No Graves As Yet wwi-1 Read online

  Joseph thought of Mary Allard and how her grief would consume her. No mother can bear the death of her child, but Mary had loved Sebastian with a fierce, all-enveloping pride. She saw in him everything that fed her ambition and her dreams.

  He could understand it so easily. Sebastian had possessed an energy of the spirit that lit not only his own vision, but that of others as well. He had touched their lives, whether they wished it or not. It was impossible to believe that his mind did not exist anymore. How could Mary Allard ever bear it?

  “Yes,” he said, turning to her with sudden urgency. “You will have to look after them, and not be hurt or dismayed if they are in the kind of pain that unintentionally wounds others carelessly, or even on purpose. Sometimes when we are drowning in our own loss we lash out—anger is momentarily easier to cope with.” That was hideously true, and yet he was speaking not from his own passion but in the accustomed platitudes he had used for years. He was ashamed of himself, but he did not know what else to say. If he laid open his own feelings, he would allow her to see the rage and confusion inside him, and he could not afford that. She would be repelled by its savagery—and frightened.

  “I know.” She smiled with great sweetness. “You don’t need to tell me . . . or to worry about them.” She spoke as if he had answered her need. “Thank you.” He had to escape before he broke the grace of her judgment. “Yes . . . thank you. I must see what else I can do.” And he excused himself and left, still barefoot and now feeling ridiculous in the broad daylight. He had given no answers at all, not from faith. He had simply provided the advice of common sense: Deal with what one can. At least do something.

  He went under the archway into his own quad. Two students returning from early exercise stared at him in amusement and smothered laughter. Did they imagine he was coming back in his pajamas after an assignation? At another time he would have corrected them and left them in no doubt, but now the words died on his tongue. It was as if there were two realities, side by side, glittering, bright as shattered glass, one in which death was violent and terrible, the smell of blood was in the throat, and images floated before the eyes, even when they were closed—and another reality in which he merely looked absurd, wandering around in his dressing gown.

  He did not trust himself to speak to the students in case he screamed the dreadful truth. He could hear his own voice inside his head, wild and soaring out of control.

  He ran awkwardly across the last few yards to the door, then up the stairs, tripping and stumbling, until he threw open the door to his own room and slammed it behind him.

  He stood still, breathing heavily. He must get control of himself. There were things to do, duties—duty always helped. First, he should finish shaving and get dressed. He must make himself look respectable. He would feel better. And eat something! Except that his stomach was churning and his throat ached so abominably he would not be able to swallow.

  He took off his dressing gown. It was a flat, baking summer in Cambridge, and he was cold. He could smell blood and fear, as if he were coated with them.

  Very carefully, because his hands were stiff, he ran hot water and washed himself, then stared at his face in the glass. Black eyes looked back at him above high cheekbones, a strong, slightly aquiline nose, and a highly individual mouth. His flesh looked gray, even beneath the dark stubble of his half-shaved beard. There was something waxen about him.

  Even shaving slowly and carefully, he still cut himself. He put on a clean shirt, and his fingers could not find the buttons or get them through the holes.

  It was all absurd, idiotic! The students had thought he was off on some amorous encounter. Looking like this? He was a man walking through a nightmare. And yet he had been so aware of Connie Thyer . . . the warmth of her, the sweet smell, her closeness. How could he even think of such a thing now?

  Because he was blindingly, desperately alone! He would have given anything at all to have had Eleanor here, to take her in his arms and cling to her, have her hold him, take some of this unbearable loss from him.

  His parents were dead, crushed and tossed aside, for a document. And now Sebastian, his brain destroyed, blasted into wreckage by a bullet.

  Everything was slipping away, all that was good and precious and gave light and meaning. What was there left that he dared love anymore? When would God smash that and take it away?

  This was the last time he was ever going to let it happen. There was going to be no more pain like this! He could not open himself up to it.

  Habit told him that it was not God’s fault. How many times had he explained that to other people who were screaming inside because of something they could not bear?

