No Graves as Yet_ A Novel - Anne Perry [139]
The rain had stopped as suddenly as it had started. The wet stones of the quad steamed, and everything smelled sharp and clean.
Joseph continued on to his rooms. But he knew that he needed to face the fact that he was afraid Sebastian might have been morally blackmailing Beecher. He had either to prove it to be true, and perhaps destroy one of the best friends he had ever had, or else to prove it untrue—or at least that he was innocent of Sebastian’s death—and release them both from the fear that now invaded everything. He must not avoid it any longer.
He walked across the quad and into the shade of his own stairway. The conclusion that Beecher and Connie Thyer were in love had become inescapable, but without any proof, how could Sebastian have blackmailed Beecher? Was that a delusion, one of the many born of fear? Now was the time to find out.
He turned and walked very slowly back out again and across to the stair up to Sebastian’s rooms. The door was locked, but he found the bedder, who let him in.
“You sure, Dr. Reavley?” she said unhappily, her face screwed up in anxiety. “I’n’t nothin’ in there as worth seein’ now.”
“Please open it, Mrs. Nunn,” he repeated. “It’ll be all right. There’s something I need to find—if it’s there.”
She obeyed, still pursing her lips with doubt.
He went in slowly and closed the door behind him. It was silent. He drew in a deep breath. It smelled stale. The windows had been closed for over three weeks, and the heat had built up, motionless, suffocating. Yet he could not smell blood, and he expected to.
His eyes were drawn to the wall. He had to look because he could think of nothing else until he did. It was in his mind’s eye whichever way he faced, even if his eyes were closed.
It was there, paler than he had remembered, brown rather than red. It looked old, like something that happened years ago. The chair was empty, the books still piled on the table and stacked on the shelves.
Of course Perth would have been through them, and everything else, the papers, the notes, even his clothes. He would have to, searching for anything that would point to who had killed him. Obviously he had found nothing.
Still his own hands turned automatically through the pages of the notes, held up each book and ruffled it to find anything loose, anything hidden. What was he expecting? A letter? Tickets to something, or somewhere?
When he found the photograph he barely looked at it. The only reason it caught his attention at all was because it was Connie Thyer and Beecher standing together, smiling at the camera. There were trees close to them, massive, smooth-trunked, autumnal. Beyond them there was a path winding away toward a drop to the river, and up again at the far side. It could be anywhere. A couple of miles away there was a place not unlike it.
He put it down and moved on. There were other photographs: Connie and her husband, even one of Connie and Joseph himself, and several of students and various young women. He thought one was Abigail, standing beside Rattray and laughing.
He went back to the picture of Connie and Beecher. Something about it was familiar. But he was sure he had never seen it before. It must be the place. If it was somewhere near here, then he would know it, even though it was not the same place as the other pictures.
He held it in his hand, staring at it, trying to recall the scenery around it, the bank of the river beyond the camera’s eye. It went upward steeply. He could remember walking it—with Beecher. They had been eating apples and laughing about something, some long, rambling joke. It had been a bright day, the sun hot on their backs, the stream rattling loudly below them. Little stones loosened and fell into the pool, splashing. The shadows were cool under the trees. There had been wild garlic. They were heading uphill, toward