No Graves As Yet (35 page)

Nothing. There was nothing anyone could do to save her from ultimately having to face the husband she had betrayed, at heart if not more.

They were at the door. Thyer opened it and held it for Joseph, watching him with care in case he staggered and tripped. Did he really look so dreadful? He must. He certainly felt it. He was moving in a nightmare, as if his body did not belong to him.

It seemed interminable moments before Connie appeared. For seconds she did not realize there was anything wrong, and she said something pleasant about having tea. Then slowly the look on Thyer’s face registered with her, and she looked at Joseph.

Thyer was about to speak. Joseph must act now. He stepped forward a couple of paces.

“Connie, I’m afraid something very dreadful has happened. I think you had better sit down . . . please . . .”

She hesitated a moment.

“Please,” he urged.

Slowly she obeyed. “What is it?”

“Harry Beecher has killed himself,” he said quietly. There was no way to make it any better or gentler. All he could do now was try to save her from a self-betraying reaction.

There was an instant’s terrible silence, then the blood drained from her face. She stared at him.

He stepped between her and her husband, taking her hands in his as if he could hold her together, in some physical fashion bridging the gulf of aloneness. What he really wanted was to shield her from Thyer’s sight.

“I’m so sorry,” he went on. “I know you were as fond of him as I was, and it is the most awful shock, on top of everything else that has happened. It was very quick, a single shot. But no one yet knows why. I’m afraid there is bound to be speculation. We must prepare ourselves.”

She drew in her breath in a stifled little cry, her eyes wide and empty. Did she understand that he knew about them, that he was saying all this to give her whatever protection there was?

Thyer was at his elbow with two glasses of brandy. Joseph straightened up to allow him to give one to Connie. Had he any idea? Looking at his white face and pinched mouth told him nothing. It might as easily have been only the horror of yet another tragedy in his college.

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?”