Angels in the Gloom_ A Novel - Anne Perry [111]
She smiled, blinking hard. “So do I.” Please God, she would have the strength to go on meaning that, if it got worse, if she woke up with the horror of her imagination night after night when he was not there beside her. She would remember all the laughter, the hope, the tenderness between them, and picture the dark, icy water suffocating the life out of him as he struggled and beat against it, and was crushed and plunged to the bottom of the sea, to places no human being ever imagined. Her heart would go with him. At least she would not be cut off, separate and unknowing.
“Hannah!” His voice cut through her thoughts.
“Yes!” she said quickly. “I’m here.”
He pulled her into his arms and held her.
CHAPTER
* * *
TWELVE
Matthew had just returned from Cambridgeshire and a visitto the Scientific Establishment.
“No, sir,” he said quietly.
Shearing looked drawn. The usually smooth flesh of his cheeks was hollow and the web of fine lines around his eyes was cut deeper as if the skin had no life in it. “No hope?” he asked, looking up at Matthew.
“No, sir. Not in any time we could put a name to.”
There was a tension in the room already, as if tragedy were only waiting to be acknowledged. Matthew realized with surprise how afraid he was. For once he wished he were a fighting man where he could at least do something physical to make himself feel better. And perhaps knowing less would also be easier now, a single enemy in front of him to fight, rather than the darkness all around, massive and closing in.
Shearing sat motionless.
The blow was numbing. Corcoran had been so certain he could complete the prototype, even with Blaine dead. He had worked on it himself, night and day. Ben Morven had helped him, taking over Blaine’s calculations. Lucas and Iliffe had continued with their work.
Shearing lifted his eyes and stared at Matthew. There was fury in his face—and fear, steady and unconcealed. It was the first time Matthew had seen it.
“A fatal flaw?” he asked.
“Yes,” Shearing replied.
“But Blaine knew the answer?”
“Possibly. Or maybe they hadn’t got far enough yet to realize it.” Shearing’s hands on top of his desk clenched tight, knuckles gleaming. “When we find the man who killed Blaine I’ll tie the rope around his neck myself, and pull the drop.” There was hatred so deep in his voice it rasped in his throat. “Who is it, Reavley?” That was a demand, almost an accusation.
“I don’t know, sir. Probably Ben Morven, but there’s no proof.”
Shearing looked beaten. He had been counting on success.
So had Matthew. He realized now just how much. He had believed Corcoran could do it, even without Blaine. Corcoran was a giant. He had been there all Matthew’s life—kind, funny, wise, above all, clever.
The sense of loss filled him with rage to equal Shearing’s. Whoever had murdered Theo Blaine might have lost Britain the war, the survival of everything that was of infinite value. He could not even imagine the end of his home and his life in the way he knew it. No more afternoon tea on the lawn, no irreverent jokes about the government, no country churchyards, no freedom to go anywhere you wanted, to be eccentric and make your own mistakes.
“Reavley!” Shearing’s voice was suddenly sharp.
It brought Matthew back to the moment with a jolt. “Yes, sir?”
“We must salvage something from this. Someone in the Establishment murdered Blaine and smashed the prototype?”
“Yes,” Matthew agreed. “Almost certainly the same person.”
“Probably Morven, but not beyond doubt,” Shearing went on. “A German sympathizer?”
“Naturally. There’s no other reason for doing it.”
“Is he on his own?”
“I doubt that.”
“Has Corcoran told him he’s beaten and is giving up?” Shearing leaned forward across the desk. “Be certain, Reavley! It could all hang on this! Who knows it’s a failure, apart from Corcoran himself?”
“No one.”
“Are you absolutely certain? Why? How do you know?”
“Corcoran still wants to keep working on it,” Matthew replied. “He can’t get Morven, Iliffe, or Lucas to do that if he admits