  Yes, it was! He could have done something! If He couldn’t manage that, why was He God?

  And the ice-cold voice of reason said: There is no God. You are alone.

  That was the worst truth of all: alone. The word was a kind of death.

  He stood still for several minutes, no coherent thoughts in his head. The coldness didn’t stay. He was too angry. Someone had killed John and Alys Reavley, and he was helpless to find out who or why.

  Memories flooded back of pottering quietly in the garden, John telling long, rambling jokes, the smell of lily-of-the-valley, Hannah brushing Alys’s hair, Sunday dinner.

  He leaned against the mantel and wept, letting go of the self-control at last and freeing the grief to wash over him and take hold.

  By midmorning he was still ashen-faced, but composed. His bedder, the elderly woman who tidied and cared for all the rooms on this stair, had been in, shaking and tearful, but she completed her duty. The police had arrived, led by an Inspector Perth, a man of barely average height with receding hair sprinkled with gray, and crooked teeth, two missing. He spoke quietly, but he moved with unswerving purpose. Although he was gentle with the grieving and severely rattled students, he allowed none of his questions to go unanswered.

  As soon as Inspector Perth discovered that the dean was absent in Italy but that Joseph was an ordained minister, he asked him to stay at hand. “Might help,” he said with a nod. He did not explain if it was to ensure truthfulness among the students or for the comfort of their distress.

  “Seems nobody came nor went during the night,” Perth said, looking at Joseph with sharp gray eyes. They were alone in the master’s lodge, Mitchell having been sent on some errand. “No break-in. My men’ve bin all over. Sorry, Reverend, but it looks like your young Mr. Allard—the dead one, that is—must’ve bin shot by someone inside the college here. Police surgeon might be able to tell us what time, but it doesn’t make no difference for who could’ve bin there. He was up an’ dressed an’ sitting at his books—”

  “I touched his cheek,” Joseph interrupted him. “When I went in. It wasn’t cold . . . I mean, it was . . . cool.” He shuddered inside at the memory. That had been three hours ago. Sebastian would be cold now, the spirit, the dreams, and the hunger that made him unique dissolved into—what? He knew what the answer was supposed to be . . . but he had no inner fire that affirmed it to him.

  Perth was nodding, biting his lip. “Sounds right, sir. Looks like he knew whoever did it, from what Oi’ve bin told. You knew him, Reverend. Was he the sort of young gentleman to let in someone he didn’t know, at that time—which looks to’ve bin about half past five—an’ while he was studying?”

  “No. He was a very serious student,” Joseph replied. “He would resent the intrusion. People don’t normally call on anyone before breakfast unless it’s an emergency.”

  “What Oi thought,” Perth agreed. “An’ we’ve searched all over the room, an’ the gun’s not there. We’ll be going over the whole college for it, of course. Don’t look like he put up any sort of a fight. Took by surprise, by all we can see. Someone he trusted.”

  Joseph had thought the same thing, but until now he had not put it in those words. It was indescribably ugly.

  Perth was staring at him. “Spoken to a few of the young gentlemen, sir. Asked
if anyone heard a shot, seeing as there must’ve bin one. One young gentleman said he heard a bang, but he didn’t take notice. Thought it was just something in the street, car mebbe, and he doesn’t know what time it was. Went back to sleep again.” Perth chewed his lip. “An’ no one has any thoughts as to why, least none as how they’ll own to. All seem took by surprise. But it’s early days. D’you know of anyone who had a brangle with him? Jealous, mebbe? He was a very good-looking young man. Clever, too, by accounts—good scholar, one of the best. First-class honors, they say.” His expression was carefully unreadable.

  “You don’t kill people because they outshine you academically!” Joseph said with too much of an edge to his voice. He was being rude and he could not help it. His hands were shaking and he felt dry-mouthed.

