No Graves As Yet Page 8

  Sebastian looked at him, his back to the last of the light, so Joseph could not make out his expression. His voice was rough-edged. “You don’t think this is different? A hundred years ago we were nearly conquered by Napoleon.”

  Joseph realized he had made a tactical error in choosing a hundred years as an example. “Yes, but we weren’t,” he said confidently. “No French soldier set foot in England, except as a prisoner.”

  “As you said, sir, things have changed in a hundred years,” Sebastian pointed out. “We have steamships, airplanes, guns that can shoot further and destroy more than ever before. A west wind won’t keep the navies of Europe locked in harbor now.”

  “You’re allowing your fears to run away with your reason,” Joseph chided him. “We have had far more desperate times, but we have always prevailed. And we have grown stronger since the Napoleonic Wars, not weaker. You must have faith in us . . . and in God.”

  Sebastian gave a little grunt, ironic and dismissive, as if there were some deeper fear he could not explain, one that Joseph seemed to refuse or to be incapable of understanding. “Why?” he said bitterly. “The Israelites were the chosen people, and where are they now? We study their language as a curiosity. It matters only because it is the language of Christ, whom they denied and crucified. If the Bible didn’t speak of Him, we wouldn’t care about Hebrew. We can’t say that of English. Why should anyone remember it if we were conquered? For Shakespeare? We don’t remember the language of Aristotle, Homer, Aeschylus. It’s taught in the best schools, to the privileged few, as a relic of a great civilization of the past.” His voice choked with sudden, uncontrollable anger and his face was twisted with pain. “I don’t want to become a relic! I want people a thousand years from now to speak the same tongue that I do, to love the same beauty, to understand my dreams and how they mattered to me. I want to write something, or even do something, that preserves the soul of who we are.”

  The last of the light was now only a pale wash low across the horizon. “War changes us, even if we win.” He turned away from Joseph, as if to hide a nakedness within. “Too many of us become barbarians of the heart. Have you any idea how many could die? How many of those left would be consumed by hate, all over Europe? Everything that was good in them eaten away by the things they had seen and, worse, the things they had been forced to do?”

  “It won’t happen!” Joseph responded, and the moment the words were gone from his lips he wondered if they were true. “If you can’t have faith in people, the leaders of nations, then have faith that God will not allow the world to plunge into the kind of destruction you are thinking of,” he said. “What purpose of His could it serve?”

  Sebastian’s lip curled in a tiny smile. “I’ve no idea! I don’t know the purposes of God! Do you, sir?” The softness of his voice, and the sir on the end, robbed it of offense.

  “To save the souls of men,” Joseph replied without hesitation.

  “And what does that mean?” Sebastian turned back to face him. “Do you suppose He sees it the same way I do?” Again the smile touched his lips, this time self-mocking.

  Joseph was obliged to smile in answer, although the sadness jolted him as if the fading of the light were in some terrible way a permanent thing. “Not necessarily,” he conceded. “But He is more likely to be right.”

  Sebastian did not reply, and they walked slowly along the grass as the breeze rose a little. All the punts were gone to their moorings, and the spires of stone in the arched top of the Bridge of Sighs were barely darker than the sky beyond.

  Matthew returned to London, going first to his flat. It was exactly as he had left it, except that the maid had tidied it, but it felt different. It should have had the comfort of home. It was where he had lived for the last five years, ever since he had left university and begun working for the Intelligence Service. It was full of the books, drawings, and paintings he had collected. His favorite painting, hanging over the fire, was of cows in the corner of the field. For him their gentle rumination, calm eyes, and slow generosity seemed the ultimate sanity in the world. On the mantel was a silver vase his mother had given him one Christmas, and a Turkish dagger with a highly ornamental scabbard.

  But the flat was oddly empty. He felt as if he were returning not to the present but to the past. When he had last sat in the worn leather armchair or eaten at this table, his family was whole, and he knew of no vanishing document that was at the heart of conspiracy, violence, and secrets that brought death. The world had not been exactly safe, but whatever dangers there were lay in places far distant, and only the periphery of them touched England, or Matthew himself.

  He spent a long evening deep in thought. It was the first time he had been alone more than to sleep since he had walked across the grass at Fenner’s Field to break the news to Joseph. Questions crowded his mind.

  John Reavley had called him on Saturday evening, not here at his flat, but at his office in the Intelligence Services. He had been working late, on the Irish problems, as usual. The Liberal government had been trying to pass a Home Rule bill to give Ireland autonomy since the middle of the previous century, and time after time the Protestants of Ulster had blocked it, refusing absolutely to be forcibly separated from Britain and placed in Catholic Ireland. They believed that both their religious freedom and their economic survival depended upon remaining free from such a forced integration, and ultimately subjection.

  Government after government had fallen on the issue, and now Arquill’s personal Liberal Party required the support of the Irish Parliamentary Party in order to retain power.

  Shearing, Matthew’s superior, shared the view of many others that there was a great deal of political maneuvering in London behind the mutiny of British troops stationed in the Curragh. When the men of Ulster, solidly backed by their women, had threatened armed rebellion against the Home Rule bill, the British troops had refused to take up arms against them. General Gough had resigned, with all his officers, whereupon Sir John French, chief of the General Staff in London, had resigned also, immediately followed by Sir John Seely, secretary for war in the Cabinet.

  Little wonder Shearing and his men worked late. The situation threatened to become a crisis as grave as any in the last three hundred years.

  Matthew had been in his office when the call came from John Reavley telling him of the document and that he was going to drive to London with it the following day, expecting to arrive between half past one and two o’clock. He would bring Alys with him, ostensibly for an afternoon in the city, but in order to make his trip unremarkable.

  How had anyone else known that he even had the document, let alone that he was taking it to Matthew, and the time of his journey? If he came by car, the route was obvious. There was only one main road from St. Giles to London.

  Matthew cast his mind back to that evening, the offices almost silent, hardly anyone there, just half a dozen men, perhaps a couple of clerks. He remembered standing at his desk with the telephone in his hand, the disbelief at what his father had said. Matthew had repeated what his father had said, to make certain he had heard correctly.

  The cold ran through him. Was that it? In the quiet office someone had overheard him? That had been enough. Who? He tried to recall who else had been there, but one late night blended into another. He had heard footsteps, voices deliberately kept low so as not to disturb others. He might not have recognized them then; he certainly could not now.

  But he could find out, discreetly. He could at least trace the possibly treasonous behavior among his own colleagues—when even a week ago he would have trusted them all without hesitation.

  When he arrived in the morning everything was familiar: the cramped spaces, the echoing wooden floor, the black telephones, the dust motes in the air, the worn surfaces, and the harsh desk lamps, unnecessary now in the sunlight through the windows. Clerks bustled back and forth, shirtsleeves grimy from endless papers and ink, collars stiff and often a trifle crooked.

  They wished
him good morning and offered their condolences, shy and awkward and, for all he could see, intensely sincere. He thanked them and went to his own small room, where books were wedged into too small a case and papers were locked in drawers. The inkwell and blotting papers were just as usual, not quite straight on his desk, two pens lying beside them. The blotting paper was clean. He never left anything that might be decipherable.

  He fished for his keys to unlock the top drawer. At first it did not slide in easily, but took a moment of fiddling. He bent to look more closely, and that was when he saw the finest of scratches on the metal around the keyhole. It had not been there when he left. So someone had searched here, too.

  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 l
ying, 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.