CHAPTER ONE
It was a golden afternoon in late June, a perfect day for
cricket. The sun burned in a cloudless sky, and the breeze
was barely sufficient to stir the slender, pale skirts of
the women as they stood on the grass at Fenner's Field,
parasols in hand. The men, in white flannels, were relaxed
and smiling.
St. John's were batting and Gonville and Caius were
fielding. The bowler pounded up to the crease and sent the
ball down fast, but a bit short and wide. Elwyn Allard
leaned forward, and with an elegant cover drive, dispatched
the ball to the boundary for four runs.
Joseph Reavley joined in the applause. Elwyn was one of his
students, rather more graceful with the bat than with the
pen. He had little of the scholastic brilliance of his
brother, Sebastian, but he had a manner that was easy to
like, and a sense of honor that drove him like a spur.
St. John's still had four more batsmen to play, young men
from all over England who had come to Cambridge and, for
one reason or another, remained at college through the long
summer vacation.
Elwyn hit a modest two. The heat was stirred by a faint
breath of wind from across the fenlands with their dykes
and marshes, flat under the vast skies stretching eastward
to the sea. It was old land, quiet, cut by secret
waterways, Saxon churches marking each village. It had been
the last stronghold of resistance against the Norman
invasion eight and a half centuries ago.
On the field one of the boys just missed a catch. There was
a gasp and then a letting out of breath. All this mattered.
Such things could win or lose a match, and they would be
playing against Oxford again soon. To be beatenwould be
catastrophic.
Across the town behind them, the clock on the north tower
at Trinity struck three, each chime on the large A-flat
bell, then followed the instant after on the smaller E-
flat. Joseph thought how out of place it seemed, to think
of time on an eternal afternoon like this. A few feet away,
Harry Beecher caught his eye and smiled. Beecher had been a
Trinity man in his own years as a student, and it was a
long-standing joke that the Trinity clock struck once for
itself and once for St. John's.
A cheer went up as the ball hit the stumps and Elwyn was
bowled out with a very respectable score of eighty-three.
He walked off with a little wave of acknowledgment and was
replaced at the crease by Lucian Foubister, who was a
little too bony, but Joseph knew his awkwardness was
deceiving. He was more tenacious than many gave him credit
for, and he had flashes of extraordinary grace.
Play resumed with the sharp crack of a strike and the
momentary cheers under the burning blue of the sky.
Aidan Thyer, master of St. John's, stood motionless a few
yards from Joseph, his hair flaxen in the sun, his thoughts
apparently far away. His wife Connie, standing next to him,
glanced across and gave a little shrug. Her dress was white
broderie anglaise, falling loosely in a flare below the
hip, and the fashionable slender skirt reached to the
ground. She looked as elegant and feminine as a spray of
daisies, even though it was the hottest summer in England
for years.
At the far end of the pitch Foubister struck an awkward
shot, elbows in all the wrong places, and sent the ball
right to the boundary. There was a shout of approval, and
everyone clapped.
Joseph was aware of a movement somewhere behind him and
half turned, expecting a grounds official, perhaps to say
it was time for lemonade and cucumber sandwiches. But it
was his own brother, Matthew, who was walking toward him,
his shoulders tight, no grace in his movement. He was
wearing a light gray city suit, as if he had newly arrived
from London.
Joseph started across the green, anxiety rising quickly.
Why was his brother here in Cambridge, interrupting a match
on a Sunday afternoon?
"Matthew! What is it?" he said as he reached him.
Matthew stopped. His face was so pale it seemed almost
bloodless. He was twenty-eight, seven years the younger,
broader-shouldered, and fair where Joseph was dark. He was
steadying himself with difficulty, and he gulped before he
found his voice. "It's . . ." He cleared his throat. There
was a kind of desperation in his eyes. "It's Mother and
Father," he said hoarsely. "There's been an accident."
Joseph refused to grasp what he had said. "An accident?"
Matthew nodded, struggling to govern his ragged
breathing. "In the car. They are both . . . dead."
For a moment the words had no meaning for Joseph. Instantly
his father's face came to his mind, lean and gentle, blue
eyes steady. It was impossible that he could be dead.
"The car went off the road," Matthew was saying. "Just
before the Hauxton Mill Bridge." His voice sounded strange
and far away.
Behind Joseph they were still playing cricket. He heard the
sound of the ball and another burst of applause.
"Joseph . . ." Matthew's hand was on his arm, the grip
tight.
Joseph nodded and tried to speak, but his throat was dry.
"I'm sorry," Matthew said quietly. "I wish I hadn't had to
tell you like this. I . . ."
"It's all right, Matthew. I'm . . ." He changed his mind,
still trying to grasp the reality. "The Hauxton Road? Where
were they going?"
Matthew's fingers tightened on his arm. They began to walk
slowly, close together, over the sun-baked grass. There was
a curious dizziness in the heat. The sweat trickled down
Joseph's skin, and inside he was cold.
Matthew stopped again.
"Father telephoned me late yesterday evening," he replied
huskily, as if the words were almost unbearable for
him. "He said someone had given him a document outlining a
conspiracy so hideous it would change the world we know—
that it would ruin England and everything we stand for.
Forever." He sounded defiant now, the muscles of his neck
and jaw clenched as if he barely had mastery of himself.
Joseph's mind whirled. What should he do? The words hardly
made sense. John Reavley had been a member of Parliament
until 1912, two years ago. He had resigned for reasons he
had not discussed, but he had never lost his interest in
political affairs, nor his care for honesty in government.
Perhaps he had simply been ready to spend more time
reading, indulging his love of philosophy, poking around in
antique and secondhand shops looking for a bargain. More
often he was just talking with people, listening to
stories, swapping eccentric jokes, and adding to his
collection of limericks.
"A conspiracy to ruin England and everything we stand for?"