  “Don’t you?” Perth left it as a question unanswered. He sat on the edge of the porter’s desk. “Why do you kill someone, then, Reverend? Young gentlemen like these, with every advantage in the world an’ their whole lives to look forward to?” He waved at the chair for Joseph to sit down. “What would make one o’ them take a gun an’ go into someone’s rooms afore six in the morning an’ shoot him in the head? Must’ve bin a powerful reason, sir, something for which there weren’t no other answer.”

  Joseph’s legs were weak, and he sank into the chair.

  “An’ it weren’t spur of the moment, like,” Perth continued. “Someone got up special, took a gun with ’em, an’ there was no quarrel, or Mr. Allard wouldn’t’ve bin sitting back all relaxed, with not a book out of place.” He stopped and waited, staring curiously at Joseph.

  “I don’t know.” The full enormity of it was settling on him so heavily he could scarcely fill his lungs with air. His mind flickered over the other students closest to Sebastian. Whom could he have let in at that hour and remained seated talking to him instead of getting up and fairly robustly telling him to come back at a more civilized time? Elwyn, of course. And why had Elwyn gone to see him so early? Joseph had not asked him, but no doubt Perth would.

  Nigel Eardslie. He and Sebastian had shared an interest in Greek poetry. Eardslie was the better language scholar, he had the vocabulary, but he had less feeling for the music and the rhythm of it, or for the subtlety of the culture. They collaborated well, and both enjoyed it, often publishing the results in one of the college magazines. If Eardslie had also been up early studying and found a particularly good line or phrase, one that he almost gripped but not quite, he would have disturbed Sebastian, even at that time.

  But Joseph would not tell Perth that, at least not yet.

  And there were Foubister and Morel, good friends to each other, with whom Sebastian and Peter Rattray often made a four for tennis. Rattray was keen on debate, and he and Sebastian had indulged in many all-night arguments, to the intense pleasure of both of them. Although that did not seem a reason for going to anyone’s rooms so early.

  Who else was there? At least half a dozen others came to his mind, all of whom were still here in college for one reason or another, but he could not imagine any of them even thinking of violence, let alone acting it out.

  Perth was watching him, content to wait, patient as a cat at a mousehole.

  “I have no idea,” Joseph repeated helplessly, aware that Perth would know he was being evasive. How could any man who was trained in the spiritual care of people, living and working with a group of students, be totally blind to a passion so intense it ended in murder? Such terror or hatred does not spring whole into being in a day. How was it that he had not seen it?

  “How long’ve you bin here, Reverend?” Perth asked.

  Joseph felt himself blushing, the heat painful in his face. “A little over a year.” He had to have seen it, merely refused to recognize it for what it was. How stupid! How totally useless!

  “An’ you taught Mr. Sebastian Allard? What about his brother, Mr. Elwyn? Did you teach him, too?”

  “For a while, for Latin. He dropped it.”

  “Why?”

  “He found it difficult, and he didn’t think it was necessary for his career. He was right.”

  “So he weren’t so clever as his brother?”

  “Very few were. Sebastian was remarkably gifted. He would have . . .” The words stuck in his throat. Without any warning, the reality of death engulfed him again. All the golden promise he had seen ahead for Sebastian was gone, as if night had obstructed daylight. It took him a moment to regain control of himself so he could continue speaking. “He had a remarkable career ahead of him,” he finished.

  “Doing what?” Perth raised his eyebrows.

  “Almost anything he wanted.”

  “Schoolmaster?” Perth frowned. “Preacher?”

  “Poet, philosopher. In government if he wanted.”

  “Government? Learning old languages?” Perth was utterly confused.

  “A lot of our greatest leaders have begun with a degree in classics,” Joseph explained. “Mr. Gladstone is the most obvious example.”

  “Well, I never knew that!” Perth clearly found it beyond his comprehension.

  “You don’t understand,” Joseph went on. “At university there are always those who are more brilliant than you are, more spectacularly gifted in a particular area. If you didn’t know that when you came, you would certainly learn it very quickly. Every student here has sufficient talent and intellect to succeed, if he works. I know of no one foolish enough to carry anything more than a passing moment of envy for a superior mind.” He said it with absolute certainty, and it was only when he looked at Perth’s expression that he realized how condescending he sounded, but it was too late to retrieve it.

