No Graves As Yet Read online

  “So you don’t agree with me, but you’ll quote my own words back at me in an argument?”

  She bit her lip. “Actually, I do agree with you. I just wasn’t going to say so then. You’re cocky enough.”

  “I’ll be careful.” He relaxed into a smile and leaned forward to touch her for a moment, and her hand closed tightly around his.

  The morning was overcast and heavy with the clinging heat of a storm about to break. Matthew went to church, largely because he wanted to catch up with Isenham as if by chance.

  The vicar caught sight of him in the congregation just before he began his sermon. Kerr was not a natural speaker, and the presence of overwhelming emotion in a member of his audience, especially one for whom he felt a responsibility, broke his concentration. He was embarrassed, only too obviously remembering the last time he had seen Matthew, which had been at his parents’ funeral. He had been unequal to the task then, and he knew he still was.

  Sitting in the fifth row back, Matthew could almost feel the sweat break out on Kerr’s body at the thought of facing him after the service and scrambling for something appropriate to say. He smiled to himself and stared back expectantly. The only alternative was to leave, and that would be even worse.

  Kerr struggled to the end. The last hymn was sung and the benediction pronounced, and row by row the congregation trooped out into the damp, motionless air.

  Matthew went straight to Kerr and shook his hand. “Thank you, Vicar,” he said courteously. He could not leave without speaking to him, and he did not want to get waylaid and miss the chance to bump into Isenham. “Just came home to see how Judith is.”

  “Not at church, I’m afraid,” Kerr replied dolefully. “Perhaps you could talk to her. Faith is a great solace at times like these.”

  It was clumsy. There were no other “times like these.” How many people have both their parents murdered in a single, hideous crime? Of course Kerr did not know it was murder. But given Judith’s character, the last thing poor Kerr needed was an encounter with her! He would attempt desperately to be kind, to say something that would be of value to her, and she would grow more and more impatient with him, until she let him see how useless he was.

  “Yes, of course,” Matthew murmured. “I’ll convey your good wishes to her. Thank you.” As he turned and left, he felt that was exactly what his mother would have said—or Joseph. And they would not have meant it any more than he did.

  He caught up with Isenham in the lane just beyond the lych-gate. The man was easily recognizable even from behind. He was of average height, but barrel-chested with close-cropped fair hair graying rapidly, and he walked with a slight swagger.

  He heard Matthew coming, even though his footsteps were light on the stony surface. He turned and smiled, holding out his hand. “How are you, Matthew? Bearing up?” It was a question, and also half an instruction. Isenham had served twenty years in the army and seen action in the Boer War. He believed profoundly in the Stoic values. Emotion was fine, even necessary, but it should never be given in to, except in the most private of times and places, and then only briefly.

  “Yes, sir.” Matthew knew what was expected, and he meant this encounter to earn him Isenham’s confidence and to learn from it anything John Reavley might have told him, even in the most indirect way. “The last thing Father would have wanted would be for us to fall apart.”

  “Quite! Quite!” Isenham agreed firmly. “Fine man, your father. We’ll all miss him.”

  Matthew fell into step beside him, as if he had been going that way, although as soon as they came to the end of the lane he would turn the opposite direction to go home.

  “I wish I’d known him better.” Matthew meant that with an intensity that showed raw through his voice, more than he wanted. He meant to be in control of this conversation. “I expect you were probably as close as anyone,” he continued more briskly. “Funny how differently family see a person . . . until you’re adult, anyway.”

  Isenham nodded. “Yes. Never thought of it, but I suppose you’re right. Funny thing, that. Look at one’s parents in a different light, I suppose.” Unconsciously he increased his pace.

  Matthew kept up with him easily, as his legs were longer. “You were probably the last person he really talked with,” he went on. “I hadn’t seen him the previous weekend, nor had Joseph, and Judith was out so often.”

  “Yes, I suppose I was.” Isenham dug his hands deep into his pockets. “It’s been a very bad time. Did you hear about Sebastian Allard? Dreadful business.” He hesitated an instant. “Joseph will be very upset about that, too. I daresay the boy wouldn’t even have gone up to Cambridge, if it weren’t for Joseph’s encouragement.”

  “Sebastian Allard?” Matthew was confused.

  Isenham turned to look at him, stopping in the road where it had already changed into the long, tree-lined avenue down toward his own house. “Oh, dear. No one told you.” He looked a trifle abashed. “I presume they felt you’d had enough to get over. Sebastian Allard was murdered, in Cambridge. Right in college . . . St. John’s. Devilish thing. Yesterday morning. I only heard from Hutchinson. He’s known the Allards for years. Dreadfully cut up, of course.” He pursed his lips. “Can’t expect you to feel the same, naturally. I imagine you’ve got all the grief you can manage at the moment.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Matthew said quietly. There was no sound here in the shelter of the trees and not a breath in the air. “What an appalling tragedy,” he said to fill the silence. “I must call in on Joseph before I go back to London. He’ll be very grieved. He’s known Sebastian for years.” He was aware of the numbing pain Joseph would feel, but now he wanted to ask Isenham about John Reavley. He forced all other thoughts out of his mind and kept pace with him in the shade of the ancient elms that closed out the sky above them.