Joseph repeated incredulously.
"No," Matthew corrected him with precision. "A conspiracy
that would ruin it. That was not the main purpose, simply a
side effect."
"What conspiracy? By whom?" Joseph demanded.
Matthew's skin was so white it was almost gray. "I don't
know. He was bringing it to me . . . today."
Joseph started to ask why, and then stopped. The answer was
the one thing that made sense. Suddenly at least two facts
cohered. John Reavley had wanted Joseph to study medicine,
and when his firstborn son had left it for the church, he
had then wanted Matthew to become a doctor. But Matthew had
read modern history and languages here at Cambridge, and
then he joined the Secret Intelligence Service. If there
was such a plot, John would understandably have notified
his younger son. Not his elder.
Joseph swallowed, the air catching in his throat. "I see."
Matthew's grip eased on him slightly. He had known the news
longer and had more time to grasp its truth. He was
searching Joseph's face with anxiety, evidently trying to
formulate something to say to help him through the pain.
Joseph made an immense effort. "I see," he repeated. "We
must go to them. Where . . . are they?"
"At the police station in Great Shelford," Matthew
answered. He made a slight movement with his head. "I've
got my car."
"Does Judith know?"
Matthew's face tightened. "Yes. They didn't know where to
find you or me, so they called her."
That was reasonable—obvious, really. Judith was their
younger sister, still living at home. Hannah, between
Joseph and Matthew, was married to a naval officer and
lived in Portsmouth. It would be the house in Selborne St.
Giles that the police would have called. He thought how
Judith would be feeling, alone except for the servants,
knowing neither her father nor mother would come home
again, not tonight, not any night.
His thoughts were interrupted by someone at his elbow. He
had not even heard footsteps on the grass. He half turned
and saw Harry Beecher standing beside him, his wry,
sensitive face puzzled.
"Is everything . . . ?" he began. Then, seeing Joseph's
eyes, he stopped. "Can I help?" he said simply.
Joseph shook his head a little. "No . . . no, there isn't
anything." He made an effort to pull his thoughts
together. "My parents have had an accident." He took a deep
breath. "They've been killed." How odd and flat the words
sounded. They still carried no reality with them.
Beecher was appalled. "Oh, God! I'm so sorry!"
"Please—" Joseph started.
"Of course," Beecher interrupted. "I'll tell people. Just
go." He touched Joseph lightly on the arm. "Let me know if
I can do anything."
"Yes, of course. Thank you." Joseph shook his head and
started to walk away as Matthew acknowledged Beecher, then
turned to cross the wide expanse of grass. Joseph followed
him without looking back at the players in their white
flannels, bright in the sunlight. They had been the only
reality a few moments ago; now there seemed an unbridgeable
space between them.
Outside the cricket ground Matthew's Sunbeam Talbot was
parked in Gonville Place. In one fluid motion Joseph
climbed over the side and into the passenger seat. The car
was facing north, as if Matthew had been to St. John's
first and then come all the way through town to the cricket
ground looking for Joseph. Now he turned southwest again,
back along Gonville Place and finally onto the Trumpington
Road.
There was nothing to say now; each was cocooned in his own
pain, waiting for the moment when they would have to face
the physical proof of death. The familiar winding road with
its harvest fields shining gold in the heat, the hedgerows,
and the motionless trees were like things painted on the
other side of a wall that encased the mind. Joseph was
aware of them only as a bright blur.
Matthew drove as if it demanded his entire concentration,
clutching the steering wheel with hands he had to loosen
deliberately now and then.
South of the village they turned left through St. Giles,
skirted the side of the hill over the railway bridge into
Great Shelford, and pulled up outside the police station. A
somber sergeant met them, his face tired, his body hunched,
as if he had had to steel himself for the task.
"Oi'm terrible sorry, sir." He looked from one to the other
of them, biting his lower lip. "Wouldn't ask it if Oi
din't 'ave to."
"I know," Joseph said quickly. He did not want a
conversation. Now that they were here, he needed to proceed
as quickly as possible, while his self-control lasted.
Matthew made a small gesture forward, and the sergeant
turned and led the way the short distance through the
streets to the hospital mortuary. It was all very formal, a
routine the sergeant must have been through scores of
times: sudden death, shocked families moving as if in a
dream, murmuring polite words, hardly aware of what they
were saying, trying to understand what had happened and at
the same time deny it.
They stepped out of the sunlight into the sudden darkness
of the building. Joseph went ahead. The windows were open
to try to keep the air cool and the closeness less
oppressive. The corridors were narrow, echoing, and they
smelled of stone and carbolic.
The sergeant opened the door to a side room and ushered
Joseph and Matthew in. There were two bodies laid out on
trolleys, covered decently in white sheets.
Joseph felt his heart lurch. In a moment it would be real,
irreversible, a part of his own life ended. He clung to the
second of disbelief, the last, precious instant of now,
before it all changed.
The sergeant was looking at him, then at Matthew, waiting
for them to be ready.
Matthew nodded.
The sergeant pulled back the sheet from the face. It was
John Reavley. The familiar aquiline nose looked bigger
because his cheeks were sunken, and there was a hollowness
about his eyes. The skin on his forehead was broken, but
someone had cleaned away the blood. His main injuries must
be to his chest—probably from the steering wheel. Joseph
blocked out the thought, refusing to picture it in his
mind. He wanted to remember his father's face as it was,
looking as if he were no more than asleep after an
exhausting day. He might still waken and smile.
"Thank you," he said aloud, surprised how steady he sounded.
The sergeant murmured something, but Joseph did not listen.
Matthew answered. They went to the other body, and the
sergeant lifted the sheet, but only partially, keeping it
over one side, his own face crumpled with pity. It was Alys
Reavley, her right cheek and brow perfect, skin very pale,
but blemishless, eyebrows delicately winged. The other side
was concealed.
