Angels in the Gloom_ A Novel - Anne Perry [106]
“He’s not home yet,” she said, showing Joseph into the drawing room. The curtains were still open to let in the evening light. Orla looked elegant and faintly exotic with her smooth, dark hair and her eyes so black it was impossible to read their expression.
Joseph could not afford to worry about keeping Archie waiting outside. “Then may I wait?” he asked. “It’s important.”
She stood motionless, lean and graceful, the sun on her shoulders. “Is it about Blaine’s death?” she said quietly. It was a natural guess.
“Yes. I’m sorry.” Did she know, too? Was she just as afraid for Shanley as he was? He realized with shock that in spite of all the years of superficial familiarity he did not know her anything like as well as he knew her husband. She never spoke of herself, always of him. Joseph knew nothing of her dreams, beliefs, or what she might have wanted apart from being Mrs. Corcoran. How deeply did it hurt her that she had no children? He had never seen her spend time alone with any of his own family, nor did she now call on Hannah. It was always Shanley who took the lead.
Was she simply shy? Or uninterested? Or guarding a hurt too deep to expose, even to friends? The mask of shadow created by the sunlight behind her showed nothing in her face. Joseph made the decision. “I’m afraid for him,” he said suddenly.
“Of course,” she agreed. “We’re all afraid. What happened to Theo Blaine was terrible.”
“Who did it?” he asked.
Her fine eyebrows rose. “Do you think I know?”
“I think Shanley does.”
She turned away. “Would you like a glass of sherry while you are waiting?”
So she was not going to answer. Perhaps that was an answer in itself. He accepted the sherry in a small, crystal glass, and they talked of other things. Corcoran arrived fifteen minutes later, pale-faced and clearly exhausted. He could not hide that it cost him an effort to be courteous, even to Joseph, close as they were.
“I didn’t recognize the car,” he said without expression. “You’re well enough to drive. I’m glad.”
“Archie borrowed one,” Joseph explained. “I expect he’s gone for a walk.”
Corcoran turned away. “I see.”
“I’m sorry,” Joseph apologized immediately. “If it could have waited I wouldn’t have come.”
Corcoran sighed. He accepted a glass of sherry from Orla, but did not touch it. He probably had not eaten, perhaps all day. Joseph was consumed with guilt, but his fear for him overtook it all.
Orla slipped out without bothering to excuse herself.
Corcoran turned to face Joseph. “What is it?”
“I’ve been asking questions,” Joseph replied. “I won’t bother you with the details, unless you want them, but you probably know them as well as I do.” He looked at Corcoran’s weary face and felt a pity for him so intense it was a physical ache inside him, and a fear of loss that brought a sheen of sweat to his body. “I think Ben Morven was placed inside the Establishment to be a spy for the Germans, perhaps groomed for it even before the war. One of the idealistic young men who must have peace, at any price, and see us as just as much to blame for the war as anyone else.”
Corcoran’s face tightened, a subtle change in his expression, but one of terrible sadness.
“I think you knew that,” Joseph went on. He was finding it even harder to say than he had expected. The room seemed to be abnormally silent, his own voice thundering, although he was speaking softly. “And I think that for the sake of England, and the war, you are sheltering him for as long as you need his skill to finish the prototype.”
Corcoran took a long, deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “And if you are right, Joseph, what difference does that make?”
“You must have him arrested,” Joseph said simply. “You have no choice.”
Corcoran’s eyes widened. “Must?”
“He murdered Blaine. He’ll kill you, Shanley, the moment he thinks he doesn’t need you. And possibly Iliffe, too, if he gets in his way. Or Lucas, for that matter. But I’m not going to lose you.”
Corcoran’s face was soft, his eyes gentle. “My dear Joseph, it is not about me, or about you. It is