another. Joseph caught glimpses of him, always just going, leaving behind him a wake of deeply troubled young men.

“I hate it!” Elwyn said as he and Joseph met crossing the quad. Elwyn was flustered, as if he were being harried on all sides, trying to do something for everyone and desperate to be alone and deal with his own grief. He stared after Perth’s disappearing figure.

“He seems to think it’s one of us!” Elwyn said exasperatedly, the disbelief evident in his voice. “Mother’s watching him like a hawk. She thinks he’s going to produce an answer any minute. But even if he did, it wouldn’t bring Sebastian back.” He looked down at the ground. “And that’s the only thing that would make her happy.”

Joseph could see in his face all that he did not say, and imagined it only too easily: Mary Allard wild with pain, lashing out at everyone without realizing what she was doing to her other son, while Gerald offered ineffectual and comforting remarks that only made her worse—and, finally, Elwyn trying desperately to be whatever they expected of him.

“I know it’s wretched,” Joseph replied. “Do you feel like leaving college for a while? Take a walk into town? I need new socks. I left some of mine at home.”

Elwyn’s eyes widened. “Oh, God! I forgot about your parents. I’m so sorry!”

Joseph smiled. “It’s all right.
I
forget at times. Do you feel like a walk?”

“Yes, sir. Yes, I do. Actually, I need a couple of books. I’ll go to Heffer’s. You can try Eaden Lilley’s. They’re about the best for haberdashery around here.”

They walked together back across the quad and out of the main gate into St. John’s Street, then right into Sydney Street. It was fine and dry after the rain, and the Monday morning traffic included at least half a dozen motorcars, along with delivery vans, drays, and wagons. Cyclists and pedestrians wove in and out of them at practiced speed. It was quieter than term time because the usual gowned figures of students were absent.

“If they don’t find anyone, what will happen?” Elwyn said when they had the chance to speak and be heard.

“I suppose they’ll give up,” Joseph answered. He looked sideways at his companion, seeing the anxiety in his face. He could imagine Mary Allard’s fury. Perhaps that was what Elwyn was thinking of, too, and afraid of. “But they will.” The instant the words were out, he knew they were a mistake. He saw the bleak pain in Elwyn. He stopped on the footpath, reaching for Elwyn’s arm and swinging him round to a standstill also. “Do you know anything?” he asked abruptly. “Are you afraid to say it, in case it would give somebody a motive for killing Sebastian?”

“No, I don’t!” Elwyn retorted, his face flushed, his eyes hot. “Sebastian wasn’t anything like as perfect as Mother thinks, but he was basically pretty decent. You know that! Of course he said some stupid things, and he could cut you to bits with his tongue, but so can lots of people. You have to live with that. It’s like being good at rowing, or boxing, or anything else. You win sometimes, and sometimes you lose. Even those who didn’t like Sebastian didn’t hate him!” His emotion was overwhelming. “I wish they . . . I wish they didn’t have to do this!”

“So do I,” Joseph said sincerely. “Perhaps it will turn out to be more of an accident than deliberate.”

Elwyn did not dignify that with an answer. “Do you think there’ll be war, sir?” he asked instead, beginning to walk again.

Joseph thought of the prime minister’s words in the newspaper. “We have to have an army, whether there’s war or not,” he reasoned. “And the mutiny in the Curragh has shown a few weaknesses.”

“I’ll say!” Elwyn pushed his hands into his pockets, his shoulders tense. He was broader, more muscular than Sebastian, but there was an echo of his brother in the fair hair and the warm tones of his skin. “He went to Germany in the spring, you know?” he continued.

Joseph was startled. “Sebastian? No, I didn’t know. He never mentioned it.”

Elwyn shot a glance at him, pleased to have known first. “He loved it,” he said with a little smile. “He meant to go back when he could. He was reading Schiller, when he had time. And Goethe, of course. He said you’d have to be a barbarian not to love the music! The whole of human history has produced only one Beethoven.”

“I knew he was afraid, of course,” Joseph answered him. “We spoke of it just the other day.”

Elwyn’s head jerked up, his eyes wide. “You mean worried, not afraid! Sebastian wasn’t a coward!”

“I know that,” Joseph said quickly and honestly. “I meant that he was afraid for the beauty that would be destroyed, not for himself.”

“Oh.” Elwyn relaxed again. In that single gesture Joseph could see a wealth of Mary’s passion, her pride and brittleness, her identification with her sons, especially the elder. “Yes, of course,” Elwyn added. “Sorry.”

Joseph smiled at him. “Don’t think of it. And don’t spend your time trying to imagine who hated Sebastian, or why. Leave it to Inspector Perth. Look after yourself . . . and your mother.”

“I am,” Elwyn answered him. “All that I can.”

“I know.”

Elwyn nodded unhappily. “Goodbye, sir.” He turned away toward the bookshop and left Joseph to continue on his way to the department store to look for socks.

Once inside, he wandered around the tables and the ceiling-high shelves. He was outside again, with a pair of black socks and a pair of dark gray ones, when he bumped into Edgar Morel.

Morel looked flustered. “Sorry, sir,” he apologized, stepping aside. “I . . . I was miles away.”

“Everyone’s upset,” Joseph responded, and was about to move when he realized that Morel was still looking at him.