Joseph heard Matthew draw in his breath sharply, and the
room seemed to swing and slide off to one side, as if he
were drunk. He grasped Matthew and felt Matthew's hand
tighten hard on his wrist.
The sergeant covered Alys Reavley's face again, started to
say something, then changed his mind.
Joseph and Matthew stumbled outside and along the corridor
to a small, private room. A woman in a starched uniform
brought them cups of tea. It was too strong and too sweet
for Joseph, and at first he thought he would gag. Then,
after a moment, the heat felt good, and he drank some more.
"Oi'm awful sorry," the sergeant said again. "If it's any
comfort, it must've been very quick." He looked wretched,
his eyes hollow and pink-rimmed. Watching him, Joseph, in
spite of himself, started to recall his days as a parish
priest, before Eleanor died, when he had had to tell
families of tragedy, and try to give them whatever comfort
he could, struggling to express a faith that could meet the
reality. Everybody was always very polite, strangers trying
to reach each other across an abyss of pain.
"What happened?" he said aloud.
"We don't know yet, sir," the sergeant answered. He had
said what his name was, but Joseph had forgotten. "The car
came off the road just afore the Hauxton Mill Bridge," he
went on. "Seems it was going quite fast—"
"That's a straight stretch!" Matthew cut across him.
"Yes, Oi know, sir," the sergeant agreed. "From the marks
on the road, it looks as if it happened all of a sudden,
like a tire blowing out. Can be hard to keep a hold when
that happens. It could even've bin both tires on the one
side, if there were something on the road as caused it." He
chewed his lip dubiously. "That could take you right off,
no matter how good a driver you were."
"Is the car still there?" Matthew asked.
"No, sir." He shook his head. "We're bringing it in. You
can see it if you want, o' course, but if you'd rather
not . . ."
"What about my father's belongings?" Matthew said
abruptly. "His case, whatever was in his pockets?"
Joseph glared at him in surprise. It was a distasteful
request, as if possessions could matter now. Then he
remembered the document Matthew had mentioned. He looked at
the sergeant.
"Yes, sir, o' course," the sergeant agreed. "You can see
them now, if you really want, before we . . . clean them."
That was almost a question. He was trying to save them hurt
and he did not know how to do it without seeming intrusive.
"There's a paper," Matthew explained. "It's important."
"Oh! Yes, sir." The sergeant's face was bleak. "In that
case, if you'll come with me?" He glanced at Joseph.
Joseph nodded and followed them out of the room and along
the hot, silent corridor, their footsteps self-consciously
loud. He wanted to see what this damnable document could
possibly be. His first vague thoughts were that it might
have something to do with the recent mutiny of British army
officers in the Curragh. There was always trouble in
Ireland, but this looked uglier than usual—in fact, various
politicians had warned it could lead to the worst crisis in
over two hundred years. Joseph knew most of the facts, as
the newspapers reported them, but at the moment his
thoughts were too chaotic to make sense of anything.
The sergeant led them to another small room, where he
unlocked one of the several cupboards and pulled out a
drawer. He carefully extracted a battered leather attaché
case with the initials j.r.r. stamped just below the lock,
and then a woman's smart, dark brown leather handbag
heavily smeared with blood. No one had yet attempted to
clean it.
Joseph felt sick. It did not matter now, but he knew the
blood was his mother's. She was dead and beyond pain, but
it mattered to him. He was a minister of the Church; he
should know to value the spirit above the body. The flesh
was temporary, only a tabernacle for the soul, and yet it
was absurdly precious. It was powerful, fragile, and
intensely real. It was always an inextricable part of
someone you loved.
Matthew was opening the attaché case and looking through
the papers inside, his fingers moving delicately. There was
something to do with insurance, a couple of letters, a bank
statement.
Matthew frowned and tipped the case upside down. Another
paper slithered out, but it was only a receipt for a pair
of shoes—12/6d. He ran his hands down inside the main
compartment, then the side pockets, but there was nothing
more. He looked across at Joseph and, with fingers
trembling, put down the case and reached for the handbag.
He was very careful not to touch the blood. At first he
just looked inside, as if a paper would be easy to see.
Then when he found nothing, he began carefully moving
around the contents.
Joseph could see two handkerchiefs, a comb . . . He thought
of his mother's soft hair with its gentle, natural curl,
and the way it lay on her neck when she had it coiled up.
He had to close his eyes to prevent the tears, and there
was an ache in his throat so fierce he could not swallow.
When he mastered himself and looked down at the handbag
again, Matthew was staring at it in confusion.
"Perhaps it was in his pocket?" Joseph suggested, his voice
hoarse, jolting the silence.
Matthew looked across at him, then turned to the sergeant.
The sergeant hesitated.
Joseph looked around. It was bare except for the cupboards,
more a storeroom than an office. A simple window faced a
delivery yard, and then rooftops beyond.
Reluctantly the sergeant opened another drawer and took out
a pile of clothes resting on an oilskin sheet. They were
drenched with blood, dark and already stiffening. He did
his best to conceal it, handing Matthew only the man's
jacket.
His face blanched even whiter, Matthew took it and, with
fingers clumsy now, searched through one pocket after
another. He found a handkerchief, a penknife, two pipe
cleaners, an odd button, and some loose change. There was
no paper at all. He looked up at Joseph, a frown between
his brows.
"Maybe it's in the car?" Joseph suggested.
"It must be." Matthew stood still for a moment. As if he
had spoken it, Joseph knew what he was thinking:
Regrettably, he would have to examine the rest of the
clothes—just in case. He was startled by how fiercely he
did not want to intrude into the intimate, the familiar
smell. Death was not real yet, the pain of it only just
beginning, but he knew its path; it was like the loss of
Eleanor all over again. But they must look. Otherwise they
would have to come back and do it later if the document was
not in the car.
