No Graves as Yet_ A Novel - Anne Perry [107]
“But not us,” Matthew said. “We are no threat to anyone, and it’s hardly our concern.”
“God knows,” Shearing replied.
“Isn’t that exactly the time the Irish Nationalists would strike?” Matthew could not forget the document and the outrage in his father’s voice. He could not let go. “It would be if I were their leader.”
“I daresay God knows that, too,” Shearing said waspishly. “But you will leave it to the Special Branch. Ireland is their problem. Concentrate on Europe. That is an order, Reavley!” He picked up a small bundle of papers from the top of his desk and held it out. “By the way, C wants you in his office in half an hour.” He did not look up as he said it.
Matthew froze. Sir Mansfield Smith-Cumming had been head of the Secret Intelligence Service since 1909. He had begun his career as a sublieutenant in the Royal Navy, serving in the East Indies, until he was placed on the inactive list for chronic seasickness. In 1898 he had been recalled and had undertaken many highly successful espionage duties for the Admiralty. Now the agency he led served all branches of the military and the high-level political departments.
“Yes, sir,” Matthew said hoarsely, his mind racing. Before Shearing could look up, he turned on his heel and went out into the corridor. He was shaking.
Precisely thirty minutes later Matthew was shown into Smith-Cumming’s inner office. Smith-Cumming looked up at him, his face unsmiling.
“Captain Reavley, sir,” Matthew said. “You sent for me.”
“I did,” C agreed.
Matthew waited, his heart pounding, his throat tight. He knew that his entire professional future lay in what he said, or omitted, in this interview.
“Sit down,” C ordered. “You are going to remain until you tell me all you know about this conspiracy you are chasing.”
Matthew was glad to sit. He pulled the nearest chair around to face C and sank into it.
“Obviously you do not have the documentary proof,” C began. “Neither, apparently, does the man who has been shadowing you, and occasionally me.”
Matthew sat motionless.
“You did not know that?” C observed.
“I knew someone was following me, sir,” Matthew said quickly, swallowing hard. “I did not know anyone had followed you.”
C’s eyebrows rose, softening a little of the sternness of his face. “Do you know who he is?”
“No, sir.” He thought of offering excuses and decided instantly against it.
“He is a German agent named Brandt. Unfortunately we don’t know much more about him than that. Where and when did you first hear of this document, and from whom?”
Matthew did not even consider the possibility of lying. “From my father, sir, on the telephone, on the evening of June twenty-seventh.”
“Where were you?”
“In my office, sir.” He felt his face grow hot as he said it. The crumpled car was sharp in his mind, his father’s face, the scream of tires. For a moment he felt sick.
C’s face softened. “What did he say to you?”
Matthew kept his voice level with difficulty, but he could not control the hoarseness in it. “That he had found a document in which was outlined a conspiracy that would ruin England’s honor forever, and change the world irreparably for the worse.”
“Had you heard anything of this before?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you find it hard to believe?”
“Yes. Almost impossible.” He was ashamed of it, but that was the truth.
“Did you repeat it, to make sure you had understood him?”
“No, sir.” Matthew felt the heat burn up his face. “But I did repeat the fact that he was bringing it to me the following day.” The admission was damning. The only thing more completely guilty would have been to lie about it now.
C nodded. There was compassion in his eyes. “So whoever overheard you already knew that the document was missing, and that your father had it. That tells us a great deal. What else