Angels in the Gloom_ A Novel - Anne Perry [63]
“I don’t . . .” she began, then stopped.
“ ’Course you don’t,” he agreed. “Nobody does. Wouldn’t need detectives in the police if it were clear. Thank you for coming in.”
She left feeling queasy. She was wrong for coming, and yet if she had not, that would have been wrong, too. There was no good path.
She walked back toward the station and was almost there when she nearly bumped into Ben Morven, who was crossing the road and apparently going the same way. His face lit up with pleasure immediately.
“We’ll make the next train easily,” he said. Then he frowned, looking at her more closely. “You all right?”
“Does it show that much?” She was rueful.
“Sorry. That was a bit clumsy. But you look as if something nasty has happened.”
She saw the anxiety in his eyes and found herself laughing. “I’ve been talking to that miserable policeman,” she told him. “I really can’t bear the thought that there is a German spy in St. Giles who killed poor Mr. Blaine to stop his work—or that there was some sort of personal hatred so awful that it ended in murder.”
“I’m afraid I don’t see any other conclusion,” he said unhappily. “From what I hear, it could hardly have been an accident.”
“No.” She refused to picture it in her mind.
He took her arm, and his strength was enough to draw her to a stop. “Don’t think about it, Hannah. Leave it to Perth. It’s his job. Either you’ll waste your time and learn nothing, or you’ll discover too many things about people you would far rather not know. We all need a little space. . . .” he hesitated, letting go of her. “A little room to cover our mistakes and let them go. It’s a lot easier to do better next time, if last time isn’t printed in your neighbor’s eyes.”
They were in the way of the crowd, but she did not care. She looked at him gravely. “You knew him. Did you like him?”
“Yes,” he said without prevarication. “Actually he was a good bloke, nicely eccentric. A bit selfish at times, but I think that was because he was so absorbed in his work he didn’t realize that most people didn’t even know what he was doing, let alone care. I did like him.”
“Was he really brilliant? I mean—someone who would go down in history?”
He smiled slightly. “I think so.”
“Might he hurt somebody without meaning to, just because he wasn’t . . . paying attention to them?” She did not know how to phrase it without being obvious.
He understood immediately. “You mean like Lizzie?”
“Or anyone else,” she added.
“I don’t know.” He frowned. “Lizzie wasn’t in that evening. I telephoned to speak to Theo. I called two or three times, but there was no answer. I suppose I’m going to have to tell that damn policeman, if he asks. I’d rather not. I like her, too.”
“Does that make a difference?” she asked candidly.
He lifted his shoulders a little. “No, I suppose not. And as long as he doesn’t have the answer, he’ll go on looking, turning the village inside out and opening old wounds of all sorts. Somebody did it. We have to know who. Poor Theo. What a terrible way to die.” He took her arm again. “Come on, or we might miss the train.”
They hurried along the pavement and went in through the entrance to find the platform crowded with people. A troop train had just pulled in, carrying wounded from the front and everywhere they turned there were white-faced women who were alternately hopeful and fearful of seeing the ones they loved. Some of them had heard only a little news and they were almost numb with the exhaustion of waiting.
The engine still belched steam, doors clanged to, voices rose to a fever pitch—all echoing in the vast roofs above. Someone called out for help; orders were barked. Nurses in gray uniforms were trying to organize stretchers and find ambulance drivers. Porters were doing their best to get the most severely wounded away first.
Hannah could see motionless, bandaged figures lying on stretchers. One she