But of course it was in the car. It had to be. In the glove
compartment, or one of the pockets at the side. But how odd
not to have put it in the briefcase along with the other
papers. Isn't that what anyone would do, automatically?
The sergeant was waiting. He too did not want to inflict
that distress.
Matthew blinked several times. "May we have the others,
please?" he requested.
The clothes were inspected, as both brothers tried to
distance their minds from what their hands were doing.
There were no papers except for one small receipt in their
father's trouser pocket, soaked with blood and illegible,
but there was no way in which it could be called a
document. It was barely two or three inches square.
They folded the clothes again and set them in a pile on top
of the oilskin. It was an awkward moment. Joseph did not
know what to do with them. The sight and touch of the
garments knotted up his stomach with grief. He wished he
had never had to see them at all. He certainly did not want
to keep these clothes. Neither did he want to pass them
over to strangers as if they did not matter.
"May we take them?" he asked haltingly.
Matthew jerked his hand up. Then the surprise died out of
his face as if he understood.
"Yes, sir, o' course," the sergeant replied. "I'll just
wrap 'em up for you."
"If we could see the car, please?" Matthew asked.
But it was still on the way back from Hauxton, and they had
to wait another half hour. Two more cups of tea later they
were taken to the garage where the familiar yellow
Lanchester sat gashed and crumpled. The whole of the engine
was twisted sideways and half jammed into the front of the
passenger area. All four tires were ripped. No human being
could have remained alive inside it.
Matthew stood still, struggling to keep his balance.
Joseph reached out to him, glad to break the physical
aloneness.
Matthew righted himself and walked over toward the far side
of the car, where the driver's door was hanging open. He
took his jacket off and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.
Joseph went to the windowless frame of the passenger door,
keeping his eyes averted from the blood on the seat, and
banged the glove compartment to make it open.
There was nothing inside except a small tin of barley sugar
and an extra pair of driving gloves. He looked across and
saw Matthew's face, wide-eyed and confused. There was no
document in the side pocket. Joseph held the road atlas and
riffled the pages, but nothing fell out.
They searched the rest of the car as well as they could,
forcing themselves to ignore the blood, the torn leather,
the twisted metal, and the shards of glass, but there was
no document of any sort. Joseph stepped back at last,
elbows and shoulders bruised where he had caught himself on
the jutting pieces of what had been seats and the misshapen
frames of the doors. He had skinned his knuckles and broken
a fingernail trying to pry up a piece of metal.
He looked across at Matthew. "There's nothing here," he
said.
"No . . ." Matthew frowned. His right sleeve was torn and
his face dirty and smeared with blood.
A few years earlier Joseph might have asked his sibling if
he was certain of his facts, but Matthew was beyond such
brotherly condescension now. The seven years between them
were closing fast.
"Where else could it be?" he said instead.
Matthew hesitated, breathing in and out slowly. "I don't
know," he admitted. He looked beaten, his eyes hollow and
his face shadowed with fatigue from battling the inner
shock and grief, trying to keep it from overwhelming him.
Perhaps this document was something to cling to, something
over which he could have some control.
Joseph understood how it mattered to him. John Reavley had
wanted one of his sons to enter the medical profession. He
had believed passionately that it was the noblest of
callings. Joseph had started medical studies to please his
father, and then found himself drowned by his inability to
affect all but the smallest part of the suffering he
witnessed. He knew his limitations, and he saw what he
thought was his strength and his true vocation. He answered
the call of the Church, using his gift for languages to
study the original Greek and Hebrew of the scriptures.
Souls needed healing as well as bodies. John Reavley was
content with that, and deferred his dream to his second son.
But Matthew had refused outright and turned his
imagination, his intellect, and his eye for detail toward
the Secret Intelligence Service. John Reavley had been
bitterly disappointed. He despised espionage and all its
works, and equally those who occupied themselves with it.
That he had called Matthew in his professional capacity to
help him with a document he had found was a far more
powerful testimony of his judgment of it than anyone else
would understand.
It would have been a chance for Matthew to give his father
a gift from his chosen calling, and it had slipped away
forever. That was part of the pain etched in his face.
Joseph lowered his eyes. Perhaps understanding was
intrusive at this raw moment.
"Have you any idea what it is?" he asked, investing his
voice with urgency, as if it could matter.
"He said it was a conspiracy," Matthew replied,
straightening his back to stand upright. He moved away from
the door, coming around the back of the car to where Joseph
was, keeping his voice very low. "And that it was the most
dishonorable betrayal he had ever seen."
"Betrayal of whom?"
"I don't know. He said it was all in the paper."
"Had he told anyone else?"
"No. He didn't dare. He had no idea who was involved, but
it went as high as the royal family." Matthew looked
surprised as he said it, as if hearing the words aloud
startled him with their enormity. He stared at Joseph,
searching for a response, an answer.
Joseph waited a moment too long.
"You don't believe it!" Matthew's voice was hoarse; he
himself sounded unsure if it was an accusation or not.
Looking at his brother's eyes, Joseph could see that
Matthew's own certainty was wavering.
Joseph wanted to save something out of the confusion. "Did
he say he was bringing the document or that he would merely
tell you about it? Could he have left it at home? In the
safe, perhaps?"
"I would have to see it," Matthew argued, rolling his
shirtsleeves down and fastening the cuffs again.
"To do what?" Joseph pursued. "Wouldn't it be better for
him to tell you what it was—and he was perfectly capable of
memorizing it for you—and then decide what to do, but keep
it in the meantime?"
It was a sensible suggestion. Matthew's body eased, the
stiffness draining out of it. "I suppose so. We'd better go
home anyway. We ought to be with Judith. She's alone. I
don't even know if she's told Hannah. Someone will have to
send her a telegram. She'll come, of course. And we'll need
to know her train, to meet it."