  Again the tiny thunder flies were hovering, irritating the eyes and face. Matthew swatted at them, even though he knew it was useless. If only it would hurry up and rain! He did not mind getting wet, and it would be a good excuse to stay at Isenham’s house longer. “Actually, it’s been a pretty rotten time altogether,” he continued. “I know a good few people are worried about this Balkan business.”

  Isenham took his hands out of his pockets. “Ah! Now there you have a real cause for anxiety,” he said, his broad, windburned face intensely serious. “That’s very worrying, you know? Yes, I expect you do know . . . I daresay more than I do, eh?” He searched Matthew’s eyes intently.

  Matthew was a little taken aback. He had not realized that Isenham knew where he worked. Presumably John had said something? In pride, or confiding a shame? The thought stung with all the old sharpness, multiplied by the fact that now Matthew would never be able to prove to his father the value of his profession, and that it was not devious or grubby, full of betrayals and moral compromise.

  “Yes,” Matthew acknowledged. “Yes, it’s pretty ugly. Austria has demanded reparation, and the kaiser has reasserted Germany’s alliance with them. And of course the Russians are bound to be loyal to Serbia.”

  The first heavy drops of rain spattered on the leaves, and far in the distance thunder rattled like a heavy cart over cobbles, jolting and jarring around the horizon.

  “War,” Isenham said succinctly. “Drag us all in, damn it! Need to get ready for it. Prepare men and guns.”

  “Did Father know that, do you think?” Matthew asked.

  Isenham pursed his lips before responding. “Not sure, honestly.” It was an unfinished remark, as if he had stopped before he said too much.

  Matthew waited.

  Isenham looked unhappy, but he apparently realized he had to continue. “Seemed a trifle odd lately. Nervous, you know? He . . . er . . .” He shook his head. “The day before he died he expected war.” He was puzzled. “Not like him, not at all.” He increased his pace, his body stiff, shoulders straight. The rain was beating on the canopy of leaves above them and beginning to come through. “Sorry, Matthew, but there it is.
Can’t lie about it. Definitely odd.”

  “In what way?” Matthew asked, the words coming automatically as his mind raced to absorb this new information and at the same time defend himself from what it meant.

  He was relieved that the weather made it so easy to stay with Isenham, although at the same time it allowed him no excuse to avoid asking still more searching questions. Thank goodness the house was no more than sixty yards away or they would get very wet indeed. Isenham bent forward and began to run. “Come on!” he shouted. “You’ll get soaked, man!”

  They reached the gate of his garden and dashed through to open the front door. The path was already swimming in water, and the smell of hot, wet earth filled the air. Plants drooped under the fierceness of the storm as it drummed on the leaves.

  As Matthew turned to close the gate behind him, he saw a man walking across the lane, coat collar turned up, dark face shining wet. Then the figure disappeared through the trees.

  Matthew found Isenham inside and stood dripping in the hallway, surrounded by oak paneling, hunting prints, and leather straps with horse brasses in dozens of different designs.

  “Thank you.” Matthew accepted the towel Isenham offered him and dried his hands and his face on it. The rain could not have come at a better time if he had designed it. “I think there were certain groups Father was worried about,” he went on, picking up the conversation before their dash to the gate.

  Isenham lifted his shoulders in a gesture of denial and took the towel back, dropping it on the floor by the cloakroom door along with his own. “He said something about plots, but frankly, Matthew, it was all a bit . . . fanciful.” He evidently had struggled to find a polite word, but the real meaning was plain in his face. He shook his head. “Most of our disasters came from good, old-fashioned British blunders. We don’t plot our way into wars. We trip over our own feet and fall into them by accident.” He winced, looking apologetic, and rubbed his hand over his wet hair. “Win in the end, on the principle that God looks after fools and drunkards. Presumably he has a soft spot for us as well.”

  “You don’t think he could have found something?”

  Isenham’s face tightened. “No. He lost the thread a bit, honestly. He rambled on about the mutiny in the Curragh—at least that’s what I think he was talking about. Wasn’t very clear, you know. Said it would get a lot worse, hinted that it would end in a conflagration that could engulf all England, even Europe.” He colored with embarrassment. “Nonsense, you see? War minister resigned and all that, I know, but hardly Europe in flames. Don’t suppose anyone across the Channel gives a damn about it one way or the other. Got their own problems. You’d better stay for a bite of lunch,” he added, looking at Matthew’s sodden shoulders and feet. “I’ve got a telephone. Call Judith and let her know.”

