No Graves as Yet_ A Novel - Anne Perry [141]
At last Rattray went, stumbling down the first two or three steps, and Joseph heard his feet all the way down, then a terrible silence.
It seemed an eternity of confusion, horror and soul-bruising misery until Perth arrived with Mitchell and, a couple of paces behind him, Aidan Thyer. They went in past Joseph, and a few moments later Thyer came out, gray-faced.
“I’m sorry, Reavley,” he said gently. “This must be rotten for you. Did you guess?”
“What?” Joseph looked up at him slowly, dreading what he was going to say. His mind was whirling; thoughts slipped out of his grasp, no coherence to them, but he knew they were black with tragedy.
Thyer held out his hand. “Come on. You need a stiff shot of brandy. Come back to the house and I’ll get . . .”
Oh, God! Joseph was appalled as one thought emerged from the rest: Connie! She would have to be told that Beecher was dead! Who should tell her? It was going to be unbearable for her, whoever it was, but what would be least terrible? Her husband . . . alone? Could she mask her own feelings for Beecher? Was it even conceivable that Thyer knew?
Had Beecher taken his own life, knowing that the truth would come out and that he’d be blamed for Sebastian’s murder? Joseph refused even to think that he might actually have done it—but the possibility hung on the dark edges of his mind. Or was it Aidan Thyer who had made it look like suicide, standing there in front of him, with his grave face and pale hair, his hand outstretched to help Joseph to his feet?
The answer was something he could not evade. Yes, he should go to the house, whether it was he or Thyer who told Connie. She would need help. If he did not go and there was a further tragedy, he would be to blame.
He grasped Thyer’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, accepting Thyer’s arm to steady himself until he found his balance.
“Thank you,” he said huskily. “Yes, I think a stiff brandy would be very good.”
Thyer nodded and led the way down the stairs, across the quad and through the archway toward the master’s lodgings. Joseph’s mind raced as he walked beside him a little dizzily, every step drawing him closer to the moment that would end Connie’s happiness. Would she believe Beecher had killed Sebastian? Had she even known of the blackmail? Had Beecher told her, or had he borne it alone? Or had the photograph been his?
And might she think it was Aidan Thyer? If she did, then she might be terrified of him herself. But Joseph could not stay there forever to protect her. What could he say or do so that she would be safe after he left? It was his responsibility, because he was the only one who knew.
Nothing. There was nothing anyone could do to save her from ultimately having to face the husband she had betrayed, at heart if not more.
They were at the door. Thyer opened it and held it for Joseph, watching him with care in case he staggered and tripped. Did he really look so dreadful? He must. He certainly felt it. He was moving in a nightmare, as if his body did not belong to him.
It seemed interminable moments before Connie appeared. For seconds she did not realize there was anything wrong, and she said something pleasant about having tea. Then slowly the look on Thyer’s face registered with her, and she looked at Joseph.
Thyer was about to speak. Joseph must act now. He stepped forward a couple of paces.
“Connie, I’m afraid something very dreadful has happened. I think you had better sit down . . . please . . .”
She hesitated a moment.
“Please,” he urged.
Slowly she obeyed. “What is it?”
“Harry Beecher has killed himself,” he said quietly. There was no way to make it any better or gentler. All he could do now was try to save her from a self-betraying reaction.
There was an instant’s terrible silence, then the blood drained from her face. She stared at him.
He stepped between her and her husband, taking her hands in his as if he could hold her together, in some physical fashion bridging