"Yes, of course," Joseph conceded. "There'll be a lot of
preparations." He did not want to think of them now; they
were intimate, final things, an acknowledgment that death
was real and that the past could never be brought back. It
was the locking of a door.
They drove back from Great Shelford through the quiet
lanes. The vil- lage of Selborne St. Giles looked just the
same as it always had in the soft gold of the evening. They
passed the stone mill, its walls flush with the river. The
pond was flat as a polished sheet, reflecting the soft
enamel blue of the sky. There was an arch of honeysuckle
over the lych-gate to the churchyard, and the clock on the
tower read just after half past six. In less than two hours
they would hold Evensong.
There were half a dozen people in the main street, although
the shops were long closed. They passed the doctor with his
pony and trap, going at a brisk pace. He waved cheerfully.
He could not have heard the news yet.
Joseph stiffened a little. That was one of the tasks that
lay ahead, telling people. He was too late to wave back.
The doctor would think him rude.
Matthew swung the car left, along the side road to the
house. The drive gates were closed, and Joseph got out to
open them, then close them again as Matthew pulled up to
the front door. Someone had already drawn the curtains
downstairs—probably Mrs. Appleton, the housekeeper. Judith
would not have thought of it.
Matthew climbed out of the car just as Joseph reached him,
and the front door opened. Judith stood on the step. She
was fair-skinned like Matthew, but her hair fell in heavy
waves and was a warmer brown. She was tall for a woman, and
even though he was her brother, Joseph could see that she
had a uniquely fierce and vulnerable kind of beauty. The
strength inside her had yet to be refined, but it was there
in her bones and her level, gray-blue eyes.
Now she was bleached of all color and her eyelids were
puffy. She blinked several times to hold back the tears.
She looked at Matthew and tried to smile, then took the few
steps across the porch onto the gravel to Joseph, and he
held her motionless for a moment, then felt her body shake
as she let the sobs wrench through her.
He did not try to stop her or find any comforting words.
There was no reason that made any sense, and no answer to
the pain. He tightened his arms around her, clinging as
much to her as she was to him. She was nothing like Alys,
not really, yet the softness of her hair, the way it
curled, slightly choked the tears in his throat.
Matthew went in ahead of them. His footsteps faded along
the wooden floor of the hall, and then they heard his voice
murmuring something and Mrs. Appleton replying.
Judith sniffed hard and pulled back a little. She felt in
Joseph's pocket for his handkerchief. She took it out and
blew her nose, then wiped her eyes, screwing up the linen
and clenching it in her hand. She turned away and went
inside also, talking to him without looking back.
"I don't know what to do with myself. Isn't it stupid?" She
gulped. "I keep walking around from room to room, and going
out again, then coming back—as if that would make it any
different! I suppose we'll have to tell people?"
Joseph went up the steps behind her.
"I sent Hannah a telegram, but that's all," she went on. "I
don't even remember what I said." Inside she swiveled
around to face him, ignoring Henry, the cream-haired
retriever who came out of the sitting room at the sound of
Joseph's voice. "How do you tell people something like
this? I can't believe it's real!"
"Not yet," he agreed, bending to touch the dog as it pushed
against his hand. He stood in the familiar hallway with its
oak staircase curving upward, the light from the landing
window catching the watercolors on the wall. "It'll come.
Tomorrow morning it will begin." He could remember with
sickening clarity the first time he had woken up after
Eleanor's death. There was an instant when everything was
as it had always been, the whole year of their marriage.
Then the truth had washed over him like ice, and something
inside him had never been warm again.
There was a fleeting pity in Judith's face, and he knew she
was remembering also. He made an effort to force it away.
She was twenty-three, almost an afterthought in the family.
He should be protecting her, not thinking of himself.
"Don't worry about telling people," he said gently. "I'll
do that." He knew how hard it was, almost like making the
death itself happen over again each time. "There'll be
other things to do. Just ordinary housekeeping, for a
start. Practical things."
"Oh, yes." She jerked her attention into focus. "Mrs.
Appleton will deal with the cooking and the laundry, but
I'll tell Lettie to make up Hannah's room. She'll be here
tomorrow. And I suppose there's food to order. I've never
done that! Mother always did."
Judith was quite unlike either her mother or Hannah, both
of whom loved their kitchens and the smells of cooking,
clean linen, beeswax polish, lemon soap. For them, to run a
house was an art. To Judith it was a distraction from the
real business of living, although to be honest, she was not
yet certain for herself what that would prove to be. But
Joseph knew it was not domesticity. To their mother's
exasperation, she had turned down at least two perfectly
good offers of marriage.
But this was not the time for such thoughts.
"Ask Mrs. Appleton," Joseph told her. He steadied his voice
with an effort. "We'll have to go through the diaries and
cancel any appointments."
"Mother was going to judge the flower show," she said,
smiling and biting her lip, tears flooding her
eyes. "They'll have to find somebody else. I can't do it,
even if they were to ask me."
"And bills," he added. "I'll see the bank, and the
solicitor."
She stood stiffly in the middle of the floor, her shoulders
rigid. She was wearing a pale blouse and a soft green
narrow skirt. She had not yet thought to put on black. "I
suppose somebody'll have to sort . . . clothes and things.
I—" She gulped. "I haven't been into the bedroom yet. I
can't!"
He shook his head. "Too soon. It doesn't matter, for ages."
She relaxed a fraction, as if she had been afraid he was
going to force her. "Tea?"
"Yes, please." He was surprised how thirsty he was. His
mouth was dry.
