No Graves As Yet (9 page)

He sat down, his thoughts racing, clouded and skewed by guilt. There was no doubt left in him that it was his words overheard that had sent the assassin after John and Alys Reavley.

His desk was piled with more and more information on the Curragh Mutiny. It was Thursday, July 9, before Calder Shearing sent for him and Matthew reported to his office a little after four o’clock. Like all rooms in the Intelligence Service, it was sparsely furnished, nothing more than the necessities, and those as cheap as possible, but Shearing had added nothing of his own, no family pictures, no personal books or mementos. His papers and volumes for work were untidily stacked, but he knew the precise place of every one of them.

Shearing was not a tall man, but he had a presence more commanding than mere size. His black hair was receding considerably, but one barely noticed it because his brows were heavy and expressive and his eyes were dark and thick-lashed. His jutting nose was a perfect curve and his mouth sensitive, if unsmiling.

He regarded Matthew, assessing his recovery from bereavement and hence his fitness for duty. His question was only a matter of courtesy.

“How are you, Reavley? All matters taken care of?”

“For the time being, sir,” Matthew answered, standing to attention.

“Again, are you all right?” Shearing repeated.

“Yes, sir, thank you.”

Shearing looked at him a moment longer, then was apparently satisfied. “Good. Sit down. I expect you have caught up with the news? The king of the Belgians is on a state visit to Switzerland, which might be of significance but is more probably a routine affair. Yesterday the government said it might accept the House of Lords’ amendment to the Home Rule bill, excluding Ulster.”

Matthew had heard the news, but no details. “Peace in Ireland?” he asked, slightly sarcastically.

Shearing looked up at him, his expression incredulous. “If that’s what you think, you’d better take more leave. You’re obviously not fit for work!”

“Well, a step in the right direction?” Matthew amended.

Shearing pulled his mouth into a thin line. “God knows! I can’t see a partition in Ireland helping anyone. But neither will anything else.”

Matthew’s mind raced. Was that what the conspiracy document concerned—dividing Ireland into two countries, one independent Catholic, the other Protestant and still part of Britain? Even the suggestion of it had already brought British troops to mutiny, robbed the army of its commander in chief, the Cabinet of its secretary of war, and taken Ulster itself to the brink of armed rebellion and civil war. Was that not the perfect ground in which to sow a plot to lead England to ruin and dishonor?

But it was now July and there had been relative peace for weeks. The House of Lords was on the verge of accepting the exclusion of Ulster from the Home Rule bill, and the Ulstermen would be permitted to remain a part of Britain, a right for which they were apparently prepared not only to die themselves but to take with them all the rest of Ireland, not to mention the British army stationed there.

“Reavley!” Shearing snapped, startling Matthew back to the present. “For God’s sake, man, if you need more time, take it! You’re no use to me off in a daydream!”

“No, sir,” Matthew said tartly, feeling his body stiffen, the blood rush warm in his face. “I was thinking about the Irish situation and what difference it will make whether the government accepts the amendment or not. It’s an issue that arouses passion far beyond reason.”

Shearing’s black eyes widened. “I don’t need you to tell me that, Reavley. Every Englishman with even half his wits has known that for the last three hundred years.” He was watching Matthew intently, trying to judge if his words could possibly be as empty as they sounded. “Do you know something that I don’t?” he asked.

Matthew had kept silent on a few occasions, but he had never lied to Shearing. He believed it would be dangerous conduct. Now, for the first time, he considered being deceptive. He had no idea who was involved in the conspiracy, though certainly at least one person here in his office. But he could not tell Shearing that until he had proof. Perhaps not even then.

Who was Catholic? Who was Anglo-Irish? Who had loyalties or vested interests one way or the other? Rebellion in Ireland would hardly change the world, but perhaps John Reavley had felt it was his world. And England’s honor would affect the empire, which would be the world, as far as he was concerned. Perhaps he was not so far wrong. And of course there were tens of thousands of Irish men and women in the United States who still felt passionate loyalty to the land of their heritage. Other Celtic peoples—in Wales, Scotland, and Cornwall—might also sympathize. It could tear Britain apart and spread to other colonies around the world.