  “So you didn’t notice anything at all?” Perth observed. It was impossible to tell if he believed that, or what he thought of a teacher and minister who could be so blind.

  Joseph felt like a new student chastised for a stupid mistake. “Nothing I thought could lead to more than a passing stiffness, a distance,” he defended himself. “Young men are emotional, highly strung sometimes. Exams . . .” He tailed off, not knowing what else to add. He was trying to explain a culture and a way of life to a man for whom it was totally foreign. The gulf between a Cambridge student and a policeman was unbridgeable. How could Perth possibly understand the passions and dreams that impelled young men from backgrounds of privilege and in most cases a degree of wealth, men whose academic gifts were great enough to earn them places here? He must come from an ordinary home where learning was a luxury, money never quite enough, necessity a constant companion on the heels of labor.

  A cold breath touched him—fear that Perth would inevitably come to wrong conclusions about these young men, misunderstand what they said and did, mistake motives, and blame innocence, simply because it was all alien to him. And the damage would be irretrievable.

  And then the moment after, his own arrogance struck him like a blow. He belonged to the same world, he had known all of them for at least a year and seen them almost every day during term time, and he had not had even the faintest idea of hatred slowly building until it exploded in lethal violence.

  There must have been signs; he had ignored them, misinterpreted them as harmless, and misread everything they meant. He would like to think it had been charity, but it wasn’t. To have been blind to the truth was stupidity at best; at worst it was also moral cowardice. “If I can help you, of course I will,” he said much more humbly. “I . . . I am as . . . shocked . . .”

  “O’ course you are, sir,” Perth said with surprising gentleness. “Everybody is. No one expects anything like this to happen. Just tell me if you remember anything or if you see anything now. An’ no doubt you’ll be doing what you can to help the young gentlemen. Some of ’em look pretty frangled.”

  “Yes, naturally. Is there . . .”

  “Nothing, sir,” Perth assured him.

  Joseph thanked him and left, going outside into the bright, hard sunlight of the quad. Almost immediately he ran into Lucian Foubister, his face white
, his dark hair on end as if he had run his hands through it again and again.

  “Dr. Reavley!” he gasped. “They think one of us did it! That can’t be true. Someone else must’ve . . .” He stopped in front of Joseph, blocking his way. He did not know how to ask for help, but his eyes were desperate. He was a northerner from the outskirts of Manchester, accustomed to rows of brick houses back to back with each other, cold water and privies. The Cambridge world of ancient, intricate beauty, space, and leisure had stunned and changed him forever. He could never truly belong here; neither could he return to what he had been before. Now he looked younger than his twenty-two years, and thinner than Joseph had remembered.

  “It appears that it was,” Joseph said gently. “We may be able to find some other answer, but no one broke in, and Sebastian was sitting quite calmly in his chair, which suggests he was not afraid of whoever entered his room.”

  “Then it must have been an accident,” Foubister said breathlessly. “And . . . and whoever it was is too scared to own up to it. Can’t blame him, really. But he’ll say, when he realizes the police are thinking it’s murder.” He stopped again, his eyes searching Joseph’s, begging to be reassured.

  It was an answer Joseph longed to believe. Whoever had committed such an act would be devastated. To run away was cowardly, and he would be ashamed, but better that than murder. And it would mean Joseph had not been blind to hatred. There had been none to see.

  “I hope that’s true,” he answered, placing a hand on Foubister’s arm. “Wait and see what happens. And don’t leap to judgment yet.”

  Foubister nodded, but he said nothing. Joseph watched as he hurried away to the opposite side. As clearly as if he had been told, Joseph knew he was going straight to see his friend Morel.

  Gerald and Mary Allard arrived before noon. They had only to come from Haslingfield, about four miles to the southwest. The first shock of the news must have reached them after breakfast, almost certainly leaving them too stunned to react immediately. There may have been people to tell, perhaps a doctor or a priest, and other members of the family.