Matthew was in the kitchen with Mrs. Appleton, a square,
mild-faced woman with a stubborn jaw. Now she was standing
at the table with her back to the stove on which a kettle
was beginning to whistle. She wore her usual plain blue
dress, and her cotton apron was screwed up at the right-
hand corner as if she had unthinkingly used it to wipe the
tears from her eyes. She sniffed fiercely as she looked
first at Judith and then at Joseph, for once not bothering
to tell the dog not to come in. She drew in her breath to
say something, then decided she could not trust herself to
keep her composure. Clearing her throat loudly, she turned
to Matthew.
"Oi'll do that, Mr. Matthew. You'll only scald yourself.
You weren't never use to man nor beast in the kitchen. Do
nothing but take my jam tarts, as if there was no one else
in the house to eat 'em. Here!" She snatched the kettle
from him and with considerable clattering and banging made
the tea.
Lettie, the general housemaid, came in silently, her face
pale and tearstained. Judith asked her to make up Hannah's
room, and she departed to obey, glad to have something to
do.
Reginald, the only indoor manservant, appeared and asked
Joseph if they would want wine for dinner and if he should
lay out black clothes for him and Matthew.
Joseph declined the wine but accepted the offer to lay out
the mourning clothes, and Reginald left. Mrs. Appleton's
husband, Albert, was outside working off his grief alone,
digging in his beloved garden.
In the kitchen they sat around the scrubbed table in
silence, sipping the hot tea, each sunk in thought. The
room was as familiar as life itself. All four children had
been born in this house, learned to walk and talk here,
left through the front gate to go to school. Matthew and
Joseph had driven from here to go to university, Hannah to
go to her wedding in the village church. Joseph could
remember the endless fittings of her dress in the spare
bedroom, she standing as still as she could while Alys went
around her with pins in her hands and in her mouth, a tuck
here, a lift there, determined the gown should be perfect.
And it had been.
Now Alys would never be back. Joseph could remember her
perfume, always lily-of-the-valley. The bedroom would still
smell of it.
Hannah would be devastated. She was so close to her mother,
so like her in a score of ways, she would feel robbed of
the model for her life. There would be nobody to share with
her the small successes and failures in the home, the
children's growth, the new things learned. No one else
would reassure her anxieties, teach her the simple remedies
for a fever or sore throat, or show the easy way to mend,
to adapt, to make do. It was a companionship that was gone
forever.
For Judith it would be different, an open wound of things
not done, not said, and now unable ever to be put right.
Matthew set his cup down and looked across the table at
Joseph.
"I think we should go and sort some of the papers and
bills." He stood up, scraping his chair on the floor.
Judith seemed not to notice the tremor in his voice or the
fact that he was trying to exclude her.
Joseph knew what he meant: It was time to look for the
document. If it existed, then it should be here in the
house, although why John would have set out to show it to
Matthew and then not taken it with him was hard to
understand.
"Yes, of course," Joseph agreed, rising as well. They had
better give Judith something to do. She had no need to know
anything about this yet, and perhaps not at all. He turned
to her. "Would you go through the household accounts with
Mrs. Appleton and see if there is anything that needs
doing? Perhaps some orders should be canceled, or at least
reduced. And there may be invitations to be declined."
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
"You'll be staying?" Mrs. Appleton said with another
sniff. "What'll you be wanting for dinner, Mr. Joseph?"
"Nothing special," he answered. "Whatever you have."
"Oi've got cold salmon and summer pudding," she said a
little truculently, as if she were defending Alys's choice.
If it was good enough for the master and mistress, it was
certainly good enough for the young master, whatever had
happened in the world. "And there's some good Ely cheese,"
she added.
"That would be excellent, thank you." He then followed
Matthew, who was already at the door.
They went along the passage and across the hall to John
Reavley's study, overlooking the garden. The sun was still
well above the horizon and bathing the tops of the orchard
trees in gold. The leaves shimmered in the rising wind, and
a swirl of starlings rose into the sky, black against the
amber and flame, turning in wide spiral arms against the
sunset.
Joseph looked around the familiar room, almost like an
earlier pattern of his own in Cambridge. There was a simple
oak desk, shelves of books covering most of two walls. The
books dated back to John's university days. Some were in
German. Many were leather-bound, a few well-thumbed cloth
or even paper. There was a recently acquired folio of
drawings on the table by the window.
A Bonnington seascape hung over the fireplace, its color
neither blue nor green, but a luminous gray that holds both
at its heart. Looking at it, one could draw a cleaner
breath and almost feel the sting of the salt in the wind.
John Reavley had loved everything in this room. Each object
marked some happiness or beauty he had known, but the
Bonnington was special.
Joseph turned away from it. "I'll start over here," he
said, taking the first book off the shelf nearest the
window.
Matthew began with the desk.
They searched for half an hour before dinner, and all
evening afterward. Judith went to bed, and midnight found
the two brothers still sifting through papers, looking in
books a second or third time, even moving furniture.
Finally they admitted defeat and forced themselves into the
master bedroom to look with stiff fingers through drawers
of clothes, in shelves where toiletries and personal
jewelry were kept, in pockets of the clothes hanging in
wardrobes. There was no document.
At half past one, head throbbing, eyes stinging as if hot
and gritty, Joseph came to the end of places to
investigate. He straightened up, moving his shoulders
carefully to ease the ache. "It's not here," he said
wearily.
Matthew did not answer for several moments. He kept his
eyes on the drawer he had been going through for the third
time. "Father was very clear," he repeated stubbornly. "He
said the effect of it, the daring, was so vast it was
beyond most men's imagination. And terrible." He looked up
at last, his eyes red-rimmed, angry, as if Joseph were
attacking his judgment. "He couldn't trust anyone else
because of who was involved."
Joseph's imagination was too tired and too full of pain to
be inventive, even to save Matthew's feelings. "Then where
is it?" he demanded. "Would he trust it to the bank? Or the
solicitor?"
Denial was in Matthew's face, but he clung to the
possibility for a few seconds, because he could think of
nothing else.