A young woman passed them. She was wearing a navy and white dress, her hair swept up under a straw hat. She hesitated an instant, smiling at Morel. He colored, seemed about to say something, then averted his eyes. The young woman changed her mind and quickened her step.

“I hope she didn’t go on my account,” Joseph commented.

“No!” Morel said too vehemently. “She . . . she was really more Sebastian’s friend than mine. I expect she just wanted to give her condolences.”

Joseph thought that was less than the truth. She had looked at Morel with some urgency.

“Did he know her well?” he asked. She had seemed an attractive girl, perhaps a little under twenty, and she carried herself with grace.

“I don’t know,” Morel replied, and this time Joseph was certain it was a lie. “Sorry for banging into you, sir,” he went on. “Excuse me.” And before Joseph could say anything else, Morel moved very quickly to the doorway of Eaden Lilley’s and disappeared inside.

Joseph walked on farther into the town, stopping for a while in Petty Cury, leading toward the market. He passed Jas. Smith and Sons and then the Star and Garter, dodged a couple of delivery carts and two dangerously speeding bicycles, and came back by Trinity Street to St. John’s.

Tuesday was much the same, a routine of small chores. He saw Inspector Perth coming and going busily, but he managed to put Sebastian’s death out of his mind most of the time, until Nigel Eardslie caught up with him crossing the quad early in the afternoon. It was hot and still again; the windows of all the occupied rooms were wide open, and every now and then the sound of music or laughter drifted out.

“Dr. Reavley!”

Joseph stopped.

Eardslie’s square face was puckered with anxiety, hazel eyes fixed on Joseph’s. “That policeman’s just been talking to me, sir, asking a lot of questions about Allard. I really don’t know what to say.” He looked awkward.

“If you know something that could have a bearing on his death, then you’ll have to tell him the truth,” Joseph answered.

“I don’t know what the truth is!” Eardslie said desperately. “If it’s just a matter of where I was or whether I saw this or that, then of course I can answer. But he wanted to know what Allard was like! And how do I answer that decently?”

“You knew him pretty well,” Joseph said. “Tell him about his character, how he worked, who his friends were, his hopes and ambitions.”

“He didn’t get killed for any of those,” Eardslie replied, a slight impatience in his voice. “Do I tell him about his sarcasm as well? The way he could cut you raw with his tongue and make you feel like a complete fool?” His face was tight and unhappy.

Joseph wanted to deny it. This was not the man he had known. But then no student would dare exercise his pride or cruelty on a tutor. A bully chooses the easy targets.

“I could tell him how funny Sebastian was,” Eardslie was continuing. “He made me laugh sometimes till I couldn’t get my breath and my chest hurt, but it could be at someone else’s expense, especially if they’d criticized him lately.”

Joseph did not reply.

“Do I tell him that he could forgive wonderfully and that he expected to be forgiven, no matter what he’d done, because he was clever and beautiful?” Eardslie rushed on. “And if you borrowed something without asking, even if you lost it or broke it, he could wave it aside and make you think he didn’t care, even if it was something he valued.” His mouth pinched a little, and the light faded in his eyes. “But if you questioned his judgment or beat him at one of the things that mattered to him, he could carry a grudge further than anyone else I know. He was generous . . . he’d give you anything. But God, he could be cruel!” He stared at Joseph helplessly. “I can’t tell the police that. He’s dead.”

Joseph felt numb. That was not the Sebastian he knew. Was Eardslie’s the voice of envy? Or was he speaking the truth Joseph had refused to see?

“You don’t believe me, do you!” Eardslie challenged him. “Perth might, but the others won’t. Morel knows Sebastian took his girl, Abigail something, and then dumped her. I think he did it simply because he could. She saw Sebastian and thought of him as this sort of young Apollo and he let her believe it. It flattered him.”

“You can’t help it if someone falls in love with you,” Joseph protested, but he remembered the character attributed to the Greek god, the childishness, the vanity, the petty spite, as well as the beauty.

Eardslie looked at him with barely concealed anger. “You can help what you do about it!” he retorted. “You don’t take your friend’s girl. Would you?” Then he blushed, looking wretched. “I’m sorry, sir. That was rude.” He jerked his chin up. “But Perth keeps asking. We want to be decent to the dead, and we want to be fair. But someone killed him, and they say it had to be one of us. I keep looking at everyone and wondering if it was them.

“I met Rattray along the Backs yesterday evening, and I started remembering quarrels he’d had with Sebastian, and wondering if it could be him. He’s got a hell of a temper.” He blushed. “Then I remembered a quarrel I’d had, and wondered if he was thinking the same thing of me!” His eyes pleaded for some kind of reassurance. “Everybody’s changed! Suddenly I don’t feel as if I really know anyone . . . and even worse than that, in a way, I don’t think anyone trusts me, either. I know who I am and that I didn’t do it, but no one else knows!” He took a deep breath. “The friendships I took for granted aren’t there anymore. It’s done that already!”

“They
are
still there,” Joseph said firmly. “Get a grip on your imagination, Eardslie. Of course everyone is upset over Sebastian’s death, and frightened. But in a day or two I expect Perth will have it solved, and you’ll all realize that your suspicions were unfounded. One person did something tragic and possibly evil, but the rest of you are just what you were before.” His voice sounded flat and unreal. He did not believe what he was saying himself—how could Eardslie? He deserved better than that, but Joseph did not have anything to give that was both comforting and even remotely honest.