“No, sir,” he said aloud, judging his words carefully. “But I hear whispers from time to time, and it helps to know the issues and where loyalties lie. I’m always hearing mention of conspiracies. . . .” He watched for any shadow of change in Shearing’s eyes.

“To do what?” Shearing’s voice was low and very careful.

Matthew was on dangerous ground. How far dared he go? If Shearing was aware of the conspiracy, even sympathetic to it, then one slip would mean that Matthew had betrayed himself. The thought struck him with an ugliness that cut deeper than he had expected. He was uniquely alone. Joseph would not be able to help him, and he could not trust Shearing or anyone else in SIS.

“To unite Ireland,” he answered boldly. That was certainly radical enough. Considering the Curragh circumstances, it would rip Britain apart, and possibly sacrifice both army and government in the process, which would provide an interesting opportunity for all Britain’s enemies everywhere else—Europe or Asia or Africa. Perhaps John Reavley was not exaggerating after all. It could be the first domino to topple many, the beginning of the disintegration of the empire, which would unquestionably affect all the world.

“What have you heard?” Shearing demanded. “Precisely.”

Better to avoid mentioning his father at all, but he could still be accurate about the details. “Odd words about a conspiracy,” he said, trying to pitch his tone to exactly the right mixture of caution and concern. “No details, only that it would have very wide effects all over the world—which might be an exaggeration—and that it would ruin England’s honor.”

“From whom?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to be honest. If he said it was his own father, that would explain so easily and naturally why he had been unable to pursue it any further. But it would also take it a step too close to the truth if Shearing could not be trusted. He would then wonder what else Matthew knew. Far wiser to keep that back. “Overheard it in a club,” he lied. It was the first time he had deliberately misled Shearing, and he found it extraordinarily uncomfortable, not only for the deceit to a man he respected, but also because it was dangerous. Shearing was not someone to treat lightly. He had a powerful, incisive mind, an imagination that leaped from one conclusion to another as fast and as easily as his instinct drove it. He forgot almost nothing and forgave very little.

“Said by whom?” Shearing repeated.

Matthew knew that if he gave an unsatisfactory answer or pled ignorance, Shearing would be certain he was lying. It would be the beginning of distrust. Eventually it would lead to his losing his job. Since he actually was lying, his story would have to be very good indeed. Was he equal to that? Would he ever know if he had succeeded or failed? The answer came even before the question was finished in his mind. No—he would not. Shearing would betray nothing in his demeanor.

“An army officer, a Major Trenton.” Matthew named a man from whom he had actually obtained information some weeks ago and who did occasionally attend the same club.

Shearing was silent for several moments. “Could be anything,” he said at last. “There are always Irish conspiracies. It’s a society divided by religion. If there is a solution to it, we haven’t found it in three hundred years, and God help us, we’ve never stopped trying. But if there is anything specific at the moment, I think it is more likely to lie in politics than any personal plot. And something personal would not dishonor the nation.”

“If not Ireland, then what?” Matthew asked. He could not let go. His father had died, broken and bleeding, trying to prevent the tragedy he foresaw.

Shearing stared back at him. “The shootings in Sarajevo,” he replied thoughtfully. “Was this before then, or after? You didn’t say.”

It was like a shaft of light cutting the darkness. “Before,” Matthew said, surprised to find his voice a little husky. Was it conceivable his father had somehow got word of that, too late? He must have been killed himself just as it happened. “But that doesn’t affect England!” he said, almost before he had weighed the meaning of it. His throat tightened. “Or is there more . . . something else yet to happen that we don’t know of?”

A shadow of dark humor crossed Shearing’s face and vanished. “There’s always more that we don’t know of, Reavley. If you haven’t learned that yet, then there isn’t much hope for you. The kaiser reasserted his alliance with Austro-Hungary four days ago.”

“Yes, I heard.” Matthew waited, knowing Shearing would go on.

“What do you know about the All-Highest?” Shearing asked, a faint flicker of light dancing in his eyes.

Matthew was lost for words. “I beg your pardon?”

“The kaiser, Reavley! What do you know about Kaiser Wilhelm II of the German Empire?”