"We'll have to speak to them tomorrow anyway." Joseph sat
down on the chair by the desk. Matthew was sitting beside
the drawers on the carpet.
"He wouldn't give it to Pettigrew." Matthew pushed his hair
back off his forehead. "They're just family solicitors—
wills and property."
"Then quite a safe place to hide something valuable and
dangerous," Joseph reasoned.
Matthew glared at him. "Are you trying to defend Father?
Prove that he wasn't imagining it out of something that was
really perfectly harmless?"
Joseph was stung by the accusation. It was exactly what he
was doing—defending, denying—and he was confused and dizzy
with loss. "Do I need to?" he demanded.
"Stop being so damn reasonable!" Matthew's voice cracked,
the emotion raw. "Of course you need to! It wasn't in the
car! It isn't in the house." He jerked his hand sharply
toward the door and the landing beyond. "Doesn't it sound
wild enough to you, unlikely enough? A piece of paper that
proves a conspiracy to ruin all we love and believe in—and
that goes right up to the royal family—but when we look for
it, it vanishes into the air!"
Joseph said nothing. The tag end of an idea pulled at his
mind, but he was too exhausted to grasp it.
"What is it?" Matthew said roughly. "What are you thinking?"
"Could it be obvious?" Joseph frowned. "I mean, something
we are seeing but not recognizing?"
Matthew looked round the room. "Like what? For God's sake,
Joe! A conspiracy of this magnitude! The document is not
going to be hung up on the wall along with the pictures!"
He put the papers in the drawer, climbed to his feet, and
carried it back to the desk. He replaced it in its slots
and pushed it closed. "And before you bother, I've taken
the backs off all the drawers and looked."
"Well, there are two possibilities." Joseph was driven to
the last conclusion. "Either there is such a document or
there isn't."
"You have a genius for the obvious!" Matthew said
bitterly. "I had worked that out for myself."
"And you concluded that there is? On what basis?"
"No!" Matthew snapped. "I just spent the evening ransacking
the house because I have nothing better to do!"
"You don't have anything better to do," Joseph answered
him. "We had to go through the papers anyway to find what
needs attending to." He gestured toward the separated
pile. "And the sooner we do it, the less bloody awful it
is. We can think of a conspiracy while we look, which is
easier than thinking that we are performing a sort of last
rite for both our parents."
"All right!" Matthew cut in. "I'm sorry." Again he pushed
the thick fair hair off his face. "But honestly, he sounded
so certain of it! His voice was charged with emotion, not a
bit dry and humorous as it usually is." His mouth pulled a
little crooked, and when he spoke again his voice
cracked. "I know what it must have cost him to call me on
something like that. He hated all the secret services. He
wouldn't have said anything if he hadn't been certain."
"Then he put it somewhere we haven't thought of yet,"
Joseph concluded. He stood up also. "Go to bed now. It's
nearly two, and there's a lot we have to do later."
"There was a telegram from Hannah. She's coming on the two-
fifteen. Will you go and meet her?" Matthew was rubbing his
forehead sore. "She's going to find this pretty hard."
"Yes, I know. I'll meet her. Albert will drive me. Can I
take your car?"
"Of course." Matthew shook his head. "I wonder why he
didn't drive Father yesterday."
"Or why Mother went," Joseph added. "It's all odd. I'll ask
Albert on the way to the station."
The next day was filled with small, unhappy duties. The
formal arrangements had to be made for the funeral. Joseph
went to see Hallam Kerr, the vicar, and sat in the tidy,
rather stiff vicarage parlor watching him trying to think
of something to say that would be of spiritual comfort and
finding nothing. Instead they spoke of the practicalities:
the day, the hour, who should say what, the hymns. It was a
timeless ritual that had been conducted in the old church
for every death in the village. The very familiarity of it
was comfortable, a reassurance that even if one individual
journey was ended, life itself was the same and always
would be. There was a kind of certainty in it that gave its
own peace.
Just before lunch Mr. Pettigrew came from the solicitors'
office, small and pale and very neat. He offered his
condolences and assured them that everything legal was in
order—and that he had been given no papers to keep
recently. In fact, not anything this year. A couple of
bonds in August of 1913 were the last things. He did not
yet mention the will, but they knew it would have to be
dealt with in time.
The bank manager, the doctor, and other neighbors called in
or left flowers and cards. Nobody knew what to say, but it
was done in kindness. Judith offered them tea, and
sometimes it was accepted and awkward conversations
followed.
In the early afternoon Albert Appleton drove Joseph to the
railway station at Cambridge to meet Hannah's train from
London. Joseph sat beside him in the front of Matthew's
Sunbeam Talbot as they followed the lanes between the late
wild roses and the ripening fields of corn already dappled
here and there with the scarlet of poppies.
Albert kept his eyes studiously on the road. He looked
tired, his skin papery under its dark sunburn, and he had
missed a little gray stubble on his cheek when he had
shaved this morning. He was not a man to give words to
grief, but he had come to St. Giles at eighteen and served
John Reavley all his adult life. For him this was the
ending of an age.
"Do you know why Father drove himself yesterday?" Joseph
asked as they passed into the shade under an avenue of elms.
"No, Mr. Joseph," Albert replied. It would be a long time
before he called Joseph "Mr. Reavley," if he ever
did. "Except there's a branch on the old plum tree in the
orchard hanging low, an' tossled in the grass. He wanted me
to see if Oi could save it. Oi propped it up, but that
don't always work. Get a bit o' wind an' it goes anyway,
but it tears it off rough. Leaves a gash in the trunk, an'
kill the whole thing. Get a bit parky an' the frost'll have
it anyway."
"I see. Can you save it?"
"Best to take it off."
"Do you know why Mother went with him?"
"Jus' liked to go with him, mebbe." He stared fixedly ahead.