  He turned and led the way to the dining room, where his housekeeper had laid out cold meat, pickles, fresh bread and butter, a newly baked pie that had barely cooled, and a jug of thick cream.

  “Sufficient for two, I think,” he pronounced. He ignored his own wet clothes because he could do nothing about Matthew’s. It was part of his code of hospitality that he should sit to dine in dripping trouser legs, because his guest was obliged to do so.

  “You don’t think the Irish situation could escalate?” Matthew said when they were halfway through the excellent cold lamb and he had taken the edge off his hunger.

  “To involve Europe? Not a chance of it. Domestic matter. Always has been.” Isenham took another mouthful and swallowed before continuing. “I’m sorry, but poor old John was a bit misled. Ran off with the wrong end of things. It happens.”

  It was the note of pity in his voice that Matthew could not bear. He thought of his father and saw his face as vividly as if he had left the room only minutes before, grave and gentle, his eyes as direct as Judith’s. He had a quick temper at times and he suffered fools badly, but he was a man without guile. To hear him spoken of with such condescension hurt fiercely, and Matthew was instantly defensive.

  “What do you mean?” he demanded. “What happens?” He heard the anger inside himself and knew he had to control it. He was sitting in Isenham’s house, eating his food, and more important than that, he needed his help. “What was it he was afraid of?”

  “Best leave it,” Isenham replied, looking down at his plate and very carefully balancing a piece of pickle on the crust of his bread.

  “Are you saying he was deluded?” The instant it was out, he wished he had chosen a word less pejorative. He was betraying his own hurt, as well as leaving himself unguarded. It sabotaged his purpose. He was angry with himself. He had more skill than that!

  Isenham raised his eyes, hot and miserable. “No, no, of course not. He was just . . . a little jumpy. I daresay we all are, what with the army mutinying, and then all this violence in the Balkans.”

  “Father didn’t know about the archduke,” Matthew pointed out. “He and Mother were killed that day themselves.”

  “Killed?” Isenham asked.

  Matthew amended it instantly. “When the car went off the road.”

  “Of course. I’m . . . I’m sorrier than I can say. Look, wouldn’t you rather—”

  “No. I’d like to know what he was worried about. You see, he mentioned it to me, but only briefly.” Was that a risk? It was a deliberate one. He watched Isenham’s face minutely for even a flicker of the eyes that would give away more than the older man had said, but there was none. Isenham was merely embarrassed.

  “I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t want to let down an old friend. Remember him as he was, Matthew.”

  “Was it really so bad?” It was barely within Matthew’s control not to lash back.

  Isenham flushed. “No, of course not! Just . . . just a misinterpretation of facts, I think. A touch overdramatic, out of proportion. After all . . .” He was trying to make it better, and failing. “We’ve always had wars here or there over the last thousand years or so. It’s our national spirit, our destiny, if you like.” His voice lifted with his own belief. “We’ll survive it. We always do. It’ll be nasty for a while, but I daresay it won’t last more than a few months.”

  It was clear to Matthew that Isenham was aware of having revealed his friend’s weakness to the man’s own son, and when John Reavley was not here to defend himself. “I’m sure in a little while he would have seen that,” he added lamely.

  Matthew leaned forward, elbows on the table. “What was it he thought?” He felt his heart hammering.

  “That’s it,” Isenham said, shaking his head from side to side. “He wasn’t clear. Honestly, Matthew, I don’t think he knew! I think . . . I didn’t want to say this, but you force me to.” He looked resentful, his face red even under his windburn. “I think he got hold of half an idea and imagined the rest. He wouldn’t tell me what it was because I don’t think he could. But it had something to do with honor . . . and he wanted war. There! I’m sorry. I knew it would hurt you, but you insisted.”

  It was preposterous. John Reavley would never countenance war, no matter what anyone had done. It was barbaric, revolting! It was utterly unlike anything he believed in and had fought for all his life, against all the decency he had treasured, nurtured, every human faith he had professed! The very reason at the heart of his hatred of the intelligence services was what he saw as their dishonesty, then manipulation of people to serve nationalist ends, and ultimately to make war more likely.

  “He wouldn’t want war!” Matthew said aloud, his voice shaking. The mere idea tore away all that was certain inside him.

  But then, how well had he known his father? How many children knew their fathers as men, as fighters, lovers, friends? Do children ever become old enough to see clearly beyond the tie of love?

  “He wouldn’t ever want war!” Matthew repeated intensely, fixing Isenham with a glare.

  Isenham nodded. “He had half a story and he wasn’t making sense of it. He was a good man. Remember that, Matthew, and forget
the rest.” He took another bite of bread and pickle, then helped himself to more meat, speaking with his mouth full. “This kind of tension makes everyone a bit jumpy. Fear does different things to people. Some run away. Some go forward to meet it before it’s there—can’t bear the suspense. Seems John was one of those. Seen it out on the hunting field sometimes, more in the army. Takes a strong man to wait.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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