“Is that what he is calling himself?” Matthew asked incredulously, scrambling together his thoughts, stories he could repeat about the kaiser’s tantrums, his delusions that first his uncle Edward VII and now his cousin George V were deliberately snubbing him, ridiculing and belittling him. There were a great many it might be unwise to retell.

“He’s the king’s cousin and the czar’s,” Matthew began, and instantly saw the impatience in Shearing’s face. “He’s been writing to the czar for some time, and they have become confidants,” he went on more boldly. “But he hated King Edward and was convinced he was plotting against him, that he despised him for some reason, and he has transferred that feeling to the present king. He’s a temperamental man, very proud and always looking for slights. And he has a withered arm, which is possibly why he is rather bad on horseback. No balance.” He waited for Shearing to respond.

Shearing’s mouth flickered, as if he thought of smiling and decided against it. “His relationship with France?” he prompted.

Matthew knew what Shearing was expecting. He had read the reports. “Bad,” he replied. “He has always wanted to go to Paris, but the French president has never invited him, and it rankles with him. He’s . . .” He stopped again. He had been going to say “surrounded by awkward relationships,” but perhaps that was a bit presumptuous. He was uncertain of Shearing’s regard for royalty, even foreign. The kaiser was closely related to George V.

“More importantly,” Shearing pointed out, “he perceives himself to be surrounded by enemies.”

Matthew let the weight of that observation sink into his mind. He saw the reflection of it in Shearing’s face. “A conspiracy to start a war, beginning in Serbia?” he asked tentatively.

“God knows,” Shearing replied. “There are Serbian nationalists who will do anything for freedom, including assassinate an Austrian archduke—obviously—but there are radical socialists all over Europe as well.”

“Against war,” Matthew cut in. “At least international war. They are all for class war. Surely that couldn’t be . . .” He stopped.

“You overheard the remark, Reavley! Could it or not?” Shearing asked tartly. “What about a pan-European socialist revolution? The whole continent is seething with plots and counterplots—Victor Adler in Vienna, Jean Jaurès in France, Rosa Luxemburg everywhere, and God knows who in Russia. Austria is spoiling for a fight and only wants the excuse, France is afraid of Germany, and the Kaiser is afraid of everyone. And the czar doesn’t know a damn thing about any of it. Take your pick.”

Matthew looked at Shearing’s dark, enigmatic face, filled with a kind of despairing humor, and realized that he had worked with him for over a year but knew almost nothing about him. He knew his intellect and his skills, but his passions he had not even guessed at. He had no idea where he came from, nothing about his family or his education, his tastes or his dreams. He was an intensely private man, but he guarded his inner self so well no one was aware he was doing it. One thought of him only in connection with his work, as if he walked out of the entrance of the building and ceased to exist.

“Perhaps I had better forget it unless something else develops,” Matthew said, aware that he had learned nothing and very possibly made himself look incompetent to Shearing. “It doesn’t seem to tie in with anything.”

“On the contrary, it ties in with everything,” Shearing answered. “The air is full of conspiracies, fortunately most of them have nothing to do with us. But go on listening, and advise me if you hear anything that makes sense.”

“Yes, sir.”

They discussed other projects for a further twenty minutes, particularly who might replace the minister of war, who had resigned over the mutiny. There were two primary candidates, one in favor of peace, even at a high price, the other more belligerent.

“Details,” Shearing said pointedly. “All the details you can, Reavley. Weaknesses. Where is Blunden vulnerable? It’s our job to know. You can’t protect a man until you know where he can be hurt.”

“Yes, sir,” Matthew agreed. “I know that.”

He left, forgetting the minister of war for a moment and pondering what Shearing had said about conspiracy. It seemed as if he did not believe that John Reavley had found anything that was of concern to England.

Matthew walked the long, quiet corridors back to his own office, nodding to this person, wishing a good evening to that one. He felt extraordinarily alone because he realized suddenly that he was profoundly angry. Shearing had in effect damned John Reavley’s perception of truth. If Shearing was right, then Matthew’s father had misinterpreted a piece of paper, and he had died horribly for nothing. Matthew was so fiercely defensive of the suggestion that his father was incompetent that his fists were clenched, and he deliberately had to loosen them in order to open the door of his office.