Joseph did not speak again until they reached the station.
Albert had always been someone with whom it was possible to
sit in amicable silence, ever since Joseph had been a boy
nursing his dreams in the garden or the orchard.
Albert parked the car outside the station and Joseph went
in and onto the platform to wait. There were half a dozen
other people there, but he studiously avoided meeting
anyone's eye in case he encountered someone he knew. The
last thing he wanted was conversation.
The train was on time, belching steam and grinding to a
halt at the platform. The doors clanged open. People
shouted greetings and fumbled with baggage. He saw Hannah
almost immediately. The few other women were in bright
summer colors or delicate pastels. Hannah was in a slim
traveling suit of unrelieved black. The tapered hem at her
ankles was smudged with dust, and her neat hat was
decorated with black feathers. Her face was pale, and with
her wide brown eyes and soft features she looked so like
Alys that for a moment Joseph felt his emotions lurch out
of control and grief engulf him unbearably. He stood
motionless as people pushed past him, unable to think or
even focus his vision.
Then she was in front of him, portmanteau clutched in her
hand and tears spilling down her cheeks. She dropped the
bag on the platform and waited for him.
He put his arms around her and held her as close to him as
he could. He felt her shivering. He had already tried to
work out what to say to her, but now it all slipped away,
sounding hollow and predictable. He was a minister, the one
of all of them who was supposed to have the faith that
answered death and overcame the hollow pain that consumed
everything from the inside. But he knew what bereavement
was, sharply and recently, and no words had touched more
than the surface for him.
Please God, he must find something to say to Hannah! What
use was he if, of all people, he could not?
He let go of her at last and picked up her bag, carrying it
out to where Albert was waiting with the car.
She stopped, staring at the unfamiliar vehicle, as if she
had expected the yellow Lanchester. Then, with a gasp that
caught in her throat, she realized why it was not there.
Joseph took her by the elbow and helped her into the
backseat, straightening the slender black skirt around her
ankles before closing the door and going around to the
other side to get in next to her.
Albert got back in and started the engine.
Hannah said nothing. It was up to Joseph to speak before
the silence became too difficult. He had already decided
not to mention the document. It was an unneeded concern for
her.
"Judith will be glad to see you," he started.
She looked at him with slight surprise, and he knew
immediately that her thoughts had been inward, absorbed in
her own loss. As if she read his perception, she smiled
slightly, an admission of guilt.
He put out his hand, palm upward, and she slid hers across
and gripped his fingers. For several minutes she was
silent, blinking back the tears.
"If you can see sense in it," she said at last, "please
don't tell me now. I don't think I could bear it. I don't
want to know a God who could do this. Above all I don't
want to be told I should love Him. I don't!"
Several answers rose to his lips, all of them rational and
scriptural, and none of them answering her need.
"It's all right to hurt," he said instead. "I don't think
God expects any of us to take it calmly."
"Yes, He does!" She choked on the words. "'Thy will be
done'!" She shook her head fiercely. "Well, I can't say
that. It's stupid and senseless and horrible. There's
nothing good in it." She was fighting to make anger conquer
the fearful, consuming grief. "Was anyone else killed?" she
demanded. "The other car? There must have been another car.
Father wouldn't simply have driven off the road, whatever
anyone says."
"Nobody else was hurt, and there's no evidence of another
car."
"What do you mean, evidence?" she said furiously, the color
flooding her face. "Don't be so pedantic! So obscenely
reasonable! If nobody saw it, there wouldn't be!"
He did not argue. She needed to rage at someone, and he let
her go on until they were through the gates and had drawn
up at the front door. She took several long, shuddering
breaths, then blew her nose and said she was ready to go
inside. She seemed on the edge of saying something more,
something gentler, looking steadily at him through brimming
eyes. Then she changed her mind and stepped out of the door
as Albert held it for her and gave her his hand to steady
her.
They ate supper quietly together. Now and again one of them
spoke of small, practical things that had to be done, but
nobody cared about them. Grief was like a fifth entity in
the room, dominating the rest.
Afterward Joseph went to his father's study again and made
certain that all the letters had been written to friends to
inform them of John and Alys's death and tell them the time
of the funeral. He noticed that Matthew had written the one
letter he had considered most important, to Shanley
Corcoran, his father's closest friend. They had been at
university together—Gonville and Caius. Corcoran would be
one of the hardest to greet at the church because his pain
would be so deep and the memories were so long, woven into
so many of the best days right from the beginning.
And yet there were ways in which the sharing would also
help. Perhaps afterward they would be able to talk about
John in particular. It would keep some part of him alive.
Corcoran would never become bored with it or let the memory
sink into some pleasant region of the past where the
sharpness did not matter anymore.
About half past nine the village constable came by. He was
a young man of about Matthew's age, but he looked tired and
harassed.
"Oi'm sorry," he said, shaking his head and pursing his
lips. "We'll all miss 'em terrible. I never knew better
people."
"Thank you," Joseph said sincerely. It was good to hear,
even though it twisted the pain. To have said nothing would
be like denying they mattered.
"Sunday was a bad day all round," the constable went on,
standing uncomfortably in the hall. "Did you hear what
happened in Sarajevo?"
"No, what?" Joseph did not care in the slightest, but he
did not wish to be rude.
"Some madman shot the archduke of Austria—and the duchess,
too." The constable shook his head. "Both dead! Don't
suppose you've had time to look at the papers."
"No." Joseph was only half aware of what he was saying. He
had not given the newspapers a thought. The rest of the
world had seemed removed, not part of their lives. "I'm
sorry."
The constable shrugged. "Long way from here, sir. Probably
won't mean nothin' for us."
"No. Thank you for coming, Barker."
The constable's eyes flickered down. "I'm real sorry, Mr.
Reavley. It won't be the same without 'em."